9025/A Night in the Range

A Night in the Range
Date of Scene:	10 December 2021
Location:	Gun Range: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Michael and Peggy share a night practicing on the range. They talk about their peoples' customs and share the love of their weapons.
Cast of Characters:	Michael Erickson, Peggy Carter

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Michael Erickson has posed:
    He spends a great deal of time down on the range, does Michael - exclusively down at the end, where the science folk have set up special booths lined with energy-absorbing material meant for 'advanced weaponry'. Rayguns, that sort of thing. And there, in one of the booths so treated, the bright whine of something can be heard discharginng, shot by shot, with carefully timed rapidity. It is Michael who is responsible, of course; dressed in plain clothes, jeans and t-shirt and a battered cafe racer's leather jacket, he stands in a stance that is suggestive of a duellist or a Great War officer leading his men over the trench - one arm out straight, the other behind his back, firing shots down the range. His expression set in a stony mask of concentration.

    Of course, the weapon in his hand isn't a Webley, and it doesn't send bullets down the range. The pistol he wields looks like something from a games console in the 1980s, faceted and sleek with a long, waspish barrel. And what snaps from its tapered muzzle are flashes of brilliant white light, pencil-thin beams that lance down the way and strike the target dummies, their coatings seething red and bubbling despite their strength thanks to the incredible temperatures the light, whatever it is, brings to their surfaces. He is...an excellent shot, landing groupings so tight as to be nearly striking the same spot - but not quite. Not quite. He's not world-class, merely /almost/.

    But given the weapon, that's a thing in and of itself.

Peggy Carter has posed:
While the Chief doesn't technically need to be training still, she's long passed her certs time and again, she takes pride in the fact that she consistently scores as one of the top marksmen in the world. She still travels to win a competition or two as she can. She placed in the Olympics in the 80s. That doesn't come without practicing on a regular basis. So, this evening, she's come for practice.

She's in less formal clothing than usual. SHIELD blacks, a track suit with the logo on the side. It's form fitting enough to show off the fact that Peggy is softer around the edges than she used to be. Not plump but... not all discipline muscle and bones of a woman who was sick. It's probably a good thing. She carries a gun case, a rifle over her shoulder, and her little PPK on her hip. She plans on practicing with all of them, it seems. Ear protection rests around her neck as well. Better safe than sorry.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael's never been to a sporting event, at least not as a participant - but he certainly fit top metrics where the Imperial military was concerned. Metallic snap after metallic snap fills the booth as he fires into each target down the range, his face grows ever harder as the surfaces of the dummies flare and begin to bubble like hot wax. Memories flare in his mind, memories that always come with firing these weapons from home, and the happenings last night whilst he wore that old uniform. Funny, of course; firing like this, it was a suit of segmented battle armor and a light defense field he wore, not the black, proto-fascist togs he donned the night before.

    And so he's there, long ago, on a different world, in a different galaxy. Leading, in his mind, his troops into battle on some benighted, blasted field.

Peggy Carter has posed:
The flash of a strange show at the end of the road is enough to draw Peggy's interest. She arches a brow and, instead of taking her other corner booth, ends up walking down towards Michael. If he's aware at all, she gives him a small nod, pulling her ear protection over her ears as she gets closer since he is firing. She watches for several moments and then starts settling into her booth herself, setting her other guns down as she takes out her rifle and sets the enhanced booth (it stretches quite far under the city and then there's some holographic projection beyond that) to as far as it goes.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Jatur. Shelkaar. Fozh-b'ultur. Every shot a glimpse into an old past, old glories. Negatives in the afterglow of wherever the pistol's white light lands. And then...Peggy arrives within his sphere of notice, and old wars vanish from his mind.

    Without a word, at least at first, Michael turns and salutes the woman as she comes near, the muzzle of the gun swept up to touch his brow as it if were a duelling sword before it is shoved home into the shoulder rig worn beneath his jacket. Stiff. Formal. Perhaps all the more so, now, given the night befoe. His hands tuck behind his back, then, and he watches as she moves on to begin setting up her own hardware.

Peggy Carter has posed:
As he salutes with the muzzle of his gun, Peggy just gives him a LOOK. Not angry, but a little incredulous. If he can read lips, or isn't bothering with hearing protection, she states firmly, "Soldier, don't EVER point a gun at anything you're not intending to shoot." She shakes her head, smirking to him. Then she turns away and starts lofting her rifle. It's not space technology. Not even the best rifle SHIELD has -- this one kicks. But Peggy rests herself in a sniper's position on the base in front of her, lets out a slow breath, and several slow, precise shots cough out of her rifle in the direction of the far target. All dead center. Then she sets it to moving for her next series. Not exactly dead center, not as it dances in front of her, but within an inch or two. She has deadly aim.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    A faint frown flickers upon his mouth - but he nods, taking her command in note. He keeps making /mistakes/ with this woman. It doesn't matter that he couldn't misfire with the weapon, that chemical projectile arms were left behind /thousands/ of years ago along with their problems. How would she know? It wouldn't matter anyway. This isn't the Empire. And he just. Keeps. Making. Mistakes.

