Rifle for Hire (IC/Open)

[Imperial Idaho]

RIFLE FOR HIRE
A Post-Apocalyptic Mercenary RP
OOC
Pub

Theme Song
Map
Op: Imperial Idaho
Co-ops: Beiarusia, Anowa

---

A sunny day it was, few clouds in the sky, unusual for the region. It had rained around two days ago, the ground still a bit wet. Around 8 AM, the base was starting to come to life as mercenaries awoke and began their business wandering around. Most everyone in some form of camouflage, with a few officers and others wearing more wonkier gear, like football helmets and metal chest plates. Most of the wooden paths creaked underfoot as people walked on them, but the concrete parking lot was still cracked as always. Messengers inquiring about jobs entered and left the big fort, formerly called a "Wall-Mart", hiring out both large companies and small squads to fit whatever job was needed. The Thunderbirds were the only mercenaries in Western Washington and Northern Oregon, with The Airmen being absorbed into the Spokane Tzardom a few years back.

As for Foxtrot Squad, they were the newcomers. Only a few of them had been here for long, and many were figuring out the schedule and where things were. They had already ate Breakfast, and were being called down to the firing range for some shooting.

At the firing range proper, one would find the porch of a house converted into a shooting stand. Complete with seats, tables, mats, whatever you wanted to fire from. At the other end were a series of wood cutouts and sand bags with crude bulls-eyes painted on them. The old wood floor covered in newer boards to patch up the old rotted ones, and a flat board covered in range safety rules nailed on the wall of the house. The floor, as expected, was covered in bullet casings and shells. The range master was sitting in a small booth/storage shed, reading an old book. Sergeant Gunderson and Corporals Grey and Anju would be managing the basic shooting session for the most part, the range master was just to supervise.

Once the Squad was there, they would start up the shooting session, and from there get off to the second order of the day.

[Vacif]

Private Bernard Ngama
Home Base, The Range

The place was...nice. The layout was easy enough to remember. Pretty good lodging, and the food wasn't bad either. Like their "tour guide" had told them, they were based out of a "Wal-Mart". They had one back home too. Mom called them "super stores". Kind of like a single building where all the merchants in the area would gather to sell their wares, except the entire building, and every merchant was owned by one person. It made Bernard wonder how much wealth people had back then to own so much property. The fact that they had them all over the world was truly a testament to their wealth, and trade smarts. Odd name though, he couldn't think of anyone with that kind of surname. Though he supposed not every person would name their estates or their belongings after themselves.

As Bernard waited, he continued his thoughts. His team leader, Corporal Anju was a curious character, never removed his mask. It was so beat up, he wondered how he could even see, let alone breath. Its colours were worn and faded, the fabric was pealing away, being held together by random stitches and various types of tape.

Hopefully the rest of the team would get here soon. He didn't want to wait around all day, and would rather not have his mind wander too far.

[Free Chernakova]

Josiah Waltz, Private

A black man, in his early twenties, walked steadily through the camp. As he clomped down the trail, the broken wood panels squished below him in the half-damp mud. It was a slight attempt to create some form of walkway off the ground, though Josiah could see off to the side where people got tired of the trip hazards and wobbly footing and simply trecked through the mud. He didn't mind getting dirty, he was just afraid that his patched and worn shoes might spring a leak and leave him soggy-footed on his first day - not a prospect he wanted.

He was intimidated. That much he would willingly confess. It was obvious now, after he joined, that the slick recruiter was lying through his teeth when he told him that he wouldn't have to face combat if he joined as a medic. He cursed the man under his breath. When he first stepped into the dorm of the Thunderbirds he was immediately aware that his lifestyle, and the people he had for company, just got a significant makeover.He doubted severely if he would be able to strike up a conversation or even get to know anyone for a while. But, Josiah thought hopefully, perhaps its just because most of them were new. If that was the case, they'd probably warm up after a little bit and he'd be able to make acquaintances.

His mind wandered back to the task at hand as he stepped onto the modified porch that acted as a shooting range. There was already a few people there, and Josiah recognized a young woman as his corporal. She didn't look much older than he was, but something about her made it clear that she was much more mature than he was. Not entirely sure what to do now that he arrived, he decided after a moment to "report," as he'd heard it called, to the Corporal. He went up and flashed what he thought was a passable salute, though she flinched visibly.

With formalities now out of the way, he started to inquire what was going on. Though before he could even get the words out, she pointed to a bench and muttered,
"Sit."
Josiah felt a little red come to his ears. Obviously that was not the right action. He dutifully sat down, mind wandering. He pushed the looming gun test out of his mind, knowing he was barely a decent shot. He wondered what his new life was going to be like as a Mercenary... It didn't look promising.

[Dalria]

Tipper, Private

"You bloody bast..." a man screeched as a knife impaled his hand. Tipper laughed as the man squirmed and grabbed the valuables sitting in the table.

"Don't you accuse me of cheating old man, I won this card game fair and square. If you try anything, next time that knife is going through your throat so don't tempt me!" Tipper waltzed out of the shady barroom in some backwoods outpost, he was on his way to some fort that a recruiter had convinced him would make him plenty of cash. The Thunderbirds were on a massive recruitment drive and Tipper thought they could make sure of his particular skill set. He set out on the dirt path, to sign what remained of his life away to some mercenary group.

Several hours later...

After hitching a ride with an elderly yeoman he had arrived. The rain poured from the sky as he examined the fort and the people among it. This wasn't the usual lot, these were soldiers and men of war. He frowned as he took a glance around and noticed there were no beautiful woman prancing about, "what did I get myself into" he muttered to himself. Tipper wandered about, he wanted to get a good layout of the place for obvious reasons, he needed to know every aspect of a place from the escape routes to the points of advantage.

