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Target Range
The scrub has been cleared and the sand artificially flattened and packed to make a fifty yard corridor from a painted red line to an eight foot tall wall of sandbags. Broad, scraggly shrubs have been planted in straight lines along either side of the corridor to keep out the fickle winds and shifting sands. Paper targets in varying levels of disintegration or rot are tacked to the wall of sand bags, showing this to be a target range. One can step only a few feet in any direction to be back within the sand dunes.
It is a balmy, breezy summer's day out in the lovely settlement of Eiru. The beach, a comfortable distance away, is dotted with happy local families and a smattering of tourists, all in varying states of dress or lack thereof. The target range is mostly empty, save for what appears to be a young Pyracani deputy enthusiastically sketching paper targets with a stick of charcoal clutched in his paw, and Alhambra "Dammit Just Call Me Al Already" Meers, the local Sheriff. She, apparently in the spirit of the weather and locale, is wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a camo-patterned string bikini top, showing off an amount of scars and perhaps slightly less skin; the shorts are full-length and the top is sized so that she is neither flashing cleavage nor side-boob. Apparently we still ain't cottoning to that hoochie wear bullshit. She is also sporting a "fuck-off" sized sidearm, but judging from the hissing sparks and puffs of smoke when the shots reach their mark, it's a stunner.
James Sterling comes stumping up between the dunes in his typical merc wear: t-shirt, jeans, and bomber jacket. The shirt is blood red and bears the Red Eclipse logo in white over the left breast. Slung over his back is a military rifle of Pyracani make. He grins as he takes in the sight of the target range.
"Nice shooting," Tirax says as he ambles up behind James. "How's it going, Sheriff?" he calls over the sound of the gunshots. "James, Alhambra, Alhambra, James. Welcome to the firing range."
Pffzzrt. Pffzrrt. Pffzrrt. "God dammit, it's just -Al-," the Sheriff drawls, before snapping the safety on the stunner and shoving it classily into her belt. She squints in the direction of the approaching Timonae before hopping over the straw divider and striding on over. "Why shucks howdy if it ain't Tii-rax. Been a long time, man, whut the hell you been up to?" She squints in James' direction. "Yeah I think I saw this guy around. Stayin' outta trouble there, Aussie?" It's amicable, if delivered with somewhat typical small-town law wariness.
Sterling grins at Alhambra and snaps off a lazy salute of the Commonwealth variey, palm out. "Ma'am, yes ma'am," he replies with a chuckle.
"I've been causing trouble, and clearing up trouble," drawls Tirax in return, smirking. "As you can see, I'm all R-E-M'd up. S'good fun and all that. You still keeping the peace here?" he teases. "Bet it must be boring.."
It was boring. Possibly. Micky's here now. Up hovers a dilapidated, flatbed style hovertruck with Micky, clad in his most bestest suit, in the back among a couple of cargo crates clearly marked as foodstuffs. It's clear that when he sees the assembled law enforcement that he doesn't want to actually leave the truck. However, it is more clear that the driver wants him off. The flatbed of the truck lifts and Micky along with his cargo crates tumble off. This breaks one of the crates to prove, if there was doubt, that the foodstuff label is misleading. The hover truck makes its exit while Micky shakes his fist before switching to nonchalant and sitting on the intact crate.
Alhambra chuffs, and then shrugs. "Eh, sometimes it's exciting, y'know, we get tourists that apparently think they got, y'know, -rights-, and all," she drawls, with a slowly burgeoning grin. "I's just fuckin' around, Mister James I don't violate nobody's rights... 'less they do it first and then well that shit's on like Donkey Kong, anyhow." The grin wavers a bit when REM comes into play; she glances at the blood-red shirt as well. "Eh," she grunts, and then shrugs one shoulder. "Suppose it's good that it din't all fall to shit when Diri, y'know, got fuckin' uselessly murdered and then V went batshit crazy... You see that Faux-Franchezzer runnin' around? I got a -bone- to pick with her cloney ass and that no-account Booberella-- whut the fuck is goin' on over there..." Switching gears mid-grumpy to a completely differently aimed grumpy, she thunders, "Oh Judas Priest it's -yer- ass. Did you mug an insurance salesman for that suit, old man? Whutcha got in them there crates? It don't -look- like strained peas." Hands go to hips. The deputy just splays his ears in opposite directions and scoots slightly farther into the shade of the tree under which he continues to draw fanciful paper targets.
