If you go down to the range today, prepare for a grumpy grunt...
Location: Firing Range
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 1429
Where do marines go when they're off duty and they've already eaten? Well, some prefer the CQB arena, and some the firing range. Tomak, though, typically prefers to run the halls of the Dauntless rather than stick on a treadmill, but some incident dirtside the day before's left him with a bit of a limp for reasons he hasn't been all that chatty about, and so he's settled instead in the firing range, rifle lifted, practicing pot-shots at dead-center target. He's not alone, either, a handful of others keen on keeping their skills up have chosen their own lanes.
Fact: Pilots have to learn to use firearms like anybody, en route to that vaunted position in the sky, helming weapons of a significantly larger caliber.
Fact: Once they're pilots, most of their training with rifles deteriorates, and they're only really issued sidearms, anyway.
Fact: This makes for a somewhat awkward, self-conscious experience in any environment where pilots and marines comingle. Nevertheless, there are expectations for competence that remain in place for good reason, and no pilot wants to wind up behind enemy lines without some recourse. Hawk's predicament -- all of the air wing seems determined to believe he's still alive -- is just a poignant reminder of how possible that is.
Thus: Ines. She strides in with a confidence she in no way feels, pausing only long enough to take the ballistics glasses propped atop her head down and put them where they belong. She's already wearing ear protection. Thus insulated, she chooses a lane and only notices a little late that it's beside a tattoo she recognizes the top end of.
Unholstering the pistol from its thigh holster, she side-eyes him while he works.
Gage doesn't take note of the pilot's arrival in the lane beside him. Or, perhaps more accurately, he doesn't acknowledge her arrival other than with the faintest of grunts. The Tauron's in focus mode. Boom! Boom! Boom! There's almost a comforting cadence to the noise as he fires until the weapon clicks empty. He presses the button to retrieve the target, and only then regards his bunkmate with a lift of brows that might be taken for a silent challenge of her presence here.
For all that in the field she generally has one specific weapon, every marine a rifleman rings true. That means that they ought to keep brushed up inmos (if not all) weapons. Pistols. Rifles. Whatever may be shoved into their hands (or grabbed in a pinch) when push comes to shove. That's what has Charlie Wagner checking over an SMG as she steps her way into the Dauntless firing range, ear and eye protection already in place. The sniper looks no worse for wear for her own missions afield save for a bandage still in place on the side of her head from the other day; just a scratch, as these things go, but medical can be so persnickety about such things.
The Piconese woman steps into place in a lane on Gage's other side, setting box of ship-safe munition in place and the smaller-sized rifle down while she gets a target situated.
Ines watches the target reel inward, studies his grouping. By the time she looks up again he's giving her that look, and for just a moment there's uncertainty in her, lips parted and expression open, like some sort of mutual awareness of Fact: #3.
Then her personality catches up with her, and her expression does that flattening-out thing, her lips pressed together. It's not an annoyed look, but it has a little something in it like defiance. She accompanies it with a blind loading of her pistol. Whether or not she can shoot, at least her hands know their way around the weapon. "What!" Not exactly a question.
She glances up as someone passes her periphery, and experiences several emotions at once, all contradictory: interest in watching Charlie shoot, a little beat of friendly recognition, and absolute dread at being anywhere near a sniper while she is herself trying to practice.
"Wagner," Gage apparently has a bit more than a grunt for the marine that ends up on his other side, an upnod given as he examines his clustering, grunting again. Hard to tell whether it's satisfactory or not -- the grouping is quite decent, but there's a few outliers. He checks his weapon over, expels the empty magazine, but doesn't load a new one, setting the weapon down. Instead, there's the faintest of smirks, there and gone, at Ines' reaction. He doesn't say anything, just gestures towards the lanes like, 'Go ahead, impress me', resting a hand on the divider between lanes. He's totally going to watch and be all judgy, it seems, as if Charlie's presence weren't intimidating enough.