After several minutes of snooping one commanding officer noticed him, "you're either a complete dumbass or you are new here! Go over to the barracks and get a change of clothes private, you have a new life now!" the burly man screamed into Tipper's face. Tipper knew not to speak back, not today at least until he climbed the hierarchy. He made his way to the crummy barracks as the various brawny men stared him down. He smirked, knowing he could put a knife in their throat in an instance. He laid down in his bunk, tomorrow would be the first real day of his new life.

The next day...

He awoke bright and early with the rest of the men. As he changed into his flannel and jeans he looked at the man next to him, "these beds are dirtier than those of a whorehouse aye!" Tipper joked. The man just sneered and trudged to the mess hall, "savage" Tipper thought to himself. After devouring a meal of mush and grime, Tipper made his way to the range, standing among his fellow squad members. He examined everyone of them, he aspired to understand them and find what makes them tick. He was especially intrigued with Corporal Anju and the mask, if he found out what was under there it could be to his advantage.

[Anowa]

Corporal Marilyn Grey, Yankee 1
Wall-Mart, The Range

Combat boots thudded through the hall, a sign that someone was arriving at the range, and it sounded like they were rather heavy. This proved to be slightly false as a rather average looking woman strode into the area, carrying a wooden crate with 'MUNITIONS' stenciled on the side. Obviously the ammo they'd be using for today's training.

She set it down on one of the tables at the rear before casting her gaze upon those already assembled: An African man who looked like he was just as likely to die from jaundice as he was to rape someone. Another ethnically African man with a rather distinct goatee and shaved head, Marilyn already distrusted him based on that fact alone. then there was a thinner man with a look in his eye that screamed 'up his own ass', he too had a goatee, and even worse his hair was obviously slicked back. The man was more of a business man than a fighter, she gave him less than a week at best.

Looking over the three of them again she sighed in mild disappointment, unslinging the rifle off her back, she took position at one of the stalls. At the very least she could give a few visual pointers to how to fire a gun before the training actually began. Laying down upon the aging carpet, she swung the bipod out and uncapped the scope. Looking downrange, she spotted a target, about eight hundred meters out, and started plinking rounds off it. Just over a second of travel for the weapon. Enough time for the muzzle retort to fade before the sound of metal hitting metal to echo back. After about fifteen rounds she sat up, leaving her rifle where it was. Staring out over the range, taking in the sun.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Private Kareen Zein
Home Base, The Range

For as long as she remembered, the Thunderbirds sure provided the best food and supplies in the recent career of hers. It's not like Kootnei has no better equipment, but her status as a militia only allowed for the use of marginally worse or just basic tools and weapons, and nothing fancy like her current sidearm G-18. This..."Wal-Mart", that they use as base, sure did had some works before as well. It seems that this big base used to be some kind of...large store or something. Merchants in one place, except bigger and with minimal security. Something unheard of in Kootnei, at least from what she knew. She never really visited cities in Kootnei (if you can call their bigger areas as "cities") but she visited at least one, town.

Just a town.

She approached the shooting range. She hadn't experienced the use of rifle, though its loud sounds didn't do good to her role as a scout. Pistol has sounds as well, but it is far easier to hold one or two at the hands and firing it without aiming, some kind of suppressive fire. She noted to herself as she sat and waited for the other members of the Foxtrot Squad. She sat a bit far from the rest, with a knowing look of not going to be with them until the Squad collected together.

[Beiarusia]

~ Anju ~

---

Nine days. Anju had been in Seattle for little over a week now, perhaps the longest she'd been in any one place in a very long while given her propensity to burn every bridge she came across, both figuratively and sometime quite literally. Her asinine schemes were never that well thought out, if at all, truthfully never, and typically lasted just long enough for her to grab whatever she could before skipping town, which made her current endeavor all the more audacious. The Thunderbirds were a mercenary group well known in this region, being one of the few to remain active, and Anju had not only enlisted on a whim but had made enough of a show to be promoted into a position of power. Of course, the rank of corporal was still rather low on the totem pole, near the bottom really, but nonetheless she would be in charge of her very own team which, quite frankly, was a terrible decision on the part of her superiors.

If/when her lie fell apart Anju would likely be sent to the firing squad. A consequence she still hadn't considered.

The masked woman had arrived to the shooting range a little before the others. Sitting atop the little expanse of shingled roof overlooking the porch and main door, Anju had had enough privacy to eat her breakfast - a poor excuse of biscuits and some questionable meat - and enough time to slip back into her mascot head before anyone arrived. It was only after the first group had shown up that Anju slid down from the roof to stand with some sense of authority opposite them. She was such an accomplished liar that her acting skills may well be enough to fool those around her, maybe.

Corporal Grey arrived soon enough with heavy footsteps to announce her presence. Young, almost pretty if not for the scars or no-nonsense sort of look permanently plastered to her face. She carried a heavy box of ammunition in her arms and a scoped rifle on her back, and after giving those assembled a less than pleased inspection had proceeded to setup the weapon for use at the range. For good measure she sent several rounds downrange and into a vaguely humanoid target, after which she stood with the expectation that the others now show their skills, all without saying a word.

Anju, on the other hand, was a terrible shot. Couldn't even hit the broadside of a barn with a shotgun from three feet away (let alone keep the shotgun from flying out of her hands at terminal velocity). Aside from having never used a firearm save for the most dire or unusual of circumstances, the girl was pretty much blind at a distance. Nearsighted to a severe degree. She'd always had poor eyesight but, strangely, never the notion to find herself a pair of glasses. She'd make a fool of herself should she try her hand at the rifle, so instead she used her position as corporal to allow the other conscripts to go ahead. "Who's going first?" she asked, voice muffled from underneath her mask. She'd point at random if no volunteers stepped up.

[Parcia]

The Kid

7 years.

7 years and look were he was now. If only Mom and Dad could see me now.

The uniform was...itchy, but it was clean clothes. The beds were far, far to soft for his liking, but the springs hurt to sleep on bare. He still had his rifle, and his pistol though, he wouldn't ever let any one try to disarm him.

