Participants:
| Scene Title | That I'm Sure |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Conversation happens, even if Graeme isn't sure that it's the time or the place for it. |
| Date | May 10, 2011 |
Brooklyn Gun Club
The gun club in Brooklyn is a great place to go and practice, the range catering to handguns as well as smallbore rifles. But neither of the two men who've entered the club bear the longer muzzled firearms. Today, both are sporting traditional, typical handguns. The sort that's most easily concealed. Devon had asked Graeme to carry his, it's still quite illegal for the teenager to even possess it, but there's no rules to shooting. And once all has been checked in and the rules gone over, he's taken the weapon back and stands in his stall with the gun on the counter before him.
Devon adjusts the protective eyewear perched on his nose, then smooshes the florescent pink and yellow foam ear plugs to fit them into his ear canals. A glance to his side shows where Graeme stands then one downrange has him eyeing the silhouette. It's been months since he's actually fired a gun, and even in anticipation one can sense the weight that action had taken on the young man. The first time he'd fired it, he killed man, and today he practices for the next time.
That morning, Graeme had done what he'd been meaning to do since just before his birthday: go out and actually buy a handgun. Gun skills were never his biggest forte, though at one point he'd been able to pass the requisite tests to earn an armed endorsement for his guard card, and the several targets that Graeme's gone through thus far while they've been there show that. He's hit the target in general, after the first few shots which were simply for getting used to it once again, but that's about it as far as accuracy goes. Nothing close.
Another moment of consideration, and then Graeme's meeting Devon's gaze, handgun shifted to his side, safety slid on with a click that's muffled by the earplugs that he as well wears. There's less tension about the teacher than the teenager, overall, and a faint, grim smile plays on his face. Definitively serious, though.
After seating the magazine into the gun, Devon pulls back the slide to cycle the first round into the chamber. He works his fingers carefully around the grip, finger intended for the trigger resting just over the guard. Movement again from Graeme catches his attention, eyes slanting toward the older man briefly before returning to focus on the target. How long has it been since a gun of any sort was just a toy or a prop that made a loud pop? He lets out a slow, even breath and brings up his other hand to provide the counter force for the ballistics.
No smile, no expression befalls the teenager as he lifts his firearm, taking aim down range. Aim carefully, quickly, and without mercy. Perry's words when he bestowed the weapon on Devon is a brief and echoing reminder in his mind as his finger slides down to touch the trigger. A breath moves in and then out again slowly, and on the exhale the trigger is squeezed thrice. Three shots in quick success cracking off to pelt through the silhouette at the end of the range.
There's a slow, terse nod, as Graeme watches Devon, before once again taking what has settled into a routine of turns as such. Release the safety. Aim, fire, this time actually hitting the silhouette, then again. The teacher is quiet, and pensive, and perhaps distracted. It's nearly memory lane, but not quite, before he once again brings the firearm down in front of him, removing the now-empty magazine, and turning around.
"Not bad for the first time in years," he says, to himself, though it's not loud enough to be heard through the earplugs, and then he reaches to push the safety glasses up on his face and then run his hand through hair that probably needs a haircut. It's starting to get longer than Graeme actually appreciates it being.
The pause for Devon is just long enough to take in another breath, spent during the time it takes for Graeme to fire again. Then comes another report of three consecutive shots, each again biting through the target at the end of the range though with how much accuracy is yet to be seen. Aim carefully, quickly, without mercy. Whether the silhouette downrange were a real person or not, each round sent is with lethal intent.
Another glance in Graeme's direction has Devon lowering his firearm. A glance to each side follows before he places the weapon on the ledge and steps back. His arms fold over his chest, likely to still his hands though his breathing and demeanor remain even and cool.
What concern Graeme has for the teenager is well and thoroughly hidden, although it is there, as Graeme puts down his handgun with the empty magazine. Internally, there's second thought as to whether or not this is the time and the place for Graeme to ask Devon about what solid proof he could provide to implicate Valentin, who this Valentin person is beyond just a name. Instead, he takes a step out of the shooting booth and then pulls out one of the earplugs, letting it dangle on the cord, and lets Devon speak, if the teenager so desires to.