"Tomak," Charlie offers in return with a return upnod- voice a bit loud, given the rapport of fire around them and the muffs over her ears. She sends the target back to about mid-range, considering her weapon of choice. The woman doesn't pick up the SMG just yet, leaning around to check the grouping the Tauran has. She pulls back the ear guards briefly, chiming in: "You're pulling a bit to the right while you've got it tucked in at your shoulder. Loosen up at the elbow." And then he's watching Ines, so she sidles around a bit to observe, too.
Because that's what the pilot wants, right?
"You shouldn't do that," Charlie notes to Gage before pulling up the muffs again just before Ines goes into shooting her pistol. Wagner is quiet as she observes. There's a tilt of her head once the echoes die off. "Not bad," she notes, absently, "for an officer." Not even for a pilot. Perhaps even marine officers earn the ire of the enlisted. She lifts her chin, gesturing absently towards the target. "Bring it on in."
Magazine emptied, Ines stares at the target downrage and allows herself a moment of relief. At least some of those shots went where they were supposed to. Time to reload, focus, don't look at the Marines for confirmation or approval or, whatever, just don't look, you're cool, you've got this, no problem, don't look don't look don'tlookdon'tloo--
Not even the qualifier 'for an officer' can douse her relief, but she tries very hard not to let the relief show, either. She's about as successful as she was at concealing her unease, which is to say: not at all.
She slaps her palm down, pulls the target in.
Wagner receives a flat look from Tomak that expressively conveys, 'Really?' pretty clearly. But then he's regarding Ines again, and after a moment to rub at his chin, asks blandly, "Ever had to fire that thing in real combat?" a vague nod indicates the pistol. As the target begins rolling in, he adds, "Didn't your instructor ever teach you the SYBS method?"
There's a flash of a wholly innocent grin for Gage, but Charlie just steps on by to get a good look at the target once it's in closer. "With a pistol," she's noting, as it's coming nearer, "you're gonna have to really think about your shots. For a human, well, just hit 'em anywhere. Most people are wussy little shits. Unless they're a Colonial Marine, then you're frakked and I wanna know why the frak you were shootin' at 'em anyway." She hooks a thumb in her pocket. "But the insurgents down there, well, shoulder, chest, knee, whatever. Make it count, they'll probably get the point. But a Cylon? With a pistol? You want to get them in the dome. And for that, you need a good, solid grounding." She kicks, lightly, at one of Ines' feet. "Your problems start down here."
Gage's first question receives an incongruously blank look that ends with a slow shake of the head. It picks up in cadence toward the end, when her eyes drop and Ines turns her attention to what her hands didn't need visual help to do earlier. "No. Not this." The second question earns a longer look, probably due to searching her memory for anything that could fit an acronym like that one. She comes up empty, though, and slowly shakes her head. She also looks suspicious, like the question might be some kind of trap.
Charlie doesn't get suspicion. Charlie gets her full and slightly abashed attention, and a glance downward at the sensation of a boot nudging hers. "Not wide enough?"
"Stance aint her problem. She's standing like some Caprican officer getting a medal pinned to her chest. And that's hard to beat -- they're pretty stiff dicks," Gage observes, with a fleeting smile. "Gotta, you know, Shake Your Booty, Sister. Or Sir. Works for both." Hard to tell if he's just frakking with her -- his posture is still at ease from where he leans into the divider, watching Charlie approach the pilot. It's the other marine's observation that earns a: "Aint here to kill the locals," in a flat tone.
"If her bird goes down, I doubt the locals are gonna care if she's here to kill them or not," Charlie notes in a wry tone to Gage, with a glance over her shoulder to the Tauran. "We're not here to kill them, but you've heard the reports, yeah? They sure as hell don't give a frak that there's a war with the Cylons on. The local forces have had to deal with them enough and I bet we will, too." She looks back to Ines, turning to face forward. "Wide enough, but you should stagger your feet a bit more. One in front of the other. Turn your hips a bit, keep your knees slightly bent... like you're about to take off and run at any moment."
"That is the first time this week I've been compared to a stiff dick," Ines says in a monotone murmur and amazed shake of the head. It's really only the accent that makes it funny; like something vulgar with a pretty bow tied around it. What gets her to laugh is what comes after that, though: that acronym, his explanation. She double-takes, still suspicious, and then laughs in spite of herself, brows creasing together. "No, my instructor never told me to 'shake my booty.' Are you very sure that's what yours was getting at?" She arches one brow wryly, shooting him a pointed look, and then attempts to make the adjustments Charlie suggests.
