I'm a loner.
That's not perhaps the most flattering thing to admit, but it's true. Admittedly, I'm a loner who's good at talking to people - if I'm in the right frame of mind, I can run a pretty good verbal spiel.
So I'm a socially adept loner.
But a loner, all the same. I appreciate a great party just as much as the next guy, but I'm most at home...
...on my own.
Which might explain why I solo so damn much.
Still, for the life of me, I never dreamed I'd be doing it in person. Life's a funny thing. Even the Lone Ranger had Toto. And, y'know, a pretty intelligent horse.
Me? I'm crouched on a fire escape with an assault rifle.
It's cold up here. It's a distinctly windy night, and my perch doesn't do much to cut the breeze. I sorta wish I'd been wearing a warmer jacket when I transitioned.
And my hands are freezing. I'm wearing fingerless gloves. Biker gloves, actually - I remember that's what it said on the packaging. Which is ironic, I suppose. The closest I've ever been to a motorcycle is walking by one in the parking lot. But that's what they issue you in the Army, perhaps on the basis that the lack of fingers helps your dexterity. It's certainly a factor in proper trigger pull.
None of which helps the fact that, as unclad extremities, said fingers are getting increasingly numb.
First order of business...once I've got some money in the bank, I really need to see about getting new clothes. Maybe something more suitable to fighting what amounts to an urban guerrilla campaign. Warmer clothes and protective wear. That'd be nice.
For now, though, I've got to make do with what I've got.
Truth be told, I don't want to be out here. Not really. I'd like to think I'm a pacifist at heart...though in truth, it's probably more like enlightened cowardice.
But everyone else in our little band of lost boys is out there playing with their new powers...and actually trying this whole crimefighting gig.
Ngh.
The city's given us an honest-to-god base. Unfortunately, it's more refugee shelter than Justice League Watchtower. And the cynic in me wonders how long they'll let us stay rent-free.
It's not like we've got that many marketable skills, especially stripped of paper qualifications. Hard to make a resume when you're from another dimension, and employers - even in Paragon City - are only so understanding.
What we do have is Class H certification - bona-fide hero licenses.
Far as I understand, we don't legally get a salary from bringing in bad guys. Not technically. It's not a formal paycheque, per-se, but more of a..."allowance", or "compensation for services rendered", or something like that. The guys from the Federal Bureau of Super-powered Affairs spouted all sorts of legal doubletalk, but that's the gist of it.
Of course, that only holds if we actually fight crime. Else you'd see too many people throwing on homemade costumes and using it as some kind of glorified welfare.
Not that the government reps used those words, but that's the sense I got, anyway.
So.
That's why I'm kneeling on a fire escape, a few storeys above the street. I've already heard horror stories from Shayne Dark and Gabriel about tackling these super-powered gang members head on.
And while the folks that got us set up with this hero gig suggested I might be more durable than normal too, I'm...not really willing to test that hypothesis. I'll avoid empirical findings if it's all the same, thank you very much.
Now.
It's probably not very heroic to play sniper, especially camping a spawn point - but my sense of justice and fair play doesn't, I'm afraid, extend that far.
Ms. Davies, one of the local FBSA liaisons to neophyte heroes requested that one of us head to this address in Kings Row. There's a Skull member they need taken down. I suppose the conventional thing to do would be to kick down the door and go in guns blazing...
...me, I'm squatting outside in the cold, and hoping to hell there isn't another exit. I don't think there is. I circled the block before picking my vantage point. So if he's leaving the building, he should be leaving through the front. And he will be leaving, if the FBSA is correct, since he knows his hideout is compromised...
That's...probably too many assumptions. Too many what-ifs.
Hopefully, though, I'll get lucky.
There's movement at street level, across the road. The door opens, and - yes, a guy in black and greys steps through. He's a small figure, from where I'm watching, but even at that distance a chill runs down my spine, a chill that has nothing to do with the wind and temperature.
In the game, the Skulls are just guys with silly white masks. But seeing one in real-life, it's painfully clear that it's no stupid party mask. The guy's wearing actual bone, a carved-off chunk of human anatomy torn from some descrated corpse.
Ick.
I settle the rifle tighter into my arms, the butt pressing into the intersection of chest and shoulder. I'm probably gripping it with too much pressure, but that's what nervousness does to you. I squint through the sights of the weapon, my breathing slowing, then stopping entirely as I bring the weapon to bear...trying to keep the target from dancing around.