"'Less I'm readin' yer laws wrong," Sterling puts in, "tourists ain't got rights around 'ere." He shrugs, still smiling. "I got no reason t'mess with anybody," he adds, "except like y'said. Self defence an' th'rest." He shakes his head at the mention of Diri, gives Alhambra a confused look over the rest of the sentence, then looks over to see Micky arrive. He laughs as Micky tumbles off the back of the truck. "G'day, Micky," he calls through his laughter.
Tirax shrugs helplessly at Alhambra, and there's a bit of a sad expression there. "I haven't seen Fran in an age," he says quietly, smile dropping off for a second before Micky's appearance gets a grin out of him. "Hey Micky. Congratulations on making the most inconspicuous entrance I have seen ever."
"Shippin' manifest /said/ it was turnips, but, you know how it is, ma'am. Finders keepers. Hazard that it isn't turnips might turn into a profit for yours truly. No return policy," says Micky before he gets up and pries some boards free to reveal that it isn't turnips or peas. The crate in question has a couple of military grade rifles along with all the accompanying doodads and geegaws. He cuts sidelong glances at Tirax and Sterling before he lays on more BS for the local law, "How convenient that I should now find myself on a firing range with the legal authorities so that these weapons may now be properly inspected, duties paid, taxes stamped. Why, I bet some of ya'll ain't never fired a - if my eyes aren't deceivin' me - Urtigorhavtoveil Issue X. Marked up from the nine mind you, fires rockets instead of greandes. Be pleased as punch if ya'll maybe test fired that for me or whatever it is ya'll gotta do."
Alhambra scratches her midsection, and answers James while still looking at Micky like, well, like he's just fallen off the back of a truck in a cheap suit on a food crate stuffed with weaponry of dubious origin. "Hey look son, if somebody's tryin' to kill you, you still got the right to kill 'em right back, an' the good folks here will back your ass up. Shit, not too long ago I saved some mealy mouthed little street rat from getting shanghaied by some Captain Terrortits of a woman, looked like she done escaped from some theme park where Night of the Livin' Dead done throwed up on Pirates of the Caribbean..." She trails off again, and rumbles up a delicate belch before addressing Micky. "How's about you try that again in Standard, 'cause I don't speak Bullshitenese."
Sterling's laughter subsides as he gets a look at the decidedly non-vegetable hardware in the crate Micky opens. "Well, that's good t'know," he says to Alhambra, his gaze not moving from the crate. "Sounded like only citizens got those kinda rights, but like I said..." He trails off as he drifts toward the crates. "Rockets, eh?" he says to Micky.
Tirax raises an eyebrow, leaning over to the crates. "Oooh, explosives!" he says cheerfully. "Rockets are definitely more fun than grenades as well..."
"Well, Toveil are like the engineers and brains among them Hek types, ma'am, so the clan name is Urtigor what developed this marvelous bit of tech before you and many other fine weapon systems. The hav is just a filler. Like of or from," explains Micky as he picks a random part of his story to expound upon. Meanwhile, in the crate, there is an impact rifle and plasma weapon visible along with the rocket rifle Micky's talking so much about. "The mark nine isn't bad, but it was due an upgrade." He sighs, "Anyhow, yeah. Can we get to shootin' as long as we practice proper range safety? If you gotta arrest me, may I suggest you test fire some of these things first. Also, my right wrist is sensitive. For handcuffing purposes."
"Yeah well that's legal shit and they wouldn't let me put nothin' about puttin' my boot up a bully's ass. I ain't got the tolerance, and so help me Jesus if somebody ever tried to bend MY laws so's they could get away with being a shitter, I would put them in a sack of bacon and leave them in the squid swamp," Alhambra rumbles, still squinting at Micky because he's Micky. "So whut is that, Hek stuff? D'you think I'ma go run off and tell the Heks that you done bought some of the shinies that they think is too special to be sold to anybody else? Fuck, I can't stand them uppity bitches. They's worse than them goddamn Teatippers... Go ahead, shoot. But if any of them guns gets used to break the law around here, they're goin' up your ass."
