7504/A Mote in the Eye of Time

A Mote in the Eye of Time
Date of Scene:	23 August 2021
Location:	Gun Range: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Annual combat practice is for fun, right?
Cast of Characters:	Steve Rogers, Jane Foster, Clifford Secord

---

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Hey, I don't make the rules." The declaration's give to Jane Foster with a wry grin, and Steve Roger's callused hands spread. The clipboard in his left hand is tapped with a pen, twice. "You wanna carry an ICER, you've gotta pass the qualification exam. Or take it up with Pe-- the Director."

He uplifts his chin at the gun range. Light gleams against his yellowed shooting glasses and the plastic earmuffs on his head. "This is an easy course of fire, I promise," Steve reassures Jane. "You can pass this in your sleep. Just remember to--" his hands lift and curl on empty air in front of his face, and he pivots a short arc from the waist up. "Lead the swinging targets a bit, the ICER's a lot slower than a bullet."

He steps out of the lane and engages the system. Warning lights start to flash, indicating that live fire is commencing. "Good grip, good posture, and /breathe/," he urges, from behind Jane's right shoulder. "Don't flinch, and don't lean into it. Like a rock."

Jane Foster has posed:
"I recall Deputy Director Hill's memo from last year. This year, receiving it from our good chief is satisfactory for me." Even if she spent the better of the year as a popsicle, Jane seeks no sympathy or dispensation from the Captain. The, capital. "All earning our keep nowadays, after returning to the country's good graces." Her previous skills in the use of ICERs hasn't compared to Jemma's talent for headshots against risen Nazis, but she exceeds the benchmark for average scientifically-minded agent.

Maybe she shoots in her spare time in the Hayden Planetarium when no one is looking. A range full of aliens -- Shi'ar, Kree, Loki -- might be just the thing to keep her skills sharp.

That said, the polite brunette astrophysicist doesn't look the part. Looks aren't everything. The ICER is familiar enough in her hands, as much as it can be for someone not surnamed Romanoff or Barnes. She adjusts her grip to be slightly lighter, somewhat smooth. Hours of practice forced by mandatory regimens pay off for a reason, and not having six months' worth of it logged down here is surely going to hurt. No wonder Peggy wants satisfactory scores or an improvement plan. Gods help them all, because Odin sure won't.

Warning lights flash. Her gaze takes them in practically unblinking. If only there were some measure to see how fast reactions fly, but the sustenance of life is anticipation. She raises her arms, not looking away from the first shape emerging. "Perhaps Fitz has come up with a double-tap model." Idle thoughts that probably bely the concentration, but the silent golden bangle clamped to her wrist affords a nudge against fortune's usual situation in that how fast she thinks and acts are far more unified than usual. There are reasons. Reasons that don't show up on her records, since the categorical statement of the expert is "This isn't possible."

Fire. Wait. Watch as the blue bolt crackles over the distance. Wait, wait the interminable moment until it strikes and the next one shows up. Breathing? That counts as a very good idea, drawn in voluntarily and released six seconds later, another shot lined up. For stance, not half bad at all. Accuracy?

Better.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve watches approvingly, switching between Jane's targets and her posture while watching her work the ICER. It's designed enough like a traditional weapon to be familiar to someone with basic pistol training, but it's unique in how it recoils, balances, and moves in the hand.

"You'd have to run that one past Fitz," Steve says as Jane finishes the first string of fire. He resets the simulator, sets it to the second string, and leans against the wall again. "Load and make ready," he notes.

"Something about how the-- they told us to not commit to double-taps because there's a risk of something happening with the brain chemistry if someone gets hit twice. I didn't all understand it myself," Steve admits. He pats the holstered sidearm on his hip. "That's why this training's so important though, you need to have a different attitude and muscle memory. Timed fire and strategic shots, and wait for a reaction before follow up. You're gonna have more movers and some targets might get back up," he informs Jane, and nods at the range. "Ready?"

Once she signals assent, Steve hits the green button again and the motors start whirring around with the torso-sized targets popping up, dropping down, and moving laterally or forward and backwards.

Jane Foster has posed:
There could be improvements; the placement of her legs, the solidity to the earth that isn't quite there. Then again, solidity never quite is. She tends to balance slightly more to her toes in every respect of gait and stance, though dodging blows through the more defensive martial arts uses that to full advantage. "I'll bear that in mind. He's a ghost in those labs. Could stand to engineer something as a prototype that brings him out." Weapons-grade developments aren't fully in her wheelhouse but the scientific arrays she has to custom-build must count.