...While her humor fades. Because right now, out there, one of the air wing is dealing with exactly what they're talking about -- maybe. And following through with those recommendations, all she can think about is that downed pilot. Not that she knows him at all, but --
"I hope Hawk isn't finding out for us," she says, almost quiet enough to slide underneath ear muff audibility.
"Heard the reports," Gage acknowledges. "Don't mean I'll fire on civilians." Even if they're really no such thing these days, his chin is lifted, eyes hard. "They're just trying to fight for what ought to be theirs in the first place." His flippant flicker of fingers back to Ines seems as much, 'do as you will', as anything, given he adds, "Maybe it's best you don't shoot better, if you're going to mow through the locals."
"Even if it comes down to us or them, Tomak?" Charlie steps back from Ines, then, turning to study the Tauran. "I'm not saying I plan to go out there and attack them or even want to. But if I'm on guard duty at one of those mines and a bunch of them come at us, firing... I'm not gonna just stand there and let them do it. I'll defend myself." She frowns at him, shaking her head before she makes her way back to her own firing lane. "Pretty frakkin' disappointed to think you'd rather see your own brothers die than pick up arms to protect them."
What little looseness the Marines were able to get Ines to summon up all but disappears with the turn of the conversation. It's landing punches on her that can't be explained by the scope of the conversation -- enough that she straightens out of firing stance and stands, pistol held muzzle down, watching the other two. There's enough tension in her that the hollow of her throat is emptied out, slim tendons standing up where throat meets collarbone, but at least for the moment she remains silent. Listening.
"Guess we'll see," is Gage's bland, if honest response to Charlie, folding arms across his chest. "There's a pretty big difference in protecting a mine and protecting fellow marines. Figure, comes down to it, the insurgents are more likely to shoot the toasters than us." With a grimace, he adds, "Don't plan to die. But aint planning to gun down no starving kids, neither."
"Doubt they're all starving kids, Tomak." Charlie shakes her head, picking up the SMG she's checked out. She starts going over it, loading the ammo into the magazine. "Someone's gotta organize that shit. And if they cared about the Cylons more than us, they'd have been working with the local groups by now, rather than giving them such a hard time and making the fight here worse. Shit here wouldn't be so bad if not for them."
Turning her gaze from the Marines to the lane in front of her, Ines looks for a long moment at the cluster of holes in her target. Some dead center, some adequate, a few wandering embarrassingly wide of the mark.
"It's not always simple," she says, with a hesitation that suggests some reluctance to put her foot in the middle of the conversation. The other two get brief glances. "Not straightforward." After a beat, she flicks the safety for the pistol on and holsters it again at her thigh. "If my bird goes down I'll probably die anyway." Her tone is subdued, but matter-of-fact.
"Maybe not," Gage allows, "But weren't all that long ago Tauron weren't much better off than Sag. Enough to remember what that desperation felt like." His gaze tracks Charlie as she returns to her rifle. "Would you be willing to work with the Virgons, if they'd been treating you like shit for decades? Not hard to figure why." Ines' words draw his level gaze for a moment, before he nods. "Aint that straightforward," he agrees, before he eyes her, then the target past her, then her again. "We'd come get you," he says in that self-same serious tone.
"Pretty sure we ain't the Virgans, Tomak. And we've been warned they'll be coming after us, too." Charlie looks over towards the other marine, frowning. "I get it, alright? But it gets to a point-" She lets out a sigh, lifting a hand to push fingers against the braids her hair is kept in. "If they attack any of the Wolves, I'm taking them out. You're my brothers and that's that. I'm not going to let any of you get hurt because they can't get their shit straight." As for Ines? She shrugs. "It's what recon does. I heard about that Viper pilot. If the teams on the ground can't find him and we get sent, we will."
