[Open RESIST] Testing in the Tunnels

Open to resistance members only. ‘Gunner’ has firearms to test and gain feed back on from the resistance.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Wed Sep 12, 2018 7:45 am

Under the Soot District | Morning
23 YARIS 2718
A faint drip of water echoed out in the dark, growing faint as it disappeared down the tunnels. A crunch upon stone, grinding beneath the footfall as the lantern light passed. With it the shadows danced across the ancient brickwork, the muffled groan of factories and soot reverberating down into the depths. The lingering scent of damp and moisture, puddles murky from the dust that has fallen over the years. The shapes stepped among it all, silent as they guided the cloaked figure through the long forgotten ruins. Occasionally a glint of the steel mask was caught in the ochre glow, the rest of it disappearing into the folds of the hood. A faint chinking sounded alongside, a forbidden cargo being carried with them. Ahead the faint glowing lanterns guided the way, before reaching a low archway. The few dipped beneath, a larger area opening up before them.

Another long tunnel disappeared off it northwards, a slump of stone and earth spewing out from the eastern wall. Within a single row of tables stood, the room dully lit, while a few inhabitants remained dotted about. A few other cadets were at work, presently setting up a single target being positioned on top of the slump. The cloaked figure moved in, ever silent as the smaller cargo boxes were loaded up alongside the tables. It was there, the cloaked figure getting to work.

Wood groaned as Gunner opened the crates. Straw was pushed aside, the carefully wrapped clay pots removed; lead balls gently rolling within. They were placed upon the surface, the rest of the contraband being exposed to the room. A pair of flintlock pistols, a small metal flask where the refined gunpowder shifted within. The Gunsmith worked, carefully cleaning the iron barrels. Another tin was placed on the side, the contents being two dozen carefully made copper percussion caps made by her own hand. Reaching beneath the cloak, the Liberator was pulled out from its tucked in position at the back, gloved fingers feeling the weight of it before placing it down alongside the caps. Finally the heavy tool box was placed at the very end, and Gunner stood alongside it.

Knuckles wrapped upon the surface, calling the attention of the inhabitants to focus. From there, the hands peeled out from beneath the cloak and began to move in sign. One of the others who lead her here, Dancer, vocally translated it in the process.

“Good Morning Cadets!” A sensible but polite opener, “Today, there is two guns that require regular tests,” the hands began, actions loud though her voice silent, “They are regular flint and shot. The third is a,” the letters were spelled individually then before continuing, “P-R-O-T-O-T-Y-P-E, that I would like to hear your thoughts on. I will show how it is used first however. It is not like the flint. Finally, I have a new piece I call a P-E-R-C-U-S-S-I-O-N Cap, or Cap for short, that will be tested alongside the third.”

The masked face looked around the room with an almost exaggerated movement, the hands once more moving, “Any questions?”
Last edited by Gale on Thu Nov 15, 2018 2:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Sednai
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: "Cypress"
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Thu Sep 13, 2018 5:13 pm

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23 Yaris, 2718....
C
ypress was nervous. Her fingers, always itching to intrude silently into a homely pocket and to signal long-forgotten plans of go, target, purse, Uncle, and run, tapped along her side and drummed against the handle of her knife concealed on her hip beneath the fabric belt. There was an ache in her belly that she could not coax out, and, despite her form-disguising layers of clothing, the epidermis of her skin was still a deathly, unfeeling cold both sourced from the damp abandonment of the tunnel air and the prickling void of electricity at the end of each and every neuron.

Cypress was nervous, but it was a good kind of nervous. Her heart pumped a warmth of adrenaline with such a force that the sound echoed through her body. Beneath the fabric wrapped around the lower half of her face, her face was split into a wide, excited smile, evident only now in her crescented brown eyes. She rocked on her feet, ready to jump up and act. She watched the arrivals as they entered, looking for an inkling of recognition in the faces obscured by hood, mask, and dirt. There was not a face she recognized.

Just more to recruit, she thought to herself, adding some of her most-trusted Viendan contacts to her recruitment list. Boston Brilliant, Belle Brilliant, Argan Spruce. She hoped one day that those she called allies in real life would become her allies in this underground world. The new strangers floating into the room brought crates that almost seemed like they floated as the cloaks and dim walls blended together into one mass shadow blurred in her field of vision. Cypress drifted towards the tables as the boxes were set down heavily to get a vantage point on their contents.