No stiffness springs her spine against the ICER discharging one of those peculiar dendrotoxin bolts. Steve's guidance offers those minor corrections where needed. A little higher to correct for being short of perfect center, for one. What to expect brings a quick smile forth. "I'm ready, thank you." Always manners with her, even though it may be a throwback to a different age. "Double-tapping was necessary against a polar bear. Human targets, I would hesitate on knowing it could bring long-term damage. Thanks for letting me know."

Her fingertips quiver slightly, tension on the trigger playing out with that first cooling rush to center herself within. Only done this a dozen times, breathe in and breathe out. The second shot is marginally different from the first, striking the torso relatively to the right instead of dead center. Take that, unfortunate pectoral muscle! The minor correction has her swing to the next one, frowning slightly. Taking an extra moment to line up makes all the difference, together with the ICER fitting into her hand without throttling her own grip. A neat burst follows. Someone doesn't have a heart free from care, though her fourth shot goes wide of the mark and leaves some poor wall numb.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"String two is complete, you scored 9/10," Steve remarks. His tone is dry and professional while he marks the results down; he waits until she looks back at him, and uplifts his chin at the far wall. "You overcompensated on the last one, chasing the swinger. Remember that good aiming, it comes from the toes and the hips first," he says, and mimes a pistol shooting grip again. "Pew pew pew, right? But it's all from the waist, if you bring your arms across like that it messes with your balance."

He queues up the third string. "Okay, this is the last mandatory string of fire. There will be eight no-shoot targets," he says. Steve taps a symbol on the wall touchscreen and a target drops down with empty palms spray-painted on it. "Two points are deducted from your score for each no-shoot you hit. You have eight rounds--" he hands her the partially-filled magazine-- "and four confirmed targets. The attackers will drop down, move around randomly, and then disappear." Another target, this one with a gun's spray-painted outline on it, drops down and swings in front of and then behind the no-shoot. It pivots sideways, almost disappearing, rotates once more, and then zooms back up into the assembly overhead.

"There are no reshoots on this string. If there aren't any questions, load and make ready," Steve tells Jane. He steps back out of her box and once she nods her readiness, Cap sets the last shooting scenario into motion!

Jane Foster has posed:
"I should not react on instinct when those instincts are not drilled to the point of expertise," Jane answers, a dry shake of her head sending her ponytail twitching from side to side. "Toes and hips? You would make an excellent tennis or fitness instructor, if you ever feel a need to diversify. I'm feeling you may be clearer than just about anyone else on site."

All right, time to straighten up and wiggle her hips side to side in order to properly feel her core muscles and how she is rooted. Heels down, shoulders back slightly. The familiarity of living in her own skin becomes different when consciously examining the biomechanics in play. She raises her arms together, feeling thd difference, glancing over to Steve as he readies the next line. "You're right. The balance is different. Mostly in the control of lifting my arms. I can see where overextension might be a problem, especially with uneven ground." The thoughts sound at least understandable to her.

She takes the magazine from him and loads it into the ICER, patient and still. Watching the target flop and flutter around brings her eyebrow up. They rather look and sound like flapping bats, and were she the type, it might spook her a little. Dark eyes follow the erratic path. "You aren't kidding. They do move strangely."

Moving into position at the firing line, she gives him a solid nod. "Good skill and training to us." Luck can sit on the sidelines. His recommendations roll around in her head. It probably has something to do with her locking onto the first target and waiting for it to finish flapping around, the pause training her ahead of it to where it will move, not where it is. A bolt flies. She rocks back onto her heels, forced into position. A satisfying impact doesn't splat like paint or smack the target around overly much, and she is already training on the second. The next shot won't be as smooth -- competent, it hits -- but lacking the sharper connection dead centre. A third to dance smacks right around the same point as the first target, which would be roughly atop the chest where heart and lungs reside.

It'll be a matter of coincidence the fourth time she fires goes right to the same relative point -- not exact, but close -- on the fourth target that flies like a bat out of Hell her way. Sadly, she won't do nearly as well following, but it's still exciting!

Clifford Secord has posed:
     Clifford steps into the firing range with care already wearing his hearing protection before the moment the door opens. He takes care holding the door to assist its closing making sure it shuts quietly behind himself, with a light thud as he looks across the range.

     His hair flows with the slow steady breeze of the firing range as he takes those first few steps into the room watching in silence as the rounds blaze through the air towards their targets, his eyes focusing deadlocked on the action in the room, as he lowers yellow sunglasses into position over his eyes for safety sake. At his hip a custom built m1911 designed with an engraving of a man in flight.