Okay. I've done this before. Good and close target grouping. Doesn't have to be precise, I just need to hit him.
Just need to hit him.
Preferably more than once. The FBSA folks said these Skull guys are supernaturally tough...and given my rifle and rounds are apparently manifestations of my subconscious, rather than actual matter, that makes damage hard to quantify.
But I need to shoot.
He's not going to stand in that doorway forever. I have to take the shot.
My index finger pulls back on the trigger, nice and even.
The gunshot echoes through the night, ringing in my ears. I see the Skull jerk wildly, his head swinging. I can't tell if I've hit him, or if he's just surprised. No time to speculate, though. I ride out the recoil, bringing the weapon back on target. It feels easier, more natural, even with stress pounding in my nerves - but then, it's not a real rifle, so maybe the stress makes it easier to handle. I don't know. All I know is...
I fire again, and again, and again. You're not supposed to pull on the trigger like that. It's supposed to be a constant, steady motion, not a sudden explosive one. But I'm nervous.
Finally, I see the Skull go down. He slumps in the open doorway, sprawled halfway down the steps, twitching weakly.
I release my breath, then gulp in new air.
He's still moving, but it doesn't look like he's going anywhere fast. His sounds of agony reach clear across the street. Looks like I hit him, but...
...wait.
Is he holding his crotch?
Damn, I was aiming for his chest.
Whoops.
Uh. I know my aim's never been good, but even so...
Oh dear.
Okay, note to self, the sights are zeroed low.
Wait. This M16's supposed to be an extension of my will. So how's that supposed to work?
Um.
Well, at least the guy isn't getting up.
I pull out my police radio, and thumb the button. Hopefully, there won't be extra paperwork for this...
* * *
OOC: I rolled my SI toon based on the model set by Rev and Cindy, really. Cindy was talking about how Rev has his swords, and one of the new bow options looks like hers.
So I joked that since the only weapon I actually know how to use, however badly, is an M16, I'd obviously end up as some sort of gun-toting Punisher maniac. Except, y'know, laughably incompetent. As the ficlets suggest, I am qualified to use an M16 from my Army training.
But...I'm an awful shot. =P
-- Acyl
That's not perhaps the most flattering thing to admit, but it's true. Admittedly, I'm a loner who's good at talking to people - if I'm in the right frame of mind, I can run a pretty good verbal spiel.
So I'm a socially adept loner.
But a loner, all the same. I appreciate a great party just as much as the next guy, but I'm most at home...
...on my own.
Which might explain why I solo so damn much.
Still, for the life of me, I never dreamed I'd be doing it in person. Life's a funny thing. Even the Lone Ranger had Toto. And, y'know, a pretty intelligent horse.
Me? I'm crouched on a fire escape with an assault rifle.
It's cold up here. It's a distinctly windy night, and my perch doesn't do much to cut the breeze. I sorta wish I'd been wearing a warmer jacket when I transitioned.
And my hands are freezing. I'm wearing fingerless gloves. Biker gloves, actually - I remember that's what it said on the packaging. Which is ironic, I suppose. The closest I've ever been to a motorcycle is walking by one in the parking lot. But that's what they issue you in the Army, perhaps on the basis that the lack of fingers helps your dexterity. It's certainly a factor in proper trigger pull.
None of which helps the fact that, as unclad extremities, said fingers are getting increasingly numb.
First order of business...once I've got some money in the bank, I really need to see about getting new clothes. Maybe something more suitable to fighting what amounts to an urban guerrilla campaign. Warmer clothes and protective wear. That'd be nice.
For now, though, I've got to make do with what I've got.
Truth be told, I don't want to be out here. Not really. I'd like to think I'm a pacifist at heart...though in truth, it's probably more like enlightened cowardice.
But everyone else in our little band of lost boys is out there playing with their new powers...and actually trying this whole crimefighting gig.
Ngh.
The city's given us an honest-to-god base. Unfortunately, it's more refugee shelter than Justice League Watchtower. And the cynic in me wonders how long they'll let us stay rent-free.
It's not like we've got that many marketable skills, especially stripped of paper qualifications. Hard to make a resume when you're from another dimension, and employers - even in Paragon City - are only so understanding.
What we do have is Class H certification - bona-fide hero licenses.