Sterling wastes no time in pawing through the contents of the crate. "Micky, you may be an odd duck, but you know where t'get th'good stuff." He picks up the Issue X rocket rifle and looks it over, cradling it carefully in his hands. He glances over to the firing range. "This place rated fer weaponry like this?" he asks, grinning. "'Cos this baby's just dyin' t'be fired."
"I'm going to go shove some sand in my ears," Tirax says dryly, but grins, going to look into the crate. "Ooh, blockers. Do me a favour, don't turn that on next to my head," he says simply.
Alhambra jerks her thumb towards the very, very last row, where there are layers of sandbags both in front of -and- behind where the person firing would stand. "Don't forget to set it to 'dummy,' because you blow me up and I'ma be -very- pissed off at you," she drawls, before canting her head and lumbering over to the crate herself, presumably to look for anything that's illegal in the settlement, as opposed to just an offense to caste-based societies and religious tyrants. "Whut, psi-blockers? Fuck, where'd you get them? I need to get s'more for when we get Auks. Had some crazy bitch up in here with killer tiny robots in her head tryin' to kill her and then she's all 'I got fiixed, so now I'ma come up here and practice psychic healin' because I'm so special.' So I says an whut happens when your killer brain robots decide to get up to dickens again? She's all 'you know nothing I'm superior blah blah blah'. I'd like to put one of these right in her flappin' yap." And yes, she does make that shrill nasal annoying voice when she's 'playing' the apparent offending Aukami.
Sterling glances to Tirax. "Don't worry, mate, the blockers're for the assholes what try t'get in me head without my permission." He leans the rocket rifle against the side of the crate and reaches in to retrieve a few smaller items, notably the psi-blockers and a pair of sap gloves. "Micky c'n get psi-blockers for ya, I imagine," he tells Alhambra. "I asked 'im t'get these fer me after some white cat poked around in me 'ead a couple weeks back." He tucks the items into his jacket pockets, then reaches back into the crate for a KA-BAR bowie knife. "Mm-hmm, jus' like back 'ome." He squints over at Alhambra. "Robots in 'er head?" he asks, incredulously. "Eh, self-righteous people make me blood boil," he adds, running a thumb along the edge of the bowie knife's blade.
"I think I remember her," Tirax says carefully. "Maybe. Or someone like her. We get a few crazy bitches like that now and then, huh?" he muses with a light shrug of his shoulders as he peers into the crate. Seeing nothing further, he leaves it alone, flicking one of his knives out of a sheath and balancing it along his fingers with a hrm. "Doesn't feel quite right," he considers of the knife.
"Yeah, and they was tryin' to kill her... I dunno, apparently she got like, -more- psychic bullshit than the other Auks as a side effect and thought that was -better-," Alhambra starts, and then squints as something in the conversation causes her to do a little rewind. "Some white cat in yer head?" She rumbles, brow furrowing like a grizzly old wolf who's discovered that somebody's stolen her favorite elk thigh bone. "Was this around -here-?"
Sterling sheathes the knife and tucks it into his belt. "Nah," he says to Alhambra. "Not 'ere." He gazes wistfully at the rocket rifle, then picks it up again. "Wanna get a chance t'fire me battle rifle, but I can't resist this baby." He reaches into the crate again and retrieves a rocket-shaped projectile boldly labelled 'DUMMY' and tucks it under his arm.
Alhambra grunts. "Good. I ain't got no patience for that shit and the last time we come up on evil lil white kittyfolk goin' around in people's heads I damn near had me an interplanetary incident," she drawls, and motions towards the rack of ear protection, which is in fact a particularly branchy tree with an awning around it and some bulky ear muffs hanging off the branches. Snagging a set for herself, she pops them on and plunks down on a nearby hay bale to watch.