The near ancient Colt navy did get some interesting looks as he walked towards the firing range. The gun was his pride and joy. Despite being worn and weathered, it still shot true, and due to it being converted, he could load regular .38 rounds, even .38 special, and fire them with ease.

He walked in to the range and found a booth, and started to clean his rifle and pistol.

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Pvt. Wilson Lewis
Home Base, Living Quarters

The bed he had rested his head on was dirty, coarse, and an all around horrible place to sleep. Sleeping on his side, his arm was rubbed raw by the peeling fabric. Wilson Lewis loved it.

This bed was the best thing he had ever slept on, if he really thought about it. Back in Vegas they had never been rich enough to afford mattresses; Wilson was given the sole pillow by his parents. But still his body had only been warmed by the cold concrete floor of the wrecked auto shop they were living in. He had slept on a few neglected sofas with some of his richer girlfriends, and piles of trash were comfy rests for his body on some long nights out. The road to the Home Base didn’t hold any restful naps either; the ancient convertible sedan that he rested in was a bit too rocky for his taste. Not to mention the smell of the horses that dragged it along could not be staved off for even one moment of shuteye.

And now, this straw filled mattress was the best thing he had ever slept on. A cold, raggedy blanket thrown over him, a less than half-stuffed pillow beneath his head, and a stream of drool pouring down his cheek. Wilson’s eyes fluttered open, pink blotches splattered on top of the cornea. His pupils darted back and forth, optics rolling in their sockets. He rose slowly, sitting upright in bed. He stretched his arms, yawned, and prepared for the day.

Some Irish man, a bearded fellow in flannel and jeans said something rude; another scoffed and stormed off to grab the fresh breakfast. Wilson found his own eyes narrowing in bewilderment and disgust; an instinctive reaction to the man. When he locked eyes with the strange Irish man however, he smiled. A genuine smile. His teeth were showing, and he blew air through his teeth and lips to create a ‘psh’ sound. The bare minimum requirement for a laugh; it was the best he could do, considering the tired, tasteless joke the Irishman had molded. And with that, they were off to their deeds for the morning.

Golden scrambled eggs fell onto his wooden plate, lines of warmth stewing out of the sliced butter which melted over the delicious breakfast. They were bland, of course; but Wilson would never have guessed. Three strips of bacon cuddled with the eggs, pink and burgundy stripes slashing down the meat. He could still see the grease sizzling off of it, an alluring aroma rising out of the bacon. And finally, one slice of tanned toast, burned a bit on the edges but otherwise fantastic. It was the best meal Wilson ever ate; and he ate it alone. He watched from the back of the mess hall, observing the others converse and chatter and eat. He made notes of how they moved; the women the men observed, the men the women observed, what they ate, the way they ate it, and so on and so on. Wilson took his time with his meal; poking it and shoving it around with his fork. Eventually, the plate was empty and the food gone.

He had moved onto the bathroom later, watching the banter and more than friendly ass slaps. He had taken a simple switchblade to his face, carving hairs out of it and watching them fall into the sink below. But, he was imperfect; every man was. A loud crack of a towel whip caused his hand to shift ever so gently across his face. But it was just enough; he felt pain sear through his cheek as four drops of blood hit the dirty sink. “Dammit.” He whispered under his breath, taking a rag and placing it on the blood.

***

Home Base, The Range

He followed the others through the mud, sweat, and tears. Through some place called “Wal-Mart.” It reminded him of the loud streets of Vegas, the booming merchants and the everso abrasive catcallers. He happened to the porch with the others, and he looked for the one they had told him about. Some Amerindian woman, one that was white though. He drug his fist along his nose, wiping any snot that may be pouring out away. Another black guy, this one with a dirty goatee and a practically skeletal body was saluting a woman who fit the Injun description. Wilson drew his eyes at him, cocking his head and grinning from ear to ear. It was funny; this scrawny guy getting shut down almost immediately by the flicker in the woman’s eyes.

Wilson approached with caution, heavy steps and a relaxed gait bringing him to the other two. The woman walked off soon enough, past Wilson and past the kissass. He nodded at the goatee wearing sumbitch, and looked at the woman. She was firing her rifle now down range, sat on the ground and killing it. He approached her eyes shining with astonishment. "Nice shot!" He exclaimed after her final strike, beaming with excitement. "You're Corporal Grey, I presume?" He turned his head back but a second, looking at the other guy. His next head motion indicated for him to join them, if he wanted to. Wilson made all efforts afterwards to pay attention to the good Corporal, if that was who she was.

[Pasong Tirad]

Pvt. Jaime Santiago, Fireteam Rainier
Home Base, The Range

Difficult Firsts

Jaime's been at the Wal-Mart for three days now. He still feels like the place is too unfamiliar. No paranoia, no sleeping with a knife under his pillow and another next to his bed. Strange. Nonetheless, Jaime still slept with his rosary wrapped around his wrist, On the morning of the third day, he felt, for the first time in a long time, at ease with his surroundings. It wasn't the Cathedral and he was around a lot of people who've had a lot of history with guns and killing - just like the rest of Seattle, really - but there was order here, peace even. Drills, target practice, exercises, briefings (he believes he even saw a classroom somewhere), people coming in with their gear and coming back a lot dirtier. On the other side of this, there was a sense of boredom here and there - people playing cards, board games, idle conversations over breakfast. Jaime hadn't seen this kind of peace anywhere since he left the Cathedral and it was a lot to take in at first, but he's settled in now. A stable job is hard to come by and he's not about to throw it away.

A rough-looking line sergeant was being patient with Jaime, who was able to follow his instructions - he's been instructing Jaime how to use a gun since day one, but he's yet to allow him to fire off more than a few rounds for target practice. All he's done is learn how to handle the recoil (a difficult thing for a skinny dude). Before he could test out the 1912 Winchester he was given at target practice, he had to learn how to use it - and that meant being able to dismantle it, clean it, and put it back together - which he did with relative ease. A bit sloppy and a bit slow, but the sergeant expressed his approval at his progress anyhow. The gun was big and bulky, but it had a socket at the end of it where he could plug the bayonet that came with it ("God bless the Thunderbirds!"). More than learning how to hold and shoot a gun, Jaime wanted to plug the bayonet on his shotgun and test it out, wondering if it can slash as well as it can stab (probably not).