The high sigh of nails being extracted from wood caught Cypress’ gaze, and she watched in hungry awe as hands lifted the boxes open. She shuffled herself to the front of the small group, not letting the shining barrels and pots slip from her view as they found their place. The knocking of knuckles on the table brought her attention to the person behind the guns, however, for the first time.

The steel mask was intimidating, and Cypress wished she had opted to stand farther back rather than remove all separation between her and this masked phantom. She pulled the cloak concealing her face higher and listened- with eyes and ears- intently. Although she understood the words, what was being said was lost on Cypress. Guns were completely foreign to her- firearms weren’t especially popular, and she opted for daggers and short swords even when given the option. She attempted to listen, attempted to understand, but she simply did not know.

Flint and shot? P-E-R-C-U-S-S-I-O-N cap? She couldn’t even see a difference between the two guns and the P-R-O-T-O-T-Y-P-E. She had shot once or twice, sure. It had been loud, and her hands had tingled for minutes afterwards in a way she didn’t like. She hadn’t known how to aim, either, afraid to put her face too close to it as it kicked back. She had flinched, pulling the gun back too far and completely missing the target, and she hadn’t picked up a gun since. At the prompt for questions, Cypress stepped forward, slightly, eyeing the guns on the table.

“A’ight, I ‘on’t know much of anything about guns. Whatcha figure makes this ‘un, the pea-are-oh-tea-whatnot,” she motioned to the prototype, “Betta’ than this ‘un here?”
Last edited by Sednai on Wed Nov 07, 2018 5:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.

BURNED, NOT BURIED.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Mon Sep 24, 2018 6:26 am

Under the Soot District | Morning
23 YARIS 2718
There was a particular charade the gunsmith enjoyed performing while masking as Gunner. Behind the steel mask and the hands that signed. Of course, being hidden behind such layers muffled sound to the point – the ability to stop and stare intently at the target, the small lowering and focusing on the lips as they moved allowed the mind to quietly piece information together. A small gleaning into who was being spoken to. It also allowed the time to calculate an answer, more caution in giving a result. So while the gunsmith quietly lined up the shot and powder, ensuring it was measured equally; the hollow eyes of the mask stared back.

The question was a good one, and one that caught the attention of a few others. So, presenting both side by side Gunner allowed the onlookers to view the immediate differences between the flintlock and the prototype. A firm nod to Dancer, the hands slipping out to sign while the cadet translated for all to understand.

“With the flint, it is a single shot piece that requires loadin' between firin',” as he spoke. When the gunsmith’s gloved hands stopped to move to loading the flintlock, he continued his own pace changing from translating, “As seen by Gunner demonstratin’ the loadin’ process.” The ramrod went down first, clear exaggerated movements; then the gunpowder went down, chased by the ramrod once more with the movement slower and more deliberate, before a lead shot was dropped down. The rod followed, “While the loadin’ is done slowly here with emphasis, the fastest speed for loadin' is…”

Gunner placed down the pistol then, repeating the process with the other, head turning to look upon the cadet. They saw the hands of Dancer move – “Best known load time for flint?” – before they responded. The sentence was quickly and vocally finished for the onlookers, “Thirty seconds, accordin' to Gunner.”

The gloved hands moved, this time to the Liberator. They began to move in sign, deliberate movements while Dancer watched intently. With an issue of being lengthy, there was an attempt to break it down and allow the translation to occur. Dancer continued, “This new one, while still being tested would allow for six shots one after the other, before then being reloaded at the cost of a slower reload time when empty.” A digit gestured to the large rotating chamber, before continuing, “The chamber rotates around with each shot.”

Gunner picked up the firearm then, holding it clearly to the group. Firstly the thumb pulled back the hammer, before slowly squeezing the trigger. Unloaded as it was, it gave a click as the hammer struck the back of the cylinder while the rotation started as the trigger was released. Once settled, the trigger was given another squeeze; this time there was no click but the chamber still rotated around. The Gunsmith gave it a quick check, before lowering it down to the table.