Soft sage-green eyes consider Gage for a handful of heartbeats. The serious tone, mostly -- or maybe they just rest there while she thinks about other things, given her expression is freighted with things she's not saying. In the end, though, she finds a smile, and she shares it with the sniper, though only Gage gets the slow-motion not-quite-punch to the shoulder, because he's the only one close enough. "I know."
Businesslike, then, in the way she fiddles with the ammunition she brought with her. "There just isn't often anyone left to go and get, hm? The perils of piloting." Her shrugs says it clearly enough: they know what they're signing up for when they decide to fly.
When she glances up next, it's at Charlie. "How long? Did they say?" Pause. "How long before they send Wolves?"
"Probably aint much difference to them between working with the Virgons and working for them," Gage says with a grimace. Charlie's words earn a grimace, but he nods all the same -- despite clearly not agreeing with her entirely. That almost-punch to the shoulder earns a brief smile. Or maybe it's her words. "You jocks sure are jack shit crazy," he agrees easily. "Picon was much worse for rescue. Your pilot's probably camped out at some Virgon outpost sipping tea waiting for clear comms." He's clearly guessing, because he glances at Charlie, too, in case she's heard anything.
There's just a sort of long-suffering sigh from Charlie. Picon. The peacekeepers, as it were. They're everyone's friends! Or they try to be, at least. Why can't we all just get along?! Or at least long enough to get rid of the evil killer robot threat. At Ines' question, however, she looks up from the SMG. "Dunno," the sniper admits, with an apologetic shrug. "Haven't heard anything. The brass will let us know if we're being deployed, but... My guess is the local recon group is still out there. We're trained to be deployed for days, even a week or more. Give it through the weekend, yeah?" She tilts her head to Tomak. "Like he says. Picon was worse for this sort of thing."
Ines responds to those allegations of madness with her best theatrically-crazy eyes and closed-lipped smile, but she can't sustain it for long. The subject matter has too much gravity. She still tries to angle for a smile at the thought of Hawk sipping tea out there in the badlands, but it's watery at best. She tidies little boxes of ammunition unnecessarily, eyes unfocused. "I hope you're right. I was on that flight. We were pretty deep into hostile territory. It was..." Pause. "Not good." One pilot dead, one downed and presumed stranded, and plenty of damaged aircraft besides, her own and her wingman's not least of the bunch: she is guilty of outrageous understatement.
She does nod, though, slowly at first and then more firmly, in answer to Charlie. "Yeah. I just don't like to think of him out there. Like that."
Gage is silent for a moment, maybe even a shadow of a frown, though it's fleeting at best. "Shooting's good for distraction. Punching things too. Blowing things up is the best, but can't exactly do that on this tin can," with a brief twitch of lips. "Running works best for me, helps keep the mind clear." It perhaps says something that he gives genuine sort of advice, at least from his perspective. "Your CAG seems pretty badass. Can bet she won't let one of you down there alone long."
"I like swimming, myself," Charlie chimes in, while Gage is suggesting activities to keep one's mind off of things. "Finding someone to spar is good, too. Been working on that." She flashes a look to the other marine, with a hint of mischief. "I think I might be close to having a proper upper hand on Calhoun." She takes a hand away from the SMG, having been about to aim it downrange. "And no, I'm not talking about that knee. Frak you, I was aiming for his gut. He moved at the wrong time."
'Maudlin' doesn't seem to be a state Ines can maintain for long. She quirks a small smile when Gage suggests punching and shooting things, and actually laughs at the thought of blowing things up for catharsis. "I like to run," she agrees with a nod. "Though explosives sound more fun." By the time he mentions the CAG, she's back to ready smiles. "I like Whisper. I don't know her very well yet, but already better than my last commander."
First: "Kyle Costello showed me a few things in the gym the other day. Soon I'll be a hand-to-hand monster." She wags her brows. The idea is patently ridiculous.
And then she really laughs. "By the time the war's over, Charlie Wagner, I'm going to know more about what your hands get up to with Calhoun than anybody ever needs to know." She tchs, looks wry. Doesn't blush, though.
It's a small berth, okay?