With the sergeant's approval, he knows he's ready to test it out. It's not going to go well and Jaime knows this, but it's a step closer to getting paid and that's good enough to face the eventual embarrassment that comes with not being able to get a shotgun pellet to land on a target in front of you.

[New Grestin]

HOME BASE | SEATTLE SEAHAWKS TERRITORY

How long had she been staring at the ceiling?

Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Time distorted along the lines of one's perception, and her perception had solely been this moldering ceiling for as long as she could recall. She knew she'd woken up, that there were things to do and people to see, but all she did was lie here. Like a vegetable. It was a routine that she was well acquainted with. A desire in the back of her head, a hope, that she could just lie in bed. Lie in bed and go back to sleep and never wake up. The more rational parts of her psyche knew that this was a foolish endeavor, but still she plunged on, staring at the ceiling. She had looked over every detail, from the cracks in the panels to the busted light fixture. She could fix those things, sure, but she chose not to. She was alone, perhaps not physically, but mentally. Spiritually.

Finally, the time came and she rose from her bed. Her back ached, her body felt raw. A feeble hand pawed at her shoulder, finding a thick gauze patch. Another could be found on the other side. A larger one. She'd never been a lucky woman, but she thanked god that it had been an AP round. Of course, that assumed there even was a god to thank anymore.

Ellie washed up as best she could. There was no running water, so a bottle she'd stashed under the bed had to do. She was prone to stashing things. It was a habit borne out of her scavenger days, out in the Southwest Outlands, where life was cheap. Rather, it didn't have the dollar value it held up North. Just lowlives killing lowlives while the reservoirs slowly ran dry. Some day, she hoped, they would, and all the wretches would die off so it could all begin anew.

Wishful thinking, of course. She knew they'd just be replaced by other despots, other tinpot slave states. The whole region was lost. At least here, in the North, there was a facade. A thin veneer of civilization. It was better than nothing. Even if the rumors that the East Coast was any better off, there was no assurance it'd be any different than here.

Abandoning her grand cultural criticisms for more pressing mattes, the medic collected her uniform and her things and headed for the range. The heavy wood furnished rifle clinked against her side. A pair of blue-tinted goggles sat on her forehead. A thick jacket covered the rest. She shivered a bit as she walked, hands digging into her pockets.

The others were already at the firing range, practicing. She kept her head down and tried to avoid attention, slinking into a booth. Her hands fumbled with the rifle and leveled the sights at the first target.

First shot went wild. Ellie sighed.

She hated mornings.

[Tayner]

Private Alex Greene

Alex didn't like the dirty sheets he was provided with originally, it was only the previous morning when he got a chance to take them to the nearest river along with a washboard. Cleanliness was one of his virtues, having been drilled into his head during his time in the army. Why? He didn't know, but if it was one of the things that helped him be a better sniper, he'd keep it up. He awoke, pulling the semi-clean sheets off of him, and going about his ritual.

He disassembled his rifle, an old Soviet design that didn't hold a stick to his GI rifle in the homeland when he was a state-sanctioned sniper, but reliable nonetheless. He searched for imperfections, carbon, dirt, and grime to clean, and reassembled the weapon before cleaning the oil and grime off of his hands with a nearby rag.

After eating breakfast in the Wall-Mart, whatever that was, Alex received the word about the firing practice. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked outside and across the broken pavement to the range. He simply nodded to one of the NCOs supervising the range as he picked his spot on the line, going prone, and picking a target. A threatening looking glass bottle on the far side of the range was about to have a shitty day, as Alex squeezed the trigger, aiming slightly to the right to avoid setting his bar too high off the bat.

The glass bottle exploded as the rifle recoiled. "Shit." Alex whispered under his breath as he took out a coin and adjusted the dial on the scope's side to the left. Alex continued smacking other far away targets, from cardboard cutouts to sandbags, he hit most of them with admirable accuracy. At least he started off well.

[Anowa]

Private Athena ta Hiera, Rainier 2
Wall-Mart, The Range

The beds were not as bad as she expected, similar to what she had back in Athens, rugged, and there. At least she had one, unlike the breeding slaves back home, left to sleep on the stone and dirt.

The world outside her home was nothing near what she expected. She expected anarchy, chaos, mass hysteria and rape. A part of her felt as if her mothers had lied to her about the folly of man, and how a strong mind and body could not exist within a single one. Yet she was walking among more than a dozen men, not a single one acting as she expected. Even her newly appointed guide, one Sergeant Gunderson, did not seem too much of a brute despite his stature... So far at least. She'd have to reserve judgement until a later date.

As she walked in to the so called firing range, she saw plenty of fire... some form of it at least. Coming from the 'fire lances' her mothers described to her as a child, even from where she was standing she could see impact from the weapons a good seven to eight hundred meters away. Yet they likely couldn't damage her shield all to much, despite their destructive potential. As she walked forward, she garnered a few looks, one of them from a woman with her own fire lance. a simple raised eyebrow was the only facial expression to be seen. As she walked past Gunderson she gave the man a nod, noting that she was a good 18 centimeters taller than the already large man.

She found a place on the wall to lean on, setting down the shield she had, and letting it rest on her hip, cradling the spear upright in a relaxed position, simply watching, analyzing those around her and their actions.

Athena certainly hoped this would be a learning experience.

[Parcia]

Pvt. Roe.
Wal-mart Gunrange

He finished cleaning and resembling his weapons in a few minuets. Everything was working and ran cleanly, just how he liked it. Setting the rifle down, he picked up the Navy and flipped open the loading gate. He fished a few .38 rounds from his pocket and inserted them in to the chambers. The particular Colt Navy he owned was a conversion model, while the production numbers state it was built in the late 1880s, it was clear that some one had converted much later.