    So he doesn't say hello. He stands quietly, hands still behind his back, and watches her fire downrange in her lethal way. Silently. Slowly turning to stone.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Chemical projections were left behind years ago, for his people. But he's in SHIELD now. They use firearms. They use ICERs, another form of projectile. This is how she trains. This is how most of the agents train. And so, if he wishes to watch, she lets him watch. What she does is infinitely harder than a weapon with a forever safety attached to it and no kick back. She has to measure for wind resistence, for the weight of her gun, for the violence of the minor explosions she controls.

When she's done with her rifle, she then shifts to the semi automatic in the gun case. That is louder, and less focused. Still, she doesn't 'spray and pray'. She sets the targets to constantly moving, coming closer and farther. She waits and takes her best moments. She rips her target to shreds. And then it's her little, literally handy Walther PPK. She is dangerously fast and focused with this one. She reloads so fast, when she's out, it's like it comes as naturally to her as her heart beats. This is a woman trained to kill. This is a woman who HAS killed in dozens of different ways, with dozens of different weapons and her bare hands included. She might be softer. Older. Married and behind a desk. But she's still a killer. When she finishes, she looks back to him, "I...did not mean to interrupt your practice." She finally speaks, as she removes her ear protection.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    But living on Earth is still like living in a planet-wide renfaire for him; ICERs are ancient compared the weapon in his hand, the weapons he has at home. It's like watching her use a jezzail. But she outshoots any Pashtun in history that he's aware of, ahd he doesn't comment. He simply shakes his head, his eyes on the groupings punched into targets, not the woman who landed them.

    "The hydrogen cell requires recollection," he says to her, his tone flat if deferential. "Your performance is impressive."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"I know I am no epicly trained alien or super soldier, but I have been doing this over eighty years. I should be impressive. And I march with my people... When I can. I need to keep my skills up." Peggy's careful with her weapons now, leaning down to start cleaning them before she puts things away. It's her nightly ritual. Her breath is slow and focused, as if this calms her. Though she's not the heady, dangerous weapon that Dottie is. She has more distractions and focus in life. But she is that good.

"I did not mean to ... disturb you before. But eventually you are going to be handed one of our weapons and yes, they are messy enough that you never, ever point them somewhere you don't want to shoot. You've been a soldier many other places. You're an Agent of SHIELD now. You need to learn our ways."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    /You need to learn our ways./

    "No," he says after a moment, looking her way. "Ma'am. With respect. I am not an agent of SHIELD. I am a consultant. I am an ally." It's said calmly, and without an issue. "And a voluntary one. May I be blunt?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
There is silence from Peggy for a few moments. She is not accustomed to being told no, but she doesn't fight him on it either. She breathes out slowly and tilts her head, "...fair enough. Perhaps I had hopes, but no, you are not a full agent. If you do not ever wish to be that... That is another bridge we will cross. But you are an ally. One of these days, you may have to pick up one of our guns. But... yes. Be blunt. God knows I have been." She smirks.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He gives her a nod. "I have thought about it, Chief. Very dearly. But my current position is such that I might not be for some times. I teach astronomy to the students of the Xavier school, for example, as well as galactic politics and introdcution to galactic history - in part for some compensation for the fact that my people tried to murder their headmistress and any of the students who got in their way. I am not /human/, Chief, nor will I ever be: I am a soldier and a noble scion of an empire that spans a galaxy, one of the primary superpowers in our neck of the universe. Which is why I use the weapons of my people, which are /thousands of years/ in advance of anything else on this planet not created by a Richards or a Stark, and even then that's often up for gret debate. I have no need of ICERs. I have nerve-disruptors and fusion pistols, electron particle guns and metacrystal combat blades. I am bound to a suit of armor from another dimension that would allow me to slay platoons of human soldiers even in the most modern technology available to the militaries of this planet. I have no interest in going backwards millenia just to fit in." That said, of course, he clears his throat. "I've also lived on this planet for fifty years. I have handled five decades of Earthly firearms, from multiple continents. I know the constraints, and how they perform. I will act in concert with their limitations."