"Can't blame ya." Sterling claims a set of ear protection headgear, setting the rifle and ammunition down long enough to put it on. He takes a moment to give the rifle a more throrough going-over, then loads the weapon with the dummy ammo and walks up to the designated firing area.
Tirax wanders up to pick up his own protection and gives Alhambra a thumbs up as he perches next to her. "This could be fun," he mouthes, grinning.
"Well, I ain't forgot how to be a paramedic, so..." Al yells, echoing the thumbs' up. The Pyracani deputy, who has managed to snag his own really big ear phones, is still drawing away, only now completely on the other end of the range. "Go ahead, son, play with yer new toys," Al continues yelling; earnestly, not in a mocking fashion.
Sterling aims the rocket rifle downrange. "Bit different t'what we have at home," he comments. "Used t'puttin' a rocket launcher on me shoulder, but this one's built like a regular rifle, just with bulkier ammo." He shrugs and lines up on the target at the far end of the range. With the briefest of glances to either side, he pulls the trigger on the rifle.
[Skill System] James Sterling tests his Ranged + Projectile Weapons at a modifier of 0. The result is 13.
Tirax seems to have no idea what anyone is saying, shrugging to himself as he watches, grinning to himself.
"Whaaaat?" Al yells. "Let 'er rip, man."
Sterling beams as the rocket streaks away down the range and strikes the target. He nods in satisfaction, then frowns, as there seems to have been but one dummy round in the crate.
Alhambra claps as the rocket hits the target solidly, punching a hole in the paper target (this one seems to be in the likeness of a very derp-faced Nall) and embedding itself sandily in the barrier behind it. "Yaay," she says, taking off her earmuffs. "Nothing like good clean fun with no casualties."
Sterling pulls his headgear down, letting it rest around his neck. "Good stuff," he calls. "I'll have t'make sure t'nick this baby off Micky if I c'n manage it." He grins and sets the rocket rifle aside.
"Not for nothin', but I'd check that shit for serial numbers before you buy it," Alhambra drawls, rummaging around in her pockets for a beat-up packet of cigarettes. "I mean really unless they come sniffin' around I don't give a rat's left buttcheek about Hek business 'cause they's rude to my friends, but, y'know. They get -real- bitchy about things. They once put up a fuss on the news about people havin' rifted cats on account of them bein' -dangerous-. Fuckin' -housecats-, man."
Sterling chuckles. "Belongs t'REM," he says. "I'm just playin' with it -- it's Joca's an' Micky's job t'worry about the legalities." He snorts. "Cats? Long's they're not the mind-readin' kind, I can't see how anybody c'n say they're dangerous. Unless yer allergic, I s'pose. Gonna have a quick go with this one," he says, putting the headgear back on. He unslings the Pyracani battle rifle from his back and loads it with a clip he pulls from a jacket pocket.
"Like I said, they bitch about everything. Talking about how they was gonna disrupt ecosystems and murder the hell out of local wildlife. I mean y'know -generally- I say yeah, be careful about shit, but unless you go gatherin' up all... I don't know, -half dozen- of the rifted housecats and like breeding them into some cat army an' then turning them loose on an environment that's made entirely of tiny helpless baby birds... then the Heks should keep their fuckin' noses out of it. It ain't even like folks are bringing them to Hek space, neither," Alhambra drawls, with another quiet chuff about the talk of legalities. "Hey I just handed you the disclaimer you can do with it whut you want. I don't exactly have a rep for the kind of diplomacy the 'elder races' up in Hiverspace seem to whinge on about."
Sterling laughs, reaching up to pull the earmuff away from his head on one side. He hefts the rifle in his other hand. "This is the only kinda diplomacy I deal in," he says. "Hey, you got an Auk target I can shoot at?"
"Malkin! Hey! Malkin!" Al yells, in the direction of the deputy. He doesn't answer, because he's still wearing earmuffs. She picks up a fallen clump of dry grass, and wings it in his direction. This plops to the sand after bouncing off of the stool he's sitting on. He pulls up an earmuff. "What? I mean, what, ma'am?" "Har har. Malkin, get Mister James here some Auk targets to shoot at." The Pyracani stands up, picks up the long box of already-drawn targets, and pads over to the rack. Apparently, there's a selection, and rather well-sketched. Males, females, all willowy and fine-haired in imperious postures. "Yes'm," he says, and then heads back to his seat to continue drawing. "He draws good. Don't he draw good? You draw good, man," Al says.