Normally it took a .36 caliber ball, loaded from the front, with black power and a percussion cap. This particular one fired .38 rimfire, a surprisingly common round despite its age. He cocked the hammer back and took aim at a target far down the range. He knew he was good with the pistol, it being his best friend, but he doubted he could hit something past 300 yards. He squeezed the trigger and watched the round sale out (the best he could) and almost hit the target, only missing by a few inches.

"Heh." He aimed at a closer target, one at roughly 150 yards, and emptied the gun at it. Fanning the hammer was something that took practice in order to not mess of the sequence of the movements and fuck up your gun. the 5 rounds fired off in rapid succession, almost sounding like an automatic.

He reloaded the pistol, taking care to set the hammer in between chambers and was about to shoulder his rifle wen a glint of metal caught his eye from the corner of his vision. Holstering the Colt Navy, he turned to see a goddess.
Well, technically if anything, a demi-goddess. She was a spitting image of a Greek, specifically Athenian, hoplite, shield, spear and all. He had heard of a group down to the south, an all women group, kept men for breeding slaves. He has been meaning to pay them a visit one day but hadn't gotten around to it.

He shrugged and leaned up against the booth. "Didn't know we recruited Greeks."

[Imperial Idaho]

The Range, Home Base, Seattle Thunderbirds Territory, Washington

"All Righty, then." Gunderson stepped up and spoke after clearing with throat, elongating his words to catch the attention of the others. The whole squad was here by now, good for them, if they were late they'd have to pick up all the shells by hand. Gunderson had been here for about half an hour before most of the rest of them had arrived, with Corporal Marilyn bringing the ammo they'd use for today's session at the range, and Corporal Anju doing... whatever Anju does. The short and masked character intrigued him, the expressionless eyes of the mask staring outwards, whether in fear or confidence, who would know. He returned a nod to Athena, the titanic female hoplite who towered above everyone including himself, and his corporals, notably Anju by what looked like almost two feet.

Regardless, they had shooting to do, and Gunderson continued.

"As all of you should know I am Sergeant Gunderson, commander of Foxtrot Squad, and of Fireteam Rainier in particular. You all know what Fireteam you are in, but perhaps not your corporal. This is Corporal Anju, and Corporal Grey"

He gestured to them as he said their names, and took a commanding stance as he walked over towards the firing line, his back facing the targets.

"Corporal Anju will be leading Fireteam Whiskey, and Corporal Grey will be leading Fireteam Yankee. If you don't know what Fireteam you are apart of you should get your priorities straight and listen with your ears. Otherwise, you can all assume what we're doing here at the range, and I see a few of you have already started. A few short rules before we fire. First, keep the end of the gun pointed either up at the ceiling, down at the floor, and downrange at the target. Second, there's a safety on most of your rifles, make sure you know if it's on or not, you don't want to end up face to face with an enemy with your safety on, it means you can't shoot. That doesn't mean you can keep it off and flail your rifle around willy nilly in the barracks either. And finally, keep your gun in good condition. Last thing we need is a jam in the middle of a mission."

He went on and, with the aid of the Rangemaster who had gotten up from reading his ancient book, explained and demonstrated some basic shooting positions and peeking corners.

"Alright then, let's get shooting." Gunderson concluded the lecture part of the training, and allowed the recruits and corporals to take position on either the mats for those wanting to take a prone position, the tables for sitting, or the empty spaces for standing. Everyone picked out a target, and opened fire. Anju and Athena, not having any firearms of their own, used the range rifles. Anju a small .22, and Athena a .243 in particular. Gunderson gave some pointers to Athena on how to actually use the rifle, the titanic hoplite having never actually fired a rifle before. Corporal Anju, likely under a similar situation, pretended to be making sure her .22 was clean and in good condition, while taking peeks over at her neighbors and seeing how they used the rifles, then taking a few shots, going largely unnoticed in her lack of knowledge.

The other soldiers seemed to have an average or slightly below average shooting skill. Tipper, the only shotgunner in the group so far, had picked a close range target, and stood to shoot. You couldn't tell if he did well or not, with a shotgun it didn't matter, he did decent with his sidearm however, getting a decent few groupings in. Kareen Zein, the archer, made some rather impressive bulls-eyes with a simple bow and arrow.

For the others, their shooting went largely without incident, even the first timer Athena was doing better than expected, hitting the targets but without major groupings. Anju on the other hand, was severely under skilled. The large mask she wore blocked most of her sight aswell, and so most of her shots missed. One even flew off way above the target, hitting something past the range. Hopefully not anything important at least.

After the range master called a ceasefire, the men and women all lowered their weapons. Gunderson return to the position he lectured from and began to speak.

"Alrighty, that was a nice round of shooting for a lot of you it looked, now go down and check your targets."

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Private Kareen Zein
Home Base, The Range

As Kareen and the rest of her squadmates collected themselves in the range, Sgt. Gunderson stepped ahead and briefed them. Turned out he's the commander of Foxtrot Squad, as well as Fireteam Rainier. Corporal Anju is her Fireteam leader, the Whiskey. She was unsure about who was she or why she was like that but perhaps she would be able to finds information about her more soon. Words got in that she was an arsonist-type and seems to be of great accomplishments. Must be so famous, though why she's a Corporal and Sergeant or above haunted her thoughts.

When the shooting session started, she contemplated whether to use rifle for practice, or the bow, but realized that her scout path meaning that bow is the only choice, unless the loud sound of rifle is what she wants. She impressed herself, and perhaps Sgt. Gunderson and Cpl. Anju with her targets of rather impressive. She carefully saw Anju between the shots as she took a quick rest for aiming, Anju didn't hit quite well. The mask!

Why she used the mask?

After it ended, Kareen checked the targets per the Sergeant's order. Nice, apart from few misses, most hit the target, though not many of them hit the circular center of the target.