“As you may have noticed, this firearm does not fire unless the hammer is pulled back. It also does not need the spark made by the flint to ignite the gunpowder due to the P-E-R-C-U-S-S-I-O-N caps, nor does not have the same risk as setting it off by mistake,” Dancer frowned then, tapping the smith on the shoulder. The hands moved, question posed once more – “Do you mean, as in Drum?” – Gale gave a firm nod, before signing back – “Please call them Drum Caps if easier.”

A smile, “Gunner meant as in drum cap.”

Hands moving the smith proceeded to undo the central shaft in the heart of the cylinder – unscrewing it and revealing the six chambers. It was shown, broadly, to the viewers, before being placed down. The small tin was opened then, six of the tiny copper caps – shaped like tiny bowls – being shown and then placed in the back. Tight in, the gunpowder was carefully tapped down into the chamber before the lead bullet was pressed down in. Packed in, the cylinder was put into place and the shaft screwed back in. Liberator was placed back down onto the table.

Another cap was taken out then, a tiny thing that nestled in the crook of their hand. Leaning across it was shown, the hand gesturing for them to take and look. Once it was the hands began once more, Dancer speaking for them, “These allow the powder to be set fire to without an actual flame. When the hammer of the gun strikes the base, it forces the sealed powder to react and ignite. It… I am sorry,” he broke off then, once more tapping on the shoulder. The lips moved slower and clearly, “I don’t understand the rest. Can you just show us?”

Taking another cap out of the tin, it was placed upon the table. A small amount of gunpowder was placed alongside – barely a thimble full – and scraped into a pile. Fire arms moved aside to the open hands of Dancer to create space, the cap sat over the powder. A large, actual hammer was then removed from the toolbox. A roll of the shoulder, the hammer gave a small testing tap where the cap was, before it was pulled back. It slammed against the table, a crack of noise, a stream of smoke and the briefest of flashes escaping alongside it. Withdrawing, the cap now sat flat upon the top of the table, a burned scorch in the surface of the wood. Brushing the debris away, the firearms were returned, hand signaling for the return of the other cap while Dancer spoke, “So, who would like to fire one? Step around now.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Sednai
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: "Cypress"
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Thu Nov 08, 2018 4:34 pm

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23 Yaris, 2718....
Nodding her hooded head, Cypress began to understand the words as near as a foreign country in her mind and memory as, reflected in her wide and curious eyes, Gunner explained with a dramatic flair of clarity a the workings of the gun and the answer to her question and Dancer translated with slow and simple words that she knew and recognized. For a time, she looked into where the eyes would lay under the mask as one would in a typical conversation, but, finding only a cold mask that looked in every direction at once, she averted her eyes to the hands that deftly danced.

A vocabulary limited by the absence of schooling undeniably was an obstacle in conversation for Cypress. While many of her street-wise contemporaries spat upon traditional schooling as something only a prissy golly or golly supporter would put their children through, Cypress had dreamed of being able to do something as simple as reading easily every sign she passed as she strolled the Viendan streets, as recalling quickly years, times, and long-dead people important to the Resistance and history, as writing eloquently a letter of swirling ink and singing words to frieds and foes afar. One who grew up in servitude grew up hearing few words, let alone large words, scholarly words was left with an empty hand that other children filled with books and alphabets and arithmetic that they took so little advantage of. There were so many things Cypress would do if she could read, if she could do complicated equations, ifshe could write proper persuasive essays to the King on behalf of the people with proper use of isocolon and chiasmus and synecdoche. Yet, despite the disparity pulsing in the temporal lobe of her brain, an excitement filled her as she understood. An excitement that hungered for more to learn.

Drum cap. That was much easier than the P-E-R-C-whatever. Dancer stepped down from the metaphorical podium he had as the room offered an ear to his translation, allowing Gunner to take the lead and the attention of the crowd as they began their performance with a flair. The... drum cap- Cypress recalled- was placed on the table, then joined by the fine black powder she could recognize as gunpowder. And then, Gunner was moving quickly- hammer in air, forward, contact, and a crack that did not match the dull sound of a hammer on wood as a sharp light erupted. Cypress jumped ever so slightly at the percussive sound and sight, yet a smile parted the vault of her lips to reveal the gapped front teeth.