"Frakking is the best," Gage adds on top of Charlie's own suggestion. "Unless you're doing it in a bunkroom full of people," with a slanted glance towards the sniper, alongside a visible smirk. Of course, that disappears pretty quickly at the other marine's reminder of that particular sparring session, visibly wincing and hands inadvertently shifting over his groin. "That was a low blow, Wagner. Literally." Snorted amusement soon follows on the back of Ines' observations. "You're always welcome to give up those death-traps," planes, he probably means, "And come join us grunts, Correa. Whenever you get to monster-state."
"Look, y'all are welcome to move out and leave the bunkroom to Evan and me. We'd welcome it." Charlie grins a little broader. "Or, y'know, join us." This, it'd seem, is directed at Gage more than anything. Likely to see what his reaction is. "But really, do you think I, of all people, would go after his junk? C'mon. That's one of my favorite parts." She scoffs, leaning against the divider for the moment. "Frakking is a great way to burn off steam. I do recommend it. Most folks wait 'til leave for obvious reasons, but... well, never know when that's gonna come 'round."
"You know, Tomak," Ines reflects, securing the catch on the pistol in its holster and picking up those boxes of ammunition, "I'm going to take that invitation from you as a compliment. But..." She pivots, docks her hip against the ledge on the inside of her lane. "I think I'm committed to the death-traps now."
She abstains from any frakking talk, at least until Charlie issues that invitation, at which point her mouth drops open and her eyes go wide, a dramatic enough expression that it's probably an exaggeration. It still collapses into a silent laugh, her hand lifted, wrist in front of her mouth, to conceal the smile. "Yeah...well. I'll probably...go turn these rounds back in."
"Surely you can go frak in some of the officers quarters?" Gage suggests, only half-jokingly. Charlie's offer earns a lift of brows from the Tauron. "Think Calhoun's got more than he can handle all ready, Wagner," is replied with a brief snort, as his hands slowly drift back into a more neutral stance, all unconsciously. He moves back to collect his rifle, habitually clearing the chamber as he does so. "Ought to hit the showers, myself." He doesn't confirm Ines' words, but neither does he deny them. Instead, in a faintly amused tone: "You want to go for a run sometime, Correa, I'm happy to thrash you."
There's a flash of a grin at them both. "Officer's quarters- hmmm." Charlie squints at Gage for a moment. "Y'know, ain't tried there yet. Might have to see who we could bribe or who isn't home often." Well, if she and Calhoun end up NJP's or on some sort of terrible duty soon enough, chances are they'll know why. The sniper gives an upnod to them both. "Uh-huh, I see how it is. I get settled in to shoot some rounds and get abandoned." There's a bit of a snort for them both. "That's fine. Tomak was stinking up the joint anyway."
Ines glances at Charlie, and her amusement turns apologetic. "Sorry. Let's just call it my being embarrassed to do anything with a firearm around you." Rather than what it is, which is 'all of that earlier debate was a real turnoff as far as practice with the pistol goes.' "But thanks for taking the time to give me that advice. I'll try to remember it next time."
Then she tilts forward and out of her slight prop against the table, half-turning to go, and in so doing Gage gets another oh-so-shocked look from Ines, though this one reads as indignant rather than scandalized. Amused, though. "You're happy to what? Sorry, how much do you weigh? Can you even get up to speed with all of that -- " Vague gestures all over her torso, none of which she explains.
Patting his abdomen with his free hand, Gage says in response to Ines, "It's all muscle. Surely you've seen in the showers," because, let's face it, everyone peeks one everyone in this very egalitarian ship. "Wouldn't be so stinky if you just did your part for the bunkroom and did my laundry once in a while, Wagner. Take one for the team, etcetera," he says with a wave of his head as he heads for the door.
"I don't expect much out of pilots except that y'all show up on time when we call in air support." And, well, sometimes not even then. Ahem! Charlie snorts, however, quickly in Gage's direction, throwing a balled up paper target someone left behind at the back of his head. "I already take turns doing Evan's laundry." And he hers. "Ain't gonna touch yours unless I lose a bet." And thus far, she hasn't taken any with the Tauran.