[Pasong Tirad]

Pvt. Jaime Santiago, Fireteam Cheesewheel
Home Base, The Range

First Training Shots

Jaime walked down the range along with the other mercenaries to look at his target. It didn't really matter, though. The sergeant explained it to him pretty clearly: as long as you're pointing at the enemy and the enemy is close by, you should be on target. He was right. The spread was a bit wide, but with over a hundred pellets in a 12 gauge, it didn't matter. Dozens of pellets being on target basically meant death. The shotgun's recoil was still something he needed to brace for. He basically would have a very hard time dealing with the recoil if his whole body wasn't prepared for it. He could already feel his shoulder aching from the blowback. He needed to train more - and eat more. If he were a little bit bigger, maybe his body's muscles could grow a little bit bigger and be more equipped to handle the blowback.

Unloading the shotgun (which wasn't even his - "THUNDERBIRDS" was carved onto the stock) slowly through unfamiliarity, he was tempted to just stab the target with the bayonet. Fearing repercussions (they're probably going to dock his pay for that), he just kept practicing putting on and taking off the bayonet as he walked back down the firing line. He could see his squadmates gathered around different lanes (people he's yet to actually get to know) - the twins, the old man with the shotgun and a guy with a .44. He'll know them soon enough. He grabbed a handful of shells from the box at the back and waited around for further instructions.

[Beiarusia]

~ Anju ~

---

It would be an understatement to call Anju a poor marksman. Truthfully, she had never used a gun before in her life and, what more, was practically blind at range given her mask and naturally weak eyesight. At most she could point the weapon in more-or-less the right direction and simply hope for the best. Needless to say, upon checking the targets it was no surprise that none had been hit whatsoever, not even by dumb luck. The archer and shotgunner seemingly had more success against a rifle whose entire purpose was picking off targets at range. Not that Anju publicized her poor accuracy, and unless confronted she would simply ignore the fact that she couldn't shoot straight to save her life.

The best defense, however, was a good offense, so Anju made an effort to address the others first if only to hide her own shortcomings. Approached at random was Kareen Zein, an older woman who favored the bow. She wasn't too far off from where Anju was and so making a comment wouldn't be too out of place. "You're a good shot. Like a cassiopeia" - she didn't know the meaning of the word but it sounded nice - "but with a bow. Deadly, but cooler than a gun."

A few of the others were leaving. Anju wouldn't hold them up if they needed to go as well.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

~ Anju ~

---

The best defense, however, was a good offense, so Anju made an effort to address the others first if only to hide her own shortcomings. Approached at random was Kareen Zein, an older woman who favored the bow. She wasn't too far off from where Anju was and so making a comment wouldn't be too out of place. "You're a good shot. Like a cassiopeia" - she didn't know the meaning of the word but it sounded nice - "but with a bow. Deadly, but cooler than a gun."

A few of the others were leaving. Anju wouldn't hold them up if they needed to go as well.

Private Kareen Zein
Home Base, The Range

Kareen checked her targets and returned to the range, when Anju, her corporal-in-charge, commented on her abilities. She blushed, only because she was never really commented before. Her skills were trained for hunting, and the only comment given was when she shot, hunted well, and particularly an all-around skilled one. She was never really asked for compliments, she didn't need compliments to be a successful hunter, you know.

"Thanks, Corporal. I guess times of being trained upon for hunting was a good thing for me. I did hunt for my family before I was in here, they needed food and being a poor farmer, the food was never enough," she reminiscences about it, as she pondered. "Anyway, Corporal Anju, why you never takes the mask off? Isn't it hard to see things with that mask?" she asked, curiously.

There's someone else who shouted about being staring at, but he's not her current focus right now.

[Parakos]

Private Juan "Diablo" Fernandez. Fireteam Rainier
Home Base, The Range

Juan strode across the landscape with the creaking and squeaking of wood under his dull black boots until he made it across the way to the firing range with the rest of his team. Well, he wasn't sure if the people kneeling and cleaning their weapons were exactly in his fireteam but he hadn't travelled this far from Eastern Oregon, dodging hit squads, to let his paranoia put him on edge now. Once the shooting began his adrenaline would kick in and his instincts would do most of the motions for him. He had practiced time and time again how to load his peeling shotgun blindfolded, not that operating such a simple weapon was hard in the first place, but nonetheless he had read his bible and cleaned his gun using whatever lubricant he could find on the road to Seattle long enough to be confident in his brutality.

Upon hearing shots fired he braced his stance and used the slack of the sling to absorb most of the impact from his weapon, as it blasted bright amber sparks into the air and cleaved pellets at his nearby targets. As the instructors passed by he readied to impress them, and he fired with only one hand. To Juan's surprise he had accidently loaded a slug and the force that protruded from the sawed off barrel was more than he anticipated and the pistol grip smashed against his hand.

"Aggh! Puta madre!"

He scrunched his face and tensed his chin as the blast-back from the shot left an instant blister on his coffee colored hand. Anger rose in his veins and his muscles twitched at nothing. Diablo wasn't one to complain to himself and he cursed outloud at anyone's foolishness but his own. There were plenty of people here who had barely hit their targets and he was keen on confronting someone about their lack of discipline, but then he heard the sergeant order the targets to be picked up and examined.

Fernandez bruted to his targets, which were almost in as bad shape as his hand, and observed how the shots from his sawed off were sporadic and wide across the field. Some pellets even managed to hit some other targets that were way off of his peripheral, but he wasn't about to address that openly and be lectured for carelessness. The slug that injured his hand was nowhere to be found, but the very real pain he felt as he massaged his hand was only intensifying along with his own anger that helped to alleviate the pain. He knew that a sawed off like this could rip a man in half from experience, and he was not worried about the inaccuracy of his weapon as he preferred to creep right up and fire at point blank anyhow. Someone once told him to shoot for the stars but Juan always prefered to aim for the head.

"Do we have a medic or what!?" He shouted to noone in particular as he swung his head down to look at his hand.