Sterling grins darkly. "Real good," he agrees, nodding at Malkin. "Put up the most bastardly one y'got," he insists, "an' then stand clear, mate."
"They's all bastards," Alhambra snorts, and then strokes her chin. "Wait no I met -two- who ain't. So far anyhow, and they live out -here- so clearly they don't fit in with their hoity moodring brethrens." All of the available targets have been replaced with Aukami, so that James can pick whoever he thinks looks the bastardliest.
"Heh, I ain't been here long but I'm learnin' t'hate 'em," Sterling comments. He puts the protective headgear back on, waits for Alhambra to do the same, then takes aim downrange and fires off a few three-round bursts from the battle rifle.
[Skill System] James Sterling tests his Ranged + Projectile Weapons at a modifier of 0. The result is 12.
[Skill System] James Sterling tests his Ranged + Projectile Weapons at a modifier of 0. The result is 10.
[Skill System] James Sterling tests his Ranged + Projectile Weapons at a modifier of 0. The result is 12.
The rifle barks and the targets sprout holes in neat clusters: middle of the head and one to either side of center-of-mass, where Sterling believes the most vital organs reside.
Apparently Al thinks she's sitting far enough away for rifle fire, seeing as it's not -rocket- fire, and just settles for covering her hands with her ears during the bursts. "Well, y'know it's like as much as I understand they was here first holy -fuck- they's uppity. And it ain't even like they's big wigs like the Heks, right? They got like whut a fourth of a planet that ain't maneatin' jungle on a -good- day, and then went and spang off of the Dominion folks when -that- shit went down so now they ain't even got that, and they still got the nerve to be all hoity? Like whut the fuck man your planet got wrecked, where the fuck you get off goin' to other planets talking shit? Whut, 'cause they got Kamir blood? Kamirs is fuckin' cosmic fuckups. Whut, 'cause they can do brain magic bullshit? So can a lotta other races. Mind you half of THEM is a bunch of hoity fucks too, but whut can you do, right?" She is sitting on a hay bale at one end of the range, while James is at the other, shooting at some well-drawn Aukami targets. These are apparently the topic of discussion.
After his safety lecture, Micky has taken upon itself to inform those silly enough to stand around him about the differences between rockets and missiles. This lecture not only goes into technical aspects of the weapon systems but branches off into linguistic differences between the Hekayt and Terran Standard. This finally, and I mean finally, winds down. Mostly he's been talking to a couple of deputies who feel obligated to listen to him rant in exchange for firing some of the more obscure weapon systems found in the crate. However, they are seeing the cost top the benefit, and they leave him. Thus, Micky wanders over to Al and James.
Sterling beams at his results, sure he's made deadly strikes on the paper representatives of those damn bastard Aukami before he pulls his headgear down again, engages the safety on his rifle with the swipe of a thumb, and stalks downrange to inspect the target. He nods in satisfaction as he tears the target from the rack and carries it back uprange. "Not a bad set, if I do say so m'self," he comments. He shakes his head to Alhambra. "I ain't a fan of any brain magic bullshit," he insists. "Good on Micky fer gettin' me those psi blockers."
"Yeah you got a good groupin' there," Al muses, and finally remembers her pack of cigarettes, which she peers at and then is about to put it away before Micky wanders away from his weapons lecture. Then, she thinks better of it, and tucks one into her mouth. "Good god man you got a permit for the wind farm in your face?" she drawls as he approaches.
"I use all the balloon profits to fund a non-profit that helps disabled dairy farmers," shrugs Micky before he produces a flask.
Sterling chuckles at the exchange between Alhambra and Micky. He slings the rifle back over his shoulder and carefully folds up the paper target without creasing it. "Got some nice stuff in there, Micky," he says. "All this firin' practise is makin' me hungry," he adds. "Reckon I'll skip off an' grab some dinner." He glances to the crates. "You got a way t'transport this stuff back t'HQ, Micky?"