     He looks impressed with a smile on his face as he watches the proceedings making his way over beside cap. Wordlessly he places his hands down at his sides sticking his thumbs down into the pockets of his simple blue and white jumpsuit that looks to have missed the update to the more standard SHIELD colors. In fact he looks to be rather out of date over all with his uniform but that's perhaps a conversation for another time as he nods his head towards Captain Rogers.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Ooh, so close," Steve winces, and shakes his head with a sympathetic expression. "That last one, it gets everyone," he tells Jane. "Don't feel bad about missing it. You still scored a ninety percent overall, no procedurals or unsafe weapon handling, and--" he gently taps her forehead with the back end of his pen. "Didn't hit any of the hostage targets. Good job all around."

The notes are tabulated and Steve looks over at Secord, uplifts his chin at the man. "Ja-- Foster, why don't you take five and drink some water? I'll run Secord through his paces, and then if you two want, you can run the Gauntlet against each other. See if anyone can make it onto the board." He wiggles his clipboard at the display for the week's top shooters. Currently it's dominated by SHIELD's security specialists, with a couple of agents mixed in.

"Secord, front and center," Steve says, and beckons the man into the shooting lane. He looks down at the M1911, a solid and familiar warhorse. "Hope you've been keeping that gun maintained, Secord, I think it's older than I am," he says with a grin.

"Okay, Secord, Clifford, live fire exercise..." He looks up and down Cliff's outfit. "Hey, when we're done here, go down to supply and pull a proper uniform and belt kit." He mutters low, keeping the tone friendly. "Don't take no for an answer."

Steve looks at his sheets, then picks a course of fire. "Right. Live fire exercise, you did the precision drills last week I see-- nice shooting-- so we're going to just run string 4," he tells Clifford. "This is live ammunition so hitting hostages is down two points, and kill hit on a no-shoot is a fail. There is a mandatory reload, but you'll need to reload again with a low-capacity gun." He pats the pistol on his hip, which looks like a M1911 on steroids.

Steve goes through the spiel he'd given Jane, and concludes with "If you don't have any questions, step up to the firing line, load and make ready, and--" he hits the green switch. "Shoot 'em as you see them."

Clifford Secord has posed:
     Cliff lets out a low belly laugh. "Just a little bit, it was my old man's during the war." He steps into the firing lane and settles himself into position with that gaudy blue and white uniform of his lowering his feet into position. He slides himself into place going through the motions he'd been through a dozen times before in time in the field.

     "Was heading that way right after I got done here." He admits in a quiet voice. "Between the two of us I think I've put on a bit of weight since this thing was new."

     He racks the slide of his m1911 chambering a round once he's secure into position at the firing line. The large pistol is raised before him on the level as he takes in a breath of fresh air and slowly lets it all flow from him, slowing his world around him in focus on the targets.

     One hand dropps beneath the pistol in a cup and saucer position his form impeccable from a lifetime of practice in the field of combat in the Army Air Corp, and SHIELD.

     From the word go he fires off a round into the hostile target steadying his aim as he lets the air flow steadily from his lips holding his grasp firm enough to lock down most of the recoil. He swivels his pistol from one target to the next avoiding even crossing the paths of civilians with his pistol instead choosing to raise the gun high above their heads as he sweeps past the target.

     He's far, far from perfect in his motions, well below superhuman, just a man who's spent the better part of 80 years practicing at the range.

     He drops the empty magazine down his long sleeve grabbing a fresh from his pouch and slaps it into position racking the slide as the first empty falls into position with a clatter, before returning to his fire.

     Beads of sweat roll down the side of his face as he focuses on the moment locking out the world around him, dropping another magazine into the sleeve that he can pull forth fresh from its pouch and shove it into place.

Steve Rogers has posed:
The sound of that slide racking is distinct and Steve's eyes go vacant as memory demands itself. Many, many hours with that model of gun. Rough old green-grey finish, the slow chugging of the slide and the feel of American-made steel slapping against his palm. He'd had several while in Europe, replacing those that were dropped and one that saved his leg from a piece of shrapnel.

The buzzer *errrrrs* and Steve looks up to see the last of the targets going up into the overhead gantries. The computer spits out Clifford's results and Steve marks them down on paper as well.

Just because it makes him feel a little better supervising things if he has something to write with.

"Not bad, ninety-two percent," he tells Clifford. "Good shooting." He brings up the targets in the order they'd come up. "No procedurals, no hostage hits, that's good... this was your fifth shot, you got a little too fast on the trigger and your second round went high. And this was the last magazine, when you were hammering down at the target. Way, way too fast," Steve says. He holds his hands out in a loose grip of air, extended away from his chin, and mimes aiming a gun downrange. "You can't shoot at that cadence while a target's retreating from five to fifteen yards. You have to know how fast you can make hits at that distance. If you can do it in one second, then you've got one second to make your shot. If you get to the point where you can do it in two-tenths of a second, that's five shots. But--" he points at the 15 yard marker. "/If/ you can do it at that distance. Make sense?"