Far as I understand, we don't legally get a salary from bringing in bad guys. Not technically. It's not a formal paycheque, per-se, but more of a..."allowance", or "compensation for services rendered", or something like that. The guys from the Federal Bureau of Super-powered Affairs spouted all sorts of legal doubletalk, but that's the gist of it.
Of course, that only holds if we actually fight crime. Else you'd see too many people throwing on homemade costumes and using it as some kind of glorified welfare.
Not that the government reps used those words, but that's the sense I got, anyway.
So.
That's why I'm kneeling on a fire escape, a few storeys above the street. I've already heard horror stories from Shayne Dark and Gabriel about tackling these super-powered gang members head on.
And while the folks that got us set up with this hero gig suggested I might be more durable than normal too, I'm...not really willing to test that hypothesis. I'll avoid empirical findings if it's all the same, thank you very much.
Now.
It's probably not very heroic to play sniper, especially camping a spawn point - but my sense of justice and fair play doesn't, I'm afraid, extend that far.
Ms. Davies, one of the local FBSA liaisons to neophyte heroes requested that one of us head to this address in Kings Row. There's a Skull member they need taken down. I suppose the conventional thing to do would be to kick down the door and go in guns blazing...
...me, I'm squatting outside in the cold, and hoping to hell there isn't another exit. I don't think there is. I circled the block before picking my vantage point. So if he's leaving the building, he should be leaving through the front. And he will be leaving, if the FBSA is correct, since he knows his hideout is compromised...
That's...probably too many assumptions. Too many what-ifs.
Hopefully, though, I'll get lucky.
There's movement at street level, across the road. The door opens, and - yes, a guy in black and greys steps through. He's a small figure, from where I'm watching, but even at that distance a chill runs down my spine, a chill that has nothing to do with the wind and temperature.
In the game, the Skulls are just guys with silly white masks. But seeing one in real-life, it's painfully clear that it's no stupid party mask. The guy's wearing actual bone, a carved-off chunk of human anatomy torn from some descrated corpse.
Ick.
I settle the rifle tighter into my arms, the butt pressing into the intersection of chest and shoulder. I'm probably gripping it with too much pressure, but that's what nervousness does to you. I squint through the sights of the weapon, my breathing slowing, then stopping entirely as I bring the weapon to bear...trying to keep the target from dancing around.
Okay. I've done this before. Good and close target grouping. Doesn't have to be precise, I just need to hit him.
Just need to hit him.
Preferably more than once. The FBSA folks said these Skull guys are supernaturally tough...and given my rifle and rounds are apparently manifestations of my subconscious, rather than actual matter, that makes damage hard to quantify.
But I need to shoot.
He's not going to stand in that doorway forever. I have to take the shot.
My index finger pulls back on the trigger, nice and even.
The gunshot echoes through the night, ringing in my ears. I see the Skull jerk wildly, his head swinging. I can't tell if I've hit him, or if he's just surprised. No time to speculate, though. I ride out the recoil, bringing the weapon back on target. It feels easier, more natural, even with stress pounding in my nerves - but then, it's not a real rifle, so maybe the stress makes it easier to handle. I don't know. All I know is...
I fire again, and again, and again. You're not supposed to pull on the trigger like that. It's supposed to be a constant, steady motion, not a sudden explosive one. But I'm nervous.
Finally, I see the Skull go down. He slumps in the open doorway, sprawled halfway down the steps, twitching weakly.
I release my breath, then gulp in new air.
He's still moving, but it doesn't look like he's going anywhere fast. His sounds of agony reach clear across the street. Looks like I hit him, but...
...wait.
Is he holding his crotch?
Damn, I was aiming for his chest.
Whoops.
Uh. I know my aim's never been good, but even so...
Oh dear.
Okay, note to self, the sights are zeroed low.
Wait. This M16's supposed to be an extension of my will. So how's that supposed to work?
Um.
Well, at least the guy isn't getting up.
I pull out my police radio, and thumb the button. Hopefully, there won't be extra paperwork for this...
* * *
OOC: I rolled my SI toon based on the model set by Rev and Cindy, really. Cindy was talking about how Rev has his swords, and one of the new bow options looks like hers.
So I joked that since the only weapon I actually know how to use, however badly, is an M16, I'd obviously end up as some sort of gun-toting Punisher maniac. Except, y'know, laughably incompetent. As the ficlets suggest, I am qualified to use an M16 from my Army training.
But...I'm an awful shot. =P
-- Acyl