7846/Center Mass

From Heroes Assemble MUSH
Jump to navigation Jump to search
Center Mass
Date of Scene: 15 September 2021
Location: Gun Range: Triskelion
Synopsis: Testing weaponry soon leads to Michael meeting an unusual, vicious woman - and, perhaps to the surprise of either, game recognizes game.
Cast of Characters: Michael Erickson, Dottie Underwood




Michael Erickson has posed:
    Single barks of pistol fire. The chattering of issue submachine guns. Occasional shotgun boom. These ring through the assembled range booths, all the way down to the more advanced - where, crackling and actinic, bolts of white, electric light flash down one of the rangeways padded with energy-absorptive material. Miniature thunderbolts spat from the wasplike barrel of an equally wasplike weapon, black chrone in his hand.

    A ray gun? Well, you could call it that. From the way the man who grips it fires these electric bolts, hand out without recoil like a Great War officer directing troops over the top by direction of bullet, he certainly would not.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
They still will only allow Dottie access to an ICER, rather than the vast and deadly array available in the armory. So that's what she signs out and takes with her into the range. It's been a trying few days and she finds the practice calming.

Dottie enters the first empty booth she sees. She sets her target distance before donning ear and eye protection.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Mysterious lady, that one. Michael has yet to see her, instead squinting at the flashes of electric death spat from the muzzle of his pistol as they smash into the target panel down the way. His booth is only a couple down from Dottie's; though the light show is mostly hidden, the crackling sound of each bolt as it is loosed sounds like a miniature thunderclap.

    Presently, though, he stops firing - pausing to check his weapon, blue eyes sharp and searching, peering at the exotic gun in his hand.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
As always, Dottie sets the target to the maximum distance. And then, after taking a breath, she empties the entire clip at a steady pace. Each squeeze of the trigger in time with her heartbeat. Several faces flicker across her mind as she fires, one for every bullet.

She doesn't even flinch at the sounds of range in use, despite the concussions that echo thought her ear protection. The bulletproof glass rattles with the reverberations of the electric ammunition. She grits her teeth as the air pressure fluctuates. But her aim never wavers.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Presently, Michael quits the stage; the pistol goes into a boxy holster and into a curious hexagonal cylinder. Sealed with a touch of a button, too, a soft hum emanating from the top. With this tucked under his arm, Michael proceeds down the range row, but he is momentarily distracted by the disciplined fire he hears coming from Dottie's row. Keepinng clear, he pauses behind her, peering into her booth and watching her form. Has he seen her here before? No. But that's hardly unusual. He's not exactly an old hand here himself.

    Still, that's solid aim. The alien soldier watches, curious.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Recalling her target, Dottie observes with satisfaction that despite the disruptions she has managed her usual singular bullet hole. She removes her ear protection. And smiles.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Well. That's certainly a thing.

    His ear protection off as well, Michael leans against a wall while waiting for her to come out - eager, if quietly so, to meet this dangerous sharpshooter.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie blinks as she spots the gentleman leaning against the wall. She hadn't realized she'd attracted an audience. She's become lax as of late. But failing to notice someone observing her is a potentially deadly error. One she can't afford to make.

Cursing herself internally for her misstep, Dottie offers him a bright smile. "Well, hello there."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Hello." Rich, baritone voice, Manhattan accent. Those blue eyes sweep over her once from head to toe. "Impressive marksmanship, Miss...?" He doesn't smile, keeping his features grimly leaden for the moment.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Underwood," Dottie informs him. For now at least, that name will serve. "And I've had a lot of practice."

She doesn't let her smile falter. To do so would imply a misstep. And she refuses to lose more ground in this social engagement.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He watches her face. Notes the deportment with which she speaks. Acts. Such perfection. His eye, conditioned from youth to pierce the veils that people raise, takes note of this, too. Makes a decision. "Erickson," he offers in return. "Do you work here, Miss Underwood?" The mask is identified. He seeks now to see what might lie underneath.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"I'm a...consultant," she offers. Which isn't a lie. Peg had offered her a tacit position working for SHIELD, freelance, as it were. Right before the awakened sleeper agent had tried to kill her.

"And you, Mr. Erickson?"she asks. "How do you find yourself here?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "A consultant," he echoes. Watching her lovely face. Every line of it, now. His gaze is that of a predatory creature, the mask of humanity thinning every moment he keeps his eyes fixed upon her. Disconcerting, perhaps, but ever the Shi'ar were descended from hunting birds. "Quite the same with me." The alien spy and soldier pledged to assist humanity. Alas, such truths are locked up tight behind security clearances. "I find myself in good company, I suspect."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Charming." Dottie's smile shifts into a sharp grin. His keen predatory gaze brings glint of interest to her eye. His fading humanity excites her. And sparks some small affinity within her.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I like to think so." It really is like something else that stares at her, blinking but only slightly. The smile, though. Bright. Features handsome, but blandly so. Another person out of central casting, forgettable if pleasant to look at. Affinity, yes - but it isn't a /threatening/ thing. He's not an axe murderer, or at least doesn't seem so. But that look? From another planet.

    "And so, Miss Underwood. Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"In Russia," she tells him. Her grin is as white and as cold as a Siberian winter.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Oh?" His brows lift, like a child's rendition of the birds from which he descended. Heavy, severe. "The FSB doesn't shoot like that, as far as I am aware." Probing, always. Dancing in the barbed circle with her.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"I never claimed to be from the FSB," Dottie says, "I said I learned to shoot in Russia." Then she counters. "Where did you acquire such an intriguing weapon?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The question is simply met with an answering smile. "That's classified, tovarisch."

    He isn't familiar with the language, but it's a good rendition of the sound at least. Strange accent somewhere in the background. Like the English were a second language too, but it's only obvious now with the American-playing-with-language-to-be-cute act.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
The cadences of elsewhere tickle her ear. Intriguing. He too is not what he seems. But she cannot place what he is. Or where he's from. "Isn't everything classified?" she teases impishly.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "To someone or another, I imagine." His brows settle again, and he chuckles. "You're very pretty, Miss Underwood. Very well assembled, indeed."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Well assembled?" Dottie tilts her head to the side. It's an odd choice of words. But then again she has been assembled. In an unconventional sense. "I suppose I am."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Put together," he corrects. "Perhaps you should not work /quite/ so hard to be so perfect, mmm?" The predator's eyes track her again. Imaginary claws flexing in and out of their sockets as he does so. "One worries that someone might think you weren't what you seem."

Dottie Underwood has posed:
"Everyone pretends all the time," she tells him. "If you think they aren't, you're kidding yourself. You just have to know how to look. You see somethings. But you don't see everything."

She grins again, predator acknowledging predator. "You are also not what you seem."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He gives her a look. It's a good look, a good, perfect facsimile of a confused person. "I don't know what you mean, ma'am." Perhaps it's fooled many a human. Or other species. "I'm just a contractor." Indeed, game recognizes game.

Dottie Underwood has posed:
Dottie laughs. "Too perfect, Erickson. It's telling." She winks.

"But I'd better return this to the armory before they come looking for me." She gestures with the ICER. "They get nervous when I keep them out for too long. Wouldn't want to upset the poor desk clerk."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The clueless look vanishes, and the predator's smile returns once more. "Exactly what I was thinking. Yes, do go ahead. It's nice to meet you, Miss Underwood. I do hope we'll meet again soon."

    Somewhere in the range, someone's witnessed this. And probably they're really, /really/ weirded out.