"Riight, dairy farm, that explains where you picked up alla that bullshit," Al retorts, puffing away on her plain old cigarette and watching Micky like she's expecting him to set up a snake oil tent. "Yeah, I think yer aitch-queue is the best place for alla this merch-an-dise. As fun as it is, it comes with more disclaimers than I care to keep the company of. This will also decrease the likelihood of any of these items being used to commit a crime here and then being impounded by way of your colon."
"Of course I do," says Micky while he looks at Sterling. "You." He scratches at his jaw before asking Al with a concerned expression, "Is Pyracan supplyin' you with sufficient material with which to do the job that you are legally and morally obligated to do? With the el-ex-nine space pattern array stun system, you can quell riots and civil insurrections with mininal risk to citizens and private property."
Sterling peers at Alhambra. "It ain't healthy, this fixation y'seem t'have with Micky's arse," he opines. "I'm goin' t'dinner," he says to Micky. "I ain't luggin' this gear anyplace until me belly's full. I got priorities, y'see."
"Yep, I am more'n adequately supplied, thanks," Alhambra drawls in Micky's general direction, pausing only to flip James a bird. "It is a universally applied punishment slash threat which I find is more effective then saying 'I will give you a citation,' y'see. Also... man, you -been- to Eiru? We'd have to IMPORT people for a civ-il in-surr-ection. And well then they'd prolly get lost and lose interest. I -could-, however, use some of them psi-blockers because y'know no matter how often you spray for Auks the skinny bitches keep poppin' up." "That's why you gotta find yourself a neural pistol. A couple of zaps from that and they'd be like the average lost tourist," says Micky. There's a pause. "I can't get you one of them, so I guess you'll hafta go with the psi blocker. I can probably get you one of them." He gives Sterling a shrug and a nod, "Yeah, ok, fine. I guess I'll just carry it all myself. I guess I could do that. I suppose."
Sterling chuckles as Alhambra flips him off. "I s'pose it'd be more effective, yeah," he agrees. "'Cos 'citations' don't really scare anybody, y'know?" He laughs at her mention of Auks. "Heh, y'd need a /huge/ can o'Raid!" He holds his arms out to the sides in demonstration. He shakes his head at Micky. "Lemme eat first, fer fuck's sake. /Then/ I'll help ya carry it." He rolls his eyes. "Crikey," he mutters.
"Eiru's too goddamn small for something as dumb as civil unrest, is what I'm saying, dude," Alhambra rumbles with a smoky yawn. "Also generally too goddamn small to -invade-, well that and we's still a part of Pyracan and have you noticed that the Pyracani have a refreshingly low tolerance for bullshit? It's really nice. I met Alpha Sarr once, he was a cool dude. Seen him kick a hole in a wall on the teevee. Whut the hell's a neural pistol? Fuck that sounds technowhatall. I have enough trouble with this goddamn stun gun. Shit most of the time I end up whackin' folks upside the head with it. Which will, by the way, have a marked effect upon psionic abilities. It just don't have much range as the blocker. And is also not as hilarious because if they're not unconscious you get to see 'em tryin' to put the whammy on you and it's all hrrrrn, shit I don't work no more." She puts two fingers to her forehead and mimes an impotent psi user, complete with squinting and sticking her tongue out of the side of her mouth.
"It kills brain cells or something. I dunno. Disrupts the neural network. Your nerves. Chance of death unlike a stun gun. Most of the time," explains Micky before he starts to collect the arsenal he brought out in the crates. One of the crates as full of food. This one gets left behind. The cost of doing business.
Sterling laughs at Alhambra's antics. He gives her a lazy wave. "Be back in a bit, Micky. Why don't'cha have a nice chat t'these deputy fellas about... whatever y'were talkin' about before, eh?" He heads back out toward the dunes.
"Take that shit with you, man, I don't want yer Pork Puffs and chaw," Alhambra chuffs, before heading over to officiate and make sure everything gets packed up and shuffled off to Comorro.