Lessons in Arrogance


curt_icon.gif kayla_icon.gif

Scene Title Lessons in Arrogance
Synopsis An impromptu training session in how to properly shoot a gun conveys more than instructions alone.
Date July 19, 2009

Fort Hero: Outdoor Firing Range

The morning is a little cool; the sun hasn't been up long. Just long enough to paint the woodlands in gold and green, and to make the base facilities look dull and drab in comparison. Concrete-gray is that. A short distance from the concrete walls is a swathe of cleared ground, narrow enough to be overshadowed by the surrounding trees, marked with a spare few painted lines. Target stands sit at the far end, only one in use at this early hour; that one sporting a classic round diagram rather than human-shaped.

Dressed in pinstriped black pants and an ivory blouse, auburn hair bound back in a knot, Kayla Reid doesn't exactly fit in well with the setting; the muffs on her ears and the gun held in both hands is just as incongruous with the person if not the place. She takes careful aim, fires three shots in rapid succession, sharp reports echoing from the nearer of the base's walls; lowers the firearm after, clicking its safety into place, and regards the target critically.

Tolerable for a beginner, but none of the bullet holes — either from this attempt or any prior — are all that close to center.

Curt is a few steps away when Kayla stops her firing. What? Like she's gonna hear his approach while firing a gun with ear muffs on? He taps her lightly on the shoulder with a fingertip. Curt looks like… well, like Curt. BDU's, combat boots, wife beater that's entirely too tight… luckily he can totally pull that off. He pantomimes pulling her muffs off so he can talk to her. TV Might lead you to believe you can talk with them on between gun firings, but only if you really scream hard is that realistic, and then you just look like an idiot.

She doesn't hear, doesn't notice the strain that Curt brings with him, creeping up on figurative stocking feet; it settles in the background of Kayla's awareness and draws a few more lines on her expression. The touch was unexpected, causes the woman to reflexively flinch away, turning to face Curt. She isn't wearing her gloves; holds the gun down at her side, idly, not having anything better to do with it. Isn't familiar enough with the thing to actually brandish it when startled. Kayla scowls at him, then reaches up with her left hand to pull the earmuffs down. "What?"

Curt points, "You're making a few classic amature mistakes. Want some pointers?" he asks helpfully. Though his expression is what it always is, empty. At least it's not that one where he's wearing thinly veiled condescension.

If it involved condecension, Kayla would probably rebuff the offer rather soundly. As it is, she regards him for a moment, her own expression guarded. "Fine," the woman replies, blunt and ungraceful acceptance; she brings the firearm back up, offering it for him to take — or whatever.

Curt just pulls his from the shoulder holster he wears. It's old, obviously so, worn in all the right ways, the shine is dulled from a few decades of use, but somehow it fits him. Beaten, aged, worn, but working just fine, deadly as it ever was. He holds the .45 up so she can see, "You want to cup the hand like this, not underneath, but over the fingers that hold the grip. Pull down with this hand, push up with the other. When you fire the gun will recoil but the opposing forces of your hands will minimize it." He eyes her, waiting for her to mimic his stance, "Forty five degree angle to the target, shrinking the target you represent to your enemy, also stabilizing your base. Your feet were too close together, give them another four inches of space and you'll feel more solid, less like the gun is pushing you back on your heels." He sounds like someone who's very practiced at giving this sort of direction. He honestly sounds like a teacher, not an asshole.

Kayla eyes Curt sidelong, considering the way he stands and the instructions he speaks. She slides her feet apart, looks down at the ground between them, adjusts the angle of her body; looks back up at the target. Lifts the gun; hand here, hand there, something like that? Gray eyes flick to the agent, nonverbal query; like this?

Curt frowns a bit and wiggles his fingers so she can see, and once she's looking at them he places them one at a time over his other hand, so she can get her grip correct. "Pull down with this hand," he shows, "Push back up with this one." He nods for her to do the same. "Never pull the trigger on your first shot. More then any other the first shot counts for everything, so make that the one that does most of your work for you. You squeeze, don't pull. Once the first round is gone you aim for the hole that bullet made. Until you know yourself, and know your gun, you'll never be great at this, but I can make you good if you do as I say and fire a few hundred rounds a week." He taps his ears, motioning for her to put her muffs back on as he does the same. Then he steps down and waves a hand as if telling her to fire. He holds up four fingers, for four rounds one assumes.

Pull, push… whatever. It's the mention of a few hundred rounds a week that elicits a dubious look from the woman; that degree of practice doesn't seem to be in her plans. Kayla nods once, then lowers the gun so she can put her earmuffs back on. She lifts the gun, clicks the safety back off, takes careful aim. Four shots, in relatively rapid sequence; a closer grouping, a little closer to the target's center. Something helped.

Curt nods his head and motions to the muffs again, once hers are off he speaks once more, "Like all things worth working on, marksmanship requires time and effort. If you want to shoot a gun, then go pop a few rounds off at a skeet shoot, if you don't want to be useless the next time a few dozen cyborg Nazi biker zombies crash our HQ you'll let me train you." he eyes her, "If you give me three hours a day I can have you combat worthy in about eight weeks. I can teach you how to do more then shoot, I can teach you important things, like how to hit a moving target, how not to hit an innocent, how to think like an enemy and therefore outthink him, and most importantly I can untrain you in all those stupid things all civilians learn early on that make them more of a hindrance then a help in a tight spot. Shooting a target," he spins and his gun comes out of the holster barks five times and then is back in its place in less time then it takes to describe, "is easy so long as it's still and not shooting back. You want to learn more then target practice let me know." His target now has eye, a hole in it's forehead, and twin perfectly placed nipples. "Either way, work on that stance, at least then you'll start to group your shots better. You're not ready to shoot at a person until you can place all four of those shots in an area you could cover with a bisected lemon." He offers her incentive, a goal, competition (with her self), and solutions all in just a few short minutes. He drapes his muffs over their hook and turns to head for the compound. Apparently the lesson is done, and to think, she never had to say a word.

The woman takes the earmuffs off again, listens as Curt speaks, scowls when the reports from his gun collide with her ears. The scowl doesn't go away throughout his continued speech, but if anything deepens; it's probably a good thing he walks away. Kayla watches him go, a sullen twist to her lips. Only when he's out of sight does she start cleaning up — she's had enough of this for today.

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