He would have to find a thick glove for his right hand in the future in case any of his unassorted ammo was high-speed or god forbid another slug. In the meantime he would just let it heal and stand in some form of attention for the man at the entrance to speak on his next task.

[Torrocca]

Private Lizzy Wilson
Barracks

Day had finally dawned, drenching the drowsy Lizzy in sunlight from her open, east-facing window. It was early still; from what her tired eyes could make out, puddles of water still dotted the old asphalt and concrete of the town, now full of overgrown plant-life in several areas. Barely any clouds, an unusual sight; it reminded her of the southwest and particularly the desert she had long lived in, where clouds and rain were seldom seen in the region. It wasn't a welcoming memory; a lot of what'd happened when her group fell apart still haunted her. She looked away from the window into her orange-lit room;
all her clothes were cluttered into a messy pile in a corner of the old building next to all her gear, her weapons were set out on a table, the rifle unloaded for safety reasons but the pistol containing a chambered round, and everything else - her books, a glass of water, and an old brass pocket watch reading 7:16 covered a nightstand near her old, uncomfortable bed, where her sleeping bag, kept clean and nice, rested atop of it.

Sighing, she unraveled the mess that was her hair and gathered up her clothes; it wasn't anything impressive, just the same drab uniform she and her brother wore from the beginning. Socks, underwear, a couple of undershirts, faded brown pants and a shirt worn over the others, brown leather boots with tan puttees, and a faded brown winter coat with fur on the inside. Grey or dull-green woolly beanies and scarfs made up their head protection from the chill of the winter. For the summer they just wore their helmets for protection from the sun, or on occasion the hoods of their ponchos. Generally, they had a very professional aura around them with their mock-up military uniforms, though they were anything but professionals; the old group, before their time, was professional. As the years went on, however, this faded away like the group itself eventually did. The clothes were a small reminder of what they used to be, not what they were now.

"Huh... another day, another round of bullshit," she muttered, quietly dressing herself. A lot of her hope had faded over the years, with all that happened; walking among ruins, losing everything you knew from your childhood, and losing family had taken its toll, even with a group seemingly worthy of sticking with taking her and her brother in just a month prior. The two, by that point, had been travelling with their horses, Rose and Hawk, close to six years, staying months at some settlements until they were forced to leave because of some circumstance or another; when they were found, they were disheveled, looking like walking corpses in the face more than anything else. Years of running, fighting, and trying to survive wore them down, and anyone looking at them could see that. But they survived.

As she carefully wrapped one of the faded scarfs around her neck and placed a beanie over her short-cut hair, the watch still resting on the nightstand ticked to 7:43; she'd spent much of her time dwelling on the past, not even paying attention to its current passing. She'd soon be due for the firing range, and she hadn't even gathered up all her gear. Hurrying up, she tossed all her webbing, belts, and bandoliers over her body, as well as the various bags full of her stuff. She wasn't going far, sure, but it'd only been a month so far with the group; she didn't quite trust them yet. Lastly, before she committed to leaving the room, she put her poncho on like a cape, fastening one of the buttons together at the neck, and wore it over the left side of her body. She holstered the pistol, picked up the rifle with her uninjured arm, and pocketed the watch with her free hand, then set out of the barracks to the firing range.

Private Cal Wilson
Barracks

Like his sister, Cal was an early bird, waking up before most of the rest of the barracks had. Unlike her, he slept mostly dressed and kept his room tidy and clean, a habit kept from his childhood. His rifle and and all his gear was neatly together on a table on the far end of the room, and on the nightstand next to his bed rested his pistol and its holster. There was nothing spectacular to the setup, but he didn't mind; he preferred simplicity and neatness. He was always more of a practically-minded man; extravagance was never his thing.

The yawning mercenary rose from his bed, rubbing his eyes. Some rays of light made their way into his north-facing window, but for the most part the room was shrouded in near-darkness. It wasn't anything he hadn't been used to though, thanks to keeping up a simple routine that told him where everything he needed was. He gathered all his gear, knowing he'd need to soon step outside and join the others. As he put it on, some heavy, thudding footsteps passed by his room, so he peeked out his door. It was his sister, already ready and beating him by quite a few minutes to the punch; normally he was the one beating her. "Early, huh Liz?" Cal remarked, getting a playful stare from her as she replied, "just like when I was born." "Psht, yeah. Meet you outside, then," he said, disappearing back into his room and closing the door behind him.

The Twins
Firing Range

Within a few minutes, the man had finished gathering everything of his on his person, with his rifle slung over his shoulder and his pistol holstered on his chest. He too stepped outside, leaving the barracks and going to the firing range. There he met his sister and the sergeant, who'd been earlier than even them; others began arriving after them. With the last arrivals appearing at the makeshift range, the sergeant, a man named Gunderson, went off on a far-too-long spiel about weapon safety and proper shooting. Cal listened, even though he'd known the technical know-how of weapon use since he was six. Lizzy, meanwhile, bored of the blabbering, fell between a fine line of consciousness and dozing off. When, at last, Gunderson cut his speech, the two went onto the range with the others, taking up their own lanes next to each other, where their targets were far away.

There wasn't much to it for them; they both laid on the wooden ground of the range - Lizzy for convenience thanks to her injury, and Cal because it was the most stable firing position - firing shot after shot into the same two targets. Years and years of practice with the rifles left them without much trouble on the range; they proved pretty easily that they were the sharpshooters they claimed to be with each shot, scoring incredibly tight groupings around the bulls-eye.

[Anowa]

"Do we have a medic or what!"

The yelling caught Marilyn's ear. Injuries on the range weren't uncommon, ricochets, bad ammo, crappy and older guns, all were cause for injury. And given how the man wasn't howling in agony, his hand wasn't paste, and he likely wasn't pegged by a ricochet. So an actual medic wasn't really necessary right away. Given how Marilyn herself knew first aid and basic know how on how to treat injury, she decided to find the man in question.