At the ask to try it, Cypress scurried like a hungry animal to trusted food to the table where Gunner stood, guns laid out on the table. She stood back with a slight apprehension to the firearms clutching to the ends of her nerves. Hands hovering over the table, awaiting some direction like a child waiting to pet a carriage horse. She didn’t grab, afraid to mess up, but also afraid of the gun itself. It was a powerful, alien thing, a taker of the life of men but protector of others. She looked up at Gunner’s mask, some direction wanted, then to Dancer’s, and back. She tried a smile against the expressionless mask, eyes searching for some human factor behind the mask. “I’d like to try.” She smiled, a confidence and excitement unwavering in her voice.

BURNED, NOT BURIED.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Fri Nov 09, 2018 7:52 am

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Under the Soot District | Morning
23 YARIS 2718
It was the particular look of wonderment that Gunner enjoyed when discussing firearms to the less knowing. That tiniest spark that peeked their interest, the way the expressions turned and twisted with wonderment, the flickers of realization to the potential that stood before them. The Gunsmith let them, hands becoming still as the small group processed. But the masked eyes turned, watching the faces with interest.

The woman was an interesting factor, one that gave a momentary flicker of acknowledgement. They had seen them before, somewhere. Where exactly was temporarily beyond them, yet the brow creased beneath the mask. The eyes searched, the small tilt and turn of the head to gain a better view. There was no name they knew, but even they saw the curious lust and the stop hesitation. They were all like this to begin with, scared of the weight and stopping power carried in something so small. With this, they could gain the upper hand against those who looked to suppress them, who looked to destroy their every day.

Yet with it came responsibility, a heavy weight that rested upon the shoulders. Many who knew that risk in the end chose to refuse it, the cost too great one way or another. The hand turned, finger pointing to the woman, before gesturing for them to take. With it the shadowed form came round to stand next to her, hands peeling out from the darkness. They came to rest in the space between, acutely aware the space the group gave them – as if sheer presence alone caused them to step back. The Masked Gunner hovered next to the shoulder of the woman, the hand out stretching to cover the back of it.

“Pick,” came the hissing whisper from beneath into the ear of the woman. A sound for just them. The other hand came to rest on the shoulder, snaking down to the other hand. As the chosen firearm was taken, the gunsmith would bring the other to rest beneath the bottom of the grip, gently molding the hands to fit.

Posture was always important; fully extend the arms where possible, relax the shoulders. The gloved hands as unobtrusively as possible moved the form beside them, the silent mantra in their from their years of firing. The feet came next, the gunsmith’s own nudging the others inwards so they rested at shoulder width apart. Finally there was the small pressure at the shoulders, easing them down and the torso forward into a slight lean. The gunsmith paused, the single whispered word creeping out from behind the grill, “Good.”

The hands moved to overlay the woman’s, the small tilting of the barrel to the target. Firm, they did not want the gun to jerk back and be lost in the firing. A check, the small sideways glance to study the expression. Certainly familiar, but right now it was not important. Right now was the lesson in firing a gun. What would make them jump more however? The sheer sound of the shot, the booming noise that followed – or perhaps the hissing crack as gunpowder ignited?

“Breathe. Aim. Slow. Squeeze.”

Gunner knew the sound that was coming. The tiny spark followed by a short hiss and a louder boom. There was no flinching, form braced and solid as it erupted out. That sharp smell of burning gunpowder, the faint trails of smoke escaping from the barrel. It was all heat and pressure, the rapid shot forced forward by expansion and having nowhere else to go. The weakest denominator. The orbs settled down, prickling to the target that still rested in their sights.

A small nod. Remembering the shot still had yet to be fired, “Begin.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Sednai
Posts: 66
Joined: Thu Jun 21, 2018 8:04 am
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: "Cypress"
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Writer: Quix
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Tue Nov 20, 2018 10:37 am

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23 Yaris 2718....
"Begin.”

The flint and shot- the classic gun, familiar in sight but not in feel- weighed heavily in her hand. It was certainly heavier than she expected the little thing to be, but perhaps the weight in her arm was of the emotion and power tied to a gun, not the weight of the metal itself. It was cold, awkward, and her fingers wrapped around it oddly. Yet, Gunner’s gloved hands consumed her own bare hands, ever so slightly numbing the coldness of the gun as they molded her hands to fit the grip. The awkwardness of the gun faltered as her right hand was correctly wrapped around the handle, her left to cup its brother- a gun was made to fit a hand, after all. Her index finger found the trigger, a delicate thing that so easily caused death.