Instead of talking right away, though he does pull his own ears out, Devon does wheel his target back to himself. Six shots have hit the paper, though only two seem to be solid lethal hits; if the silhouette had been a person, one shot would have hit just below the collar and another just below the chest. "It's weird," he says finally as he pulls the target from its clip. "In a situation where it's called for, I can pull a weapon without second thought. But to actually practice, knowing what the weapon does and why I practice, it brings back those days in the Dome."
Graeme nods, quietly as he pulls his own target back towards him, though he pauses halfway down and rocks on the balls of his heels. "Situational awareness does that," he says. "If something's actually happening, you respond before thinking through and rationalising. Me, I…" There's a pause, before Graeme manages to actually admit his own biggest problem that he's been facing, the reason that he's bitten his lip so much that once or twice, though he didn't notice it, it bled. The words betray little to none of the inner hesitation and problems, save for the tinge of guilt and regret. "It just brings back being too late." Which in turn brings an edge of steel and determination and possibly even anger to the teacher's voice. There's a quiet shrug. "The sound, moreso than anything else."
But the topic isn't lingered on for very long. It's not something that Graeme likes to talk about, so instead, he takes the opportunity that since it's already been brought up, now might well be the time, and the place, if not the ones he'd thought best to begin with. "But practise is a good thing, overall." His target is pulled in, six shots that hit the paper and one that hit square in the chest, the others around the edges where they could have hit either the silhouette or the background. "Speaking of. My friend's too old for you, you know. But she did want to know, if you had anything that was solid proof she could have, related to the Dome."
Setting the target beside his station, Devon steps up to his handgun. A thumb triggers the magazine release, that with its remaining rounds is placed on the ledge. The slide is pulled and locked back before the gun is returned to the ledge, and the remaining round after removed from the chamber is placed between the two. All this is done as Graeme speaks, while it might seem like he isn't paying attention by his actions, his posture shows he's listening. Mention of of the blonde woman brings a faint grin to the teenager's expression, brief, before the topic turns back to the Dome.
"Everyone is too old for me," the young man states simply. His arms fold again across his chest as he lets out a steadying breath. "The memory of what went down. The scars." He pauses, hesitating, then points the fine white line that's drawn from his left temple to nose, missing his eye by a fraction. "This, my wrists, the bullet wound on my shoulder. Besides that I've pretty much put together an idea of what was meant to happen based on the experiences and what we uncovered."
"She could be your mother," Graeme says. There's a pause as he looks at the target again, before folding it in half and setting it on the ledge. "Alright, then." It's certainly evidence enough for Graeme, but whether it'll hold up as definitive evidence in terms of dealing with media release is something Graeme's yet to figure out. "Also, if there's anything about … she said you said, Valentin? She's looking for evidence that can be released via news outlets, I think, things that are irrefutable."
"She's hotter than my mother," Devon points out. "Not that my mother wasn't pretty, just in a mom way." He turns to look at Graeme more fully, brows pinching together. "Yeah, I told her that's the guy that was running the whole thing. Gave someone named Malcolm Amp to generate the Dome with the promise of Refrain for his effort. Something Valentin, could probably dredge up his name given enough time, he was going to blow up Roosevelt while the Dome was up but I don't know if it was his idea, or if he had orders from someone else. He was running Humanis First, though. That I'm sure."
Graeme nods. The details are carefully stored as he listens to the teenager talk, to relay to Elisabeth later, but as far as it goes, Graeme simply doesn't know the questions to ask Devon about this. "Right. A first name would help, perhaps, at least help to possibly dredge up who the guy is. Because there's only so much that a last name can do, as far as details." A small, encouraging smile is offered to Devon, as Graeme leans back on the counter. "Thanks. I'll see what can be done, from there, you know? Everything helps, but I still don't know what kinda noise she wants to make."
"What can be done is that fuckstick can be brought to me," Devon says quietly and showing a far darker side than he's exposed in recent days, "with his hands bound by zip ties, so I can show him the same hospitalities he and his men showed me and every other Evolved person inside that bubble. Start by beating him, then making him sit in a line for execution. Except that won't come because he'll be blown halfway across the street by an explosion. I'll put a gun to his head, blow a hole into his shoulder to match the one he put in mine."