    It's an arrogant thing to say. He knows it. Proud. It makes him draws a deep breath. "I love this planet. I love the people on it. I turned my back on said tremendous galactic empire to help protect it. But I find that the more I am asked to 'fit in', all this does is remind me that there really is nobody, save for Jessica, who's tried to accept my own culture, my own ways. It is /lonely/ being like this. I find myself being swallowed up by a culture who demands I follow its rules as though I had not happily done so for the majority of my life. I am arrogant; I am proud; that is the nature of my people. I am trying to swallow that. But I am not the only one being arrogant in this equation, would you not agree?"

Peggy Carter has posed:
The Chief listens patiently, her dark eyes studying him, hands still instinctively cleaning her weapons, but those are motions she can make in her sleep. She is giving him her full attention, eyes included, and patience as well. It's only after he finishes speaking does she take a small, quietly swallowed breath, and offer gently, "I am... sorry. You are correct in that. Though I am Chief of this organization, a century old, and British. I think a touch of arrogance comes with the territory." She cracks a faint smile at him. That was meant as a joke.

"But... I will endeavor to find time to learn about you and... Yours. What you wish to teach. And I do not wish you to blend in as a human. I... I speak these things about discipline, not to make you one of us, but to make certain you are respected as you should be. As the disciplined soldier you are. Because, among us, if you make that gesture even with one of YOUR weapons, agents and soldiers of our own will remember their training. Will think you poorly trained. And that is a lie. I suppose it is their foolishness, not yours. But... I simply knew you were better than that and spoke on instinct."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I"m seventy-one years old and have been a soldier for the Empire since I was fourteen." He pauses. "But I understand what you mean. I understand."

    What else to say? He looks down at himself. Draws a deep breath. "I want you to know, Chief. I am speaking to you like this because I respect you. My people are not...vulnerable. Not really. And I apologize if I seem as though I am vomiting upon you things that you may simply wish me to say to a psychic technician. But." He looks back up at her. "I know you are...different. We are similar in that regard. I understand Dasya for a different reason. I will tell you whatever you'd like to know. I do have the advantage in that I've been here a long time. Though...I do also apologize for last night. Truly. I didn't think for a moment about my people's closeness to the Nazis. I've always drawn connections more to the Russian Empire. Or, more accurately, the Romans."

Peggy Carter has posed:
A gentle shake comes to her head, "There is no need for more apologies. It was a simple mistake, if an...emotionally complicated one. It's done now and passed. I, perhaps, reacted stronger than I should. But I have spent a lifetime fighting... That, and I have not retired from the fight. So, it's still... Fresh." Peggy sighs and shrugs, finishing with her weapons and starting to neatly put them away now that they are clean. The rifle's safety is locked and it's positioned over her shoulder again, barrel facing down. It never points at anything she wouldn't be comfortable shooting.

"I... like you, Michael. More than that? I trust you. I've put my neck on the line and, more dangerous and important, my PEOPLE'S necks on the line to fight and stand next to you. I do not think you will disappoint men. But it is a risk... one I have taken because I believe you will live up to it. That is enough. Everything else, messy, cultural, complicated...it'll come out in the wash."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I understand," he replies with a nod. "And I will not disappoint you. My people do not practice art, and they abhor music - and we cannot even /dream/. But we have our venerations, and one of the highest is duty and devotion. I consecrate myself to the defense of your people every day that I wake. I will not fail, not without dying in the process." He bows, then. Deeply. Fist against his breast. "But. I will tell you whatever you wish to know. Whenever you wish to know it."

    He pauses, then, looking between her and the target dummies. "May I show you my weapon? It is the dearest thing I have left to me, short of what I have already given to Jessica."

Peggy Carter has posed:
The offer of the weapon gets a slightly surprised look from Peggy. She ensures that she's finished cleaning up her own weapons and carefully sets them down so her hands are free. She then steps closer to his side, her head tilting, "I would be honored to see it, yes. Thank you." Her smile is earnest, if curious. She understands this is quite an honor.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He gives her a faint smile as he opens his jacket again, exposing the tooled leather of the shoulder rig he wears; the black hide is chased with gorgeous linework in a silvery metal that glitters like spider-silk, sweeping sigils embossed in the corners. He draws again the weapon, proto-80s blaster though it appears, sleek and faceted. The glossy black metal from which it is made is unadorned, and there is no obvious sighting system. The grips, in turn, are made from a material that recalls hematite.

    "This," Michael explains as he holds out his hands with the weapon cradled there, barrel pointing down range, "Belonged to my great-great-great-grandsire. He was an officer in the Imperial Forces, though he was command and not, ah, a frontline fellow." The smile falters a tad, the imperialism this recalls not lost on him. "It's called a fusion pistol, though that's a tad dramatic of a term." A beat. "It is five hundred twenty years old."