It was the details of the gun, the minutiae that was necessary outside the placement of hands that was intriguing to her. She had never, in the times she had seen a gun shot, seen anyone place so much thought into the placement of their feet as Gunner nudged her boots into isolation beneath her shoulders, the extension of their elbows as Gunner pulled her hands and the gun away from the secure cradle of her body, the relaxation of the shoulders as Gunner pushed them down from where they rose to steady the arms and the nerves. She had not seen anyone put thought into it, she thought, because there should be no thought to put into it.

Like breathing.

At the thought of breathing, she relaxed her own, the deceleration of inhalations steadying the gun in her hands, steadying her vision down the barrel.

”Breathe, aim, slow, squeeze.” That had been Gunner’s advice, muffled and hissed through the vents of the mask, hadn’t it? Her mind looped it, over and over again, as she stared down the barrel of the gun.

Breathe. She could do that. She inhaled, exhaled, the gun wavering ever so slightly as she did so, but not enough to move the sight off of the target. She inhaled, but did not exhale, and the gun leveled itself.

Aim. That one she could do, too. Even her daggers had to have some aim- there was a certain art to slicing a shoulder and not a jugular when you wanted to ruin a shooting arm but not kill a man. She focused her eyes on the target, the out of focus front sight easily lined up with the desired shot.

Slow. The reminder to be calm, to be thoughtful, to be accurate, to be concise. She felt the weight of the gun weighing her arms, felt the presence of only Gunner- not the Resistance members behind her- watching from behind. This certainly wasn’t a dagger, a blade of close contact in which one could correct the direction, the path of their weapon in a split second. This was the catapult of a bullet who was a vector charged with direction and magnitude both not to be derived until entrance into a body.

Squeeze. Only the tensing of a muscle was necessary in the task, the step that caused her the most hesitation. Was her aim correct? Her breathing? A lifetime of thoughts had laid in the mere seconds that she had spent breathing, aiming, slowing her perception. Just squeeze.

KLAKT!

The stain of the target on her eyelids flashed hot as Cypress closed her eyes instinctively, the gun rushing back towards her face as if it were frightened by the noise it had made- whether by her own tensing arms or the recoiling of the gun, she did not know. She turned her head away, yet the gun remained firmly secured in both of her hands, her knuckles whitening around the handle even as the gun came to rest against her chest. As the remnants of the sound- the explosion of sound that erupted in her ears.

The room was hushed, and she opened her eyes, afraid, perhaps, of the damage she had done. She unfolded her arms slowly, tentatively.

The target was marred, a small hole embedded in it. It was in the top right corner, pulled upwards by Cypress' sudden jerking of her arms.

Everyone was still alive. That was a start.

BURNED, NOT BURIED.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Wed Nov 21, 2018 6:28 am

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Under the Soot District | Morning
23 YARIS 2718
The Gunsmith merely continued to watch as the woman took to the processes of going through the motions. Time and frequent practice made using firearms easier – but that did not mean opportunity was constant. Gunpowder was difficult to source and as such expensive; Gunner was merely lucky that they knew how to make their own. The expense therefore was reduced to that of time, and time could not be rushed. They did not move to the sound of the shot, the sparking sound and the lingering scent of rapidly burned powder.

It spun off, somewhere into the target – where exactly was not important however. Right now it was confirming the technique, instilling the same motions into memory so it became second nature. The green eyes peered at the cadet from behind the mask, the low hiss of a voice a whisper, “Keep arms steady next time. Follow through.”

The hands moved, signing to Dancer. He gave a nod, shifting behind the shooter and to the side of the table. There he presented the shot and powder, and offered to take the pistol from her. His own voice spoke, “You don’t know how to load, do you? It’s simple enough, let me show you.”

The shape pulled away, moving to the next who had stepped up to the line. Dancer had it under control. The process repeated itself, nudging the body into the correct form. All got the same attention, the same hissing voice that snuck into their hearing. The second shot went off much like the first, a loud noise that flashed through the chamber and splintered through the target and against the brickwork beyond. They watched the colour drain out of the face of the shooter, jaw turning slack to the power of the weapon before them. The hand of gunner snaked up, gently taking the flintlock from him and lowering it back to the table.