Clifford Secord has posed:
     Clif racks the slide six times ensuring the weapon is empty before safetying the m1911 back into its holster at his hip. He pauses for a moment ensuring he's clear before turning to face Steve, his pistol secured. He nods his head a moment before lowering his ear protection to better hear Rogers only once he ensures that the range is clear of firing for the time being.

     Things have gotten a lot more safety oriented since he started in this whole business that much is for sure. "It's hard knowing when to let the target go, especially when it looks like I've got the shot, Captain." Clifford explains himself one soldier to another. The tone has a distinct hint of something a little more serious than just shooting paper targets on his mind. "Especially when there's hostages on the line."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"I didn't say let it go," Steve corrects, gently. "I said 'time your shots to the distance'. If you can fire two shots in a second at five yards, that's great; but if you can't do that at fifteen, then you're better taking one shot and making it count. Or, you put in some time on the range, get some of the dust knocked off your gun, and work until you're shooting the way you want to."

He uplifts his chin at Clifford's hip and glances at the gun. "Don't get me wrong, I always thought the .45 was the bees knees compared to any other service gun during the war. But it's ... tech that's a century old. There are a lot of modern guns on the market for a reason." He gestures at the armorer's wall. "Glocks, nothing pretty but they're reliable. And these Berettas-- heck of a nice gun," he says, and gestures at several M92 pistols. "Really accurate, soft-recoiling. Makes the gun move faster. Faster gun, faster control, faster pairs."

He grins encouragingly over at Cliff. "But you earned your duty pass for that gun, so don't let me dissuade you, either," he tells Cliff. "Remember, it's not what feels right; it's what works best. Stats don't lie." Steve waves his clipboard at the leaderboards, noting who's been keeping their marksmanship skills up. "And I'm always happy to do a little lesson if you need it."

Clifford Secord has posed:
     Clif lets out a low sigh dropping his defensive stance. He looks down to one side in thought for a long moment before offering. "Yeah you're right captain." He chuckles to himself for a brief moment. "You know it's funny, I've been here and yet you've adapted better than I have to the way things have changed around these parts." He pats the side of his m1911 for a brief moment before shaking his head.

     "Maybe it's about time I upgrade a little more than just my work uniform." He takes in a deep breath. "Peevy, and Jenny were the main ones who kept pushing me to keep with the times, and after I lost the two of them" He pauses for a brief moment. "Well I should probably start pushing myself."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"How's that line go?" Steve asks. "'Get busy living, or get busy dying'?" He chuckles. "Shawshank Redemption. One of the movies everyone told me I -had- to see after I got thawed."

He beckons Cliff to follow him off the range and once the doors are closed, he removes his glasses and earmuffs. "Adapting to new circumstances is about a mindset, y'know," Steve offers in quiet support. He half-sets on a railing, hands resting in his lap with a comfortable ease. "You've been doing the retired thing for a while now. Good to have something else out there, something to keep you moving. Buck-- Barnes," Steve amends, "loves his dog Lily. She's a great service dog and keeps him going when he's feeling the blues. I think once you find your, your..." he purses his lips. "Your 'motivation', that reason d'aitre, you'll start connecting with the new school stuff a lot more easily."

Clifford Secord has posed:
     Clif follows along with a bit of speed in his step making sure to watch where he's moving so he doesn't catch a stray round from the range. Once the doors closed he finally takes off the glasses to match letting the ear buds rest on his shoulders.

     He listens in silence stepping up on a railing himself out of comfort if nothing else, hair billowing in the air conditioning with a slow breeze. He nods his head, cool brown eyes locked off far in the distance in thought.

     "It's funny, but the only time I feel like I'm getting busy living is when I've got the pack on." He pauses for a long moment. "I thought retirement might help me find myself but all I found was a few extra inches on the waistline."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve nods again and heaves a sigh of agreement. "Well, there's an easy solution for that," Steve says, and rocks to a standing position. He walks over to Cliff and claps his free hand, the other waving vaguely at him at chest level. "Put more weight in the ruck." A grin spreads across his face and he lightly taps Cliff's sternum with a mostly-closed fist.

"Good shooting. Get more practice in, you'll be at the top of the winner list in no time. Get on back to duty," he tells Cliff. Steve starts to step away and turns back, pacing backwards. "Oh, and head down to supply!" he adds. "We're not quite the military, but we're close enough that people like seeing everyone dressed the same." He plucks at his own SHIELD fatigues. "See you around, Agent," Steve bids Clifford.