Peggy Carter has posed:
Peg is careful not to touch it unless she's directly handed the piece. She does reach hands closer, fingertips hovering just above the beautiful grips. She tilts her head a bit closer, smile warming. "It's...gorgeous. In excellent condition for being that old. Your family must have taken very good care of it over the generations. And it still fires... far better and safer than our weapons, from what you are saying?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Well," he replies with a chuckle, "Material science tends to let things last longer - but this is a Xuno-F'aal, so it's something of a special work. Top quality in the day, you see." He makes a face. "We're toffs, my family, albeit minor ones. Aristocracy." He holds the weapon out to her to take; assuming she does, it will have some heft, the balance all toward the back. Oddly warm in her hand, perhaps.

    "'Fusion' is a misnomer, so that you don't get worried - there's nothing nuclear at all in the process. The weapon consists of a hydrogen bottle, a high-temperature lasing chamber, and a gravitic ring assembly all connected to the weapon's intelligence matrix." A gesture to the weapon, long fingers tracing from back to tip of barrel as he speaks. "Essentially the weapon collects gas from the local atmosphere, distills hydrogen from the chemicals, and when you press the trigger ducts the hydrogen into the lasing chamber where it's heated to become high-temperature plasma. The gravitic lense-rings project the plasma downrange as a bolt, or a beam, or whatever it's set to."

    This all said, he looks back up at her. "As for safer and better, well. It's not a chemical projectile, so there's no chance of misfire. And the intelligence matrix ensures it can't be fired without intent."

Peggy Carter has posed:
As he does hand her the weapon, Peggy takes it gently, respectfully. She's ever so careful to make certain to keep it pointed at the ground as she tests the balance and the heat of it in her hands. Her brows arch quietly at the feel of it. "And... it can get into the mind of *anyone* carrying it? It just knows when I intend to fire it?" She asks, a little chill between her shoulders. She doesn't love the idea of a weapon reading her mind, even if she can appreciate the safety. "Useful thing. And yes... far more advanced. I suppose I'm a bit of a luddite. But we all have our weapons that have been ours a very long time. I'll keep my Walther." She mutters with a wry grin.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "It's a bit like a horse," he says with a shake of his head. "It feels you. It doesn't detect thought, just..." Michael considers his words. "It's all about the body. Galvanic response, trigger sensitivity, that sort of a thing. It's sentient, but only at an animal level." Yes. Smart pistol. "The point is that it just knows you aren't going to shoot someone in the face unless you intend to do just that."

    That said, his lips purse as he considers the mention of the pistol. "A Walther - that's a PPK, is it not? I used to carry one of those, you know, when I was working private security in '77. The PPK-L, the one with the aluminum frame rather than the steel." He leaves the family weapon in the Chief's hands until she decides to let it go, quite apparently at ease with her handling it. "I ended up giving it up since it only chambered a .22, though."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"Yes, the PPK, one of the ones I used tonight. It's been with me a long time. So... I understand loyalty. Even to your tools." Peggy tests it in her hands once more and then steps forward, lofting the thing towards the target he was using. She thinks about shooting it once, the target intended for center of chest, but she's so accustomed to accounting for kick, she probably might shoot a bit low. She still wanted to try it out. Once the shot is finished, she points it back towards the ground and then carefully turns the grip back towards him, passing it back over. "Thank you for sharing with me."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Firing the weapon is very much like firing a low-caliber pistol; there's a moment of release as the beam is emitted, a flash of heat like standing a bit too close to a working hair dryer set on 'high'. If it went on for much longer, the searing, pencil-thick ray of white plasma might require eye protection, but it lands more or less where Peggy points it. Odd, really. Almost like it compensated for her angle itself.

    "If you'd like to learn how to use it," he says, taking the weapon as he looks appreciatively at the burning wound the beam has torn in the distant target, "I'd be pleased to teach you. Unlike most military arms, the Xuno-F'aal has a number of settings. Welder, cutter, that sort of thing. It's as much a tool as it is a weapon - I helped the Vision seal a crack in the Lincoln Tunnel back in the summer with it, for example." He bows his head very slightly. "And you are, of course, most welcome." Into its silvered holster it goes.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"The offer is incredibly generous, but save you having a supply of these for all of us to use, I think this is an honor weapon that should remain in your hands. Thank you, though. Maybe I will get more practice in if we meet on the range again I will get in more pracitce. For tonight, however, my husband has already been insisting that I get home at more reasonable hours and I suspect he is right, so I should take my leave. But it was good speaking, Michael." With that, and a warm smile, Peggy gives him a little salute and turns on the ball of her foot. She scoops up the weapons cases she had brought with her and starts making her way out to the exit.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Good night, Chief." He takes a deep breath, turning back toward the range with its sundered dummies. Feels that, at least for the moment, perhaps he might have settled something - especially with someone he has come to respect. The good little soldier inside him is pleased...