It was obvious who it was, because he was the only one with a shaking hand and a grimace on his heavily tattooed face. Nothing was obviously wrong with his hand, but given he had a sawed off, the chance of getting a yanked ligament or pulled tendon were still there. Approaching the man, she happened to spot what was the problem... It was extraordinarily underwhelming. "If you're this worked up over a fucking blister I'd abhor to deal with you if you actually get shot. Rub some fucking dirt on it... fucking baby."

The stall over the resident Amazonian snorted as she stared at the perforated target of her own. It seemed as if some things did transfer from her home to here. Looking at the rather spread out nature of the impacts, compared to that of Corporal Grey's gave Athena the indication that either Grey was the reincarnation of Artemis, or Athena was abyssmal with the weapon. Either way she'd require a fair amount of training with it... Something she looked forward to.

[Kentucky Fried Land]

Pvt. Wilson Lewis
Home Base, The Gun Range

His bullets were way off.

He had never shot a gun before in his life. Countless bullets flew into the edges of the targets, planting themselves in the ground and kicking up a mess of dirt and grass. Wilson swallowed, hard. The gulp of spit and proceeding shaking sigh only seemed to strengthen his anxiety, rather than nullify it. His confidence while having a conversation was lost; now, he quivered at how the others might feel about his shots, but they seemed more intent on their own. The mask wearing man seemed to miss even worse than him, even hitting something down range. Wilson swore he heard something shatter.

After the lecture and the shooting were all said and done, Wilson had turned his attention to another member of Foxtrot, crying for a medic. He approached cautiously with Grey, who had been unable to hear his introduction earlier due to the gunshots ringing a bell behind her eardrums. Wilson looked over the man, noticing a blister on his hand. His eyes almost rolled, but Corporal Grey slung a slew of vulgarities at the man. Wilson looked at her, his lips curled into a smile. “Corporal Grey, please. I’m sure it’s much worse than it looks.” His eyes were wide with confidence. This was his forte. Not the shooting; but this? He could do this all day.

He turned to the “injured” man. “Come on, just go put a bandage or something on it. I don't think you’re gonna need a medic.” He turned his gaze to Grey, doing that same bare minimum laugh he had earlier with the Irishman. Both were filled with a “Can you believe this guy?” tone but neither were aimed at Grey.

[Parakos]

The mean shotgunner, Fernandez, took a moment to realize he was being made a fool of by Private Wilson Lewis. Though the abrasiveness of Marylin was a little more up-front, he couldn't help but feel chastened by the two health providers.

"You're the god damn baby..." he spoke aloud as he knelt down to soften the blister with dirt. Juan wouldn't normally take shit off of a women or anyone else for that matter, but his hand throbbed and his own feeling of foolishness for attempting to fire his gun like some comic book hero curbed his need to lash out. Besides these people would most likely be there at the time of his own death, and he would give them a piece of his mind then.

But just as these thoughts flew about his cranium he jerked up on his heels and began to shoulder his shotgun. There was no use thinking like that. If anyone were to die in this company it sure as shit wouldn't be him. He would throw that peculiarly tall woman, with a shield, in front of a stampeding horse if it meant that he could walk away from a broken foot. As far as he was concerned the only one that mattered was himself. At least for now.

To redeem himself a bit he waited for the shooters to clear off the range in front of him and fired a few rounds from his revolver, that he scooped up with grace from his left heel holster. Attempting to use his right hand was a pain. But he gripped the handle tightly and felt the vibrations from the shots shoot surges of pain into his palm. This blister would take a minute to bruise and finally heal up.

[New Grestin]

As Ellie checked the target, she overheard a commotion nearby. Another one of the mercenaries, a man she didn't recognize was calling for a medic. Two others responded, the first slinging a series of vulgarities at him and calling him a baby. The second seemed more concerned, but it was obvious it wasn't a major injury. With a shrug, she slung the assault rifle over her shoulder and sauntered over to the group.

Even with the sun high in the sky, it was chilly. That was the unfortunate nature of the Northwestern region. It wasn't as bad as the wilderness in the Northern Lands, but it was damned close. She hugged her arms to her chest as she walked. It would've almost been comical, and to some it likely was, but not to Elaine. If there was one thing she missed about the Southwest, it was the weather. It was either too hot or too cold, but on the perfect days, when the clouds came through and the wind kicked up, it was just right.

Didn't make up for the daily beatings or eating rats for dinner, of course. Nostalgia was a strange thing.

She took it all in, admiring the strange beauty of the devastation. Beyond the base-camp, it wasn't odd to see the skyscrapers. Those were her favorite. They were a fascination, an enigma. Mountains of steel and shattered glass, sporting the moldering logos of their former corporate masters. In the broken windows, she could see huge nests of birds. Thousands of them. The skyscrapers had become havens for wildlife now. Feral cats, unrestrained by the collars of their former masters, had developed into vast scavenger swarms. They would live, most often, parasitically with the birds, taking them when they wished and leaving nothing in return. Even tortured mankind, no longer the lord of his domain, could find shelter in these rotting carcasses of civilization. Clans of bandits and snipers favored them for their commanding view, and with the right fortifications, many had become independent human ecosystems of violence and debauchery.

Her father had avidly collected books when she was young. He'd read to her stories about the old world, about times unfathomably far from her own. Battles of good and evil, the rise and fall of empires, and poetry. That was his favorite. There was one that she always remembered, and looking out at that distant decrepit skyline, it was called back to mind.

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains.

She broke from her musings as she approached the scene. One of the men was tending to the wounded mercenary. She caught a glimpse of the injury, and couldn't help but smile. Her eyes rolled. She caught the end of the conversation, and felt the urge to chime in.

“Can you believe this guy?”

Hands dug deep into her jacket pockets, Ellie spoke in a quiet tone.

"That's why you don't use shotguns. Imprecise. Loud. Better chance of hurting yourself than anyone else."

The injured man rose to her feet and returned to work, firing a few shots after the others cleared the range. Ellie sighed and turned her attention back to the private.

"You new here? I don't think we've met."