The teenager's arms fold more tightly across his chest, shoulders drawn almost painfully tense as he stares off to one side. "The Firster we caught said that. That the plan was to make the bubble, blow up the whole island with its Evolved residents, then bring it down again. That was Valentin's plan. I was there when that waste of flesh under-grunt said as much. —That's what Valentin was waiting for when we found him." The last comes after a short pause, as though something suddenly made sense. Valentin had been watching for something when he and Doyle found him on that rooftop.
"To do that we'd have to know enough of who he is to know where to find him," Graeme says, a gentle reminder and perhaps no actual disagreement with what Devon expresses as what to do with Valentin. "We don't have that sort of information, yet." A quiet shake of his head. "If that we did." Though Graeme would be more likely to simply shoot the man on sight. There's a personal conviction, somewhere in there, that torture doesn't solve anything, and that using such tactics makes one no better than the others who use said tactics, but it isn't mentioned. Instead, Graeme carefully takes a few steps over towards Devon, leaning on a section of half-wall.
Another time, Devon might have agreed that torture wasn't the way to go. However the teenager had suffered the realism of the Dome, far worse than what pictures, the pictures he'd quietly protested against being shown, could relate to others. For him, the loss and the anarchy that life dissolved into was very real and stark in contrast. It was life and death inside that bubble, and not just for concern of food and clean water. None of that is said, though the haunting memories have surfaced and show on his countenance.
Carefully lifting a hand to rub over his face, a nervous habit picked up during those twenty-one days of captivity, Devon lets out a breath. "What is it you need," he asks. "I have my memories, nightmares, the physical damage left it's own marks and aches. It hurts when we play ball." That's added as an aside, a quiet admittance he'd rather not know. "I can… I can… show you… where things happened. You tell me where to look I'll I'll dig through names to find him."
Still quiet, Graeme nods. "Like I said, I'm not honestly quite sure what she's looking for, but I'll find out." And preferably, set up something where Liz can ask Devon the questions that she wants answers to, because this is beyond the teacher's area of expertise, inasmuch as all that he can do is listen when the teenager wants to talk. And respect for when he doesn't, as well as perhaps even more respect for when he does.
"And when I find out, you'll be the first to know. Well, the second, since I'll know already, and…" Stating the obvious. It's what Graeme falls back on, perhaps more often than he even realises. "But so far, what you just said helps a lot. Helps me figure out what it is we need, in this." The last statement is quiet, reserved, in the general way that Graeme often is, but moreso.
The young man's fingers linger over the scar that nearly cost him an eye, the glint of light off metal still as sharp in memory as the day it happened. He nods after a long moment, drawing his hand from his face, eyes flicking down as though expecting to again see blood covering his fingertips. Devon's hand tucks back in under an arm, both once more crossed over his chest as he nods again and his eyes tracking to locate Graeme. "I'll have that name for you and your friend, and whatever other evidence I can recall. But like I told her, there's no way in Hell I'm storming into City Hall with this information. If I find that guy, he's dead."
"Somehow, I think the plan was more like airing evidence that can't be ignored on national television, or something," Graeme says, still as if he's just as lacking of details as he was before he met with Elisabeth yesterday. "It's not exactly like going to a government where top people belong to the group in question would help much." Then, Graeme has gone to retrieve the handgun from the counter of his shooting booth, picking up the gun and the now-empty magazine as to put them away.
"It's not just the top people," Devon says. He finally moves back toward his firearm, picking up the magazine, round, and weapon to relinquish to Graeme. At least until they're outside of the shooting range again. Odd that he feels less reluctant about carrying the weapon right now, though it's presence is still a heavy weight that he silently, stoically bears. Carry it as long as you don't like it. More sound advice, Russo's words speaking as a reminder for sanity and honor. The gun is held so Graeme can take it. "It's everyone, the whole government. Everyone who buys into the garbage they spew at us is no different than Humanis First."
The teenager's weapon is taken, as well, put with his own for the moment as they are going to leave. "Everyone, in general. Government or not." Graeme's lips tighten to a thin line across his face, but that soon fades as they leave the shooting range. "Coffee and lunch, maybe?" It's not changing the subject, really. Just the usual spending any amount of time around the man means that his metabolism is bound to kick in at least once, and lunchtime is no exception.