Gunner moved up to the Liberator then. Gloved hands found the grip, the weighty steel becoming a comfort in their hands. Stepping around to the end of the table, they raised it into an aim two hands at first to hold it in position. That was until they peeled the offhand away. Posture kept, they peered at the target from behind the shadow of the mask. Thumb pulled back hammer and the trigger was squeezed.

The boom rattled through, arm recoiling back despite the attempts to keep it level. It rose, a few inches, but it did not fly back to the face of the gunsmith. Rolling the shoulder, they shook out the instinctive tenseness that followed. But where others would have been pulled back for reloading, the gunsmith held it in place. The thumb returned to the hammer, the click sounding as it was pulled back. The chamber had rotated, the next shot primed for firing. Exhaling, the gunsmith let the tense air escape before pulling the trigger again.

A second boom rattled throughout; they could feel the eyes of Dancer staring in awe, jaw slack as the firearm unloaded, “Shit Gunner, you weren’t-”
A third boom, the gunsmith fired again for good measure before lowering the firearm back to the table. The masked face turned to him, watching the lips move as he spoke, “Three shots, you... were serious?”
The gunsmith shrugged, raising their hands to hold up six digits. Three of them curled in, representing the shots fired, before the stray three gestured to the firearm. The hands signed, “And another three to go.”

A finger then pointed at the woman and then down to liberator. The gesture was clear; they wanted her to fire it.

“Begin.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
User avatar
Sednai
Posts: 66
Joined: Thu Jun 21, 2018 8:04 am
Topics: 10
Race: Human
Occupation: Resistance
Location: The Stacks
: "Cypress"
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Quix
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Contact:

Wed Dec 26, 2018 3:19 pm

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23 Yaris 2718....
Cypress trailed after Dancer as the man led her out of the line of people pressing to get a hand on the guns and back to the table as if she were a lazy balloon tied to his wrist. She watched silently as he showed her how to load the gun- the measuring of powder, the insertion of a bullet, all well-practised and known in his hands, taught, she imagined, by Gunner's vigilant hands and watchful eyes. The light smell of the black powder, a sharp mix of earthy charcoal and a hint of stale urine flooded through the cavern as the percussive sounds of shots echoed off of the walls, ceiling, and floor. The room was damply cool contrary to the dry Yaris air that crackled in the world outside.

Cypress' head only turned when Dancer began to speak. Her brown eyes crawled to his open-mouthed gape, then she turned to follow his sight to where Gunner's arm was still extended after two shots. As she watched, the barrel rotated when Gunner pulled the hammer at the top of the gun back with a gloved thumb. With a practised stillness, the gun fired again. Gunner's arm only rose slightly, held still after the shot in mental reflection.

"Three shots," she echoed Dancer. Three to go. The gun itself was a technology unfamiliar to her, but now she was witnessing technology unfamiliar to the eyes of all except those behind the mask. Six shots without loading... gods, how instrumental that could be. The Resistance lacked the magic capabilities the galdor so eagerly wielded, but this, this science could come to trump it. She was guided forward by a gloved finger connected to the masked man pointing at her, then the gun. To pick up, to rotate the barrel, to fire. She picked up the gun and stepped toward the target, mimicking the placements of her hands and legs to the best of her ability without the knowing hands of Gunner there to guide her. She let her hands melt into the curves of the gun. Feet anchored to the ground just under her shoulders, arms fully extended, torso forward slightly, and shoulders relaxed, she hoped she hadn't missed anything crucial. This felt right. Her thumb caught the hammer, pulling it back. She watched the bullets rotate into place, the empty sleeves now visible on the side.

Steady, she remembered, this time willing her arms to stay still, her face to stay focused on the target. She fired once, twice, three times, locking her arms in place in effort to keep them steady. It was over quickly. The shots were not ideally spread across the board rather than concentrated, and she lowered the gun to set it back on the table. She stepped away from the firing line, waiting for whatever stoic criticism would greet her from behind the mask.

BURNED, NOT BURIED.
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