This time the indignant squawk from Ines is real. "Pff. Like I have the time or energy to examine every -- " But he's already turned to go, and her outflung hands, splayed to either side of her with arms wide, say everything she doesn't have time to. He disappears, both of her hands fall, and her wide eyes narrow in that dangerous way that suggests a short-sheeted bed was only the beginning of the ways that Corporal Tomak is going to have his tab forcibly settled.
She glances over her shoulder at Charlie, sharing this ominous expression, with a side of 'can you believe that guy..?' and then, dragging in a long breath, she marches off to return her unused ammunition.
Entering where others had left, Captain Johannes Whyck is a figure of calm, cool, and 'damn you're tall for an old man' style. He has, in his hand, the standard pilot 'if you need to use this you are frakked' sidearm and takes a moment to double check the weapon by rolling it over in his hand with a kind of casual grace that only an officer can manage. He slips the weapon into its holster, a brown leather object set on his belt on his left hand side, clashing violently with the olive-green of his uniform.
Johannes pauses as shots ring out and his piercing gaze settles on the figure of the woman with the rapid-fire boomstick, "Apologies," he says in a loud, but calm, voice, "I wasn't aware anyone was here." He doesn't move to leave, however, because frak you I'm Charles Dance; instead he takes a position at a neighbouring, but not directly next to hers, firing position, whereupon he draws his weapon - he's a lefty - and looks down the iron sights of the firearm, "MMn, I really need to practice with this more often..."
There's a sidelong look to the officer and a catch of the rank pips. Great. More 'one of my fellows just crash landed, so now's a good time for me to remember how the trigger on a pistol works.' Charlie gives an initial grunt when the man speaks, but largely keeps her attention focused on her work. The SMG is broken down and she looks over the various parts. A couple are picked up and set back into place before she begins reassembly. "You should," she says finally, after a moment of quiet, finally pulling away the ear muffs to let them drape over her neck. They catch the mass of braids that make up her hair. "Never know what sort of shit you'll end up in." Her word on reassembly is quick, but methodical. Precise and careful. She's not rushing, but she's no slouch about it either. Used to being timed on such things, but also making certain each part is in good condition before it goes back in place.
Once the last part is in, she picks up the whole again and tucks it in against her shoulder, sighting along it. A bit cramped, for an SMG versus, say, a carbine, but even so. She tilts it, considers. There's a slight shake of the thing and a 'hmmph.' "Might be the stock," she mutters to herself.
Having to practice in the range is something Charles finds small satisfaction in. Eyeprotection already in place, he is tapping the magazine of his sidearm over his open palm while he walks into a stall between the older pilot and the marine with the big gun, just after she has fired. Focused on his initial preparation, he is silent as he sets the ammo mag down before slipping his pistol out from his thigh holster and placing it over the tamle before him. "Four points down," he mutters to himself and sighs a bit. His gaze aimed down range at the paper target that seems to mock him. He shakes his head a few times as he adjusts the ear protectors over his head to cover the auditory canals.
"Admirable, except you should put more time in if that's your belief." Charlie unloads the magazine from the SMG and sets both on the shelf. "Not just when the fancy strikes or it's been," one can sense the air quotes, "too long." She leans back on her heels, looking down at the weapon with a frown. "Weight balance. I think-" The Piconese woman reaches out to flip the weapon over, revealing pock marks along one side, "it got hit in a firefight and it's been off-kilter since. There's been some complaints on it. Armory figured it was just people being fussy over aesthetics, but..." She shrugs, hitting the button to reel in the target. "I think it may have knocked things off enough that they have a point."
"You are right, of course," says the uncharacteristically self-aware Leonid with a small shrug, "When one has so many other things to worry about, the necessary-yet-dull take a back seat. Until someone does something that shocks one out of their rut." He hits the magazine release on the side of his pistol and slips the half-full (or half-empty for all the Marines in the audience) magazine from its housing and sets it down on the table - taking particular care to not put it in Charlie's pile-o-drek. Pulling back the slide the in-chamber round is flung into the air and rather dexterously caught by the almost disinterested pilot officer, it is then reinserted into the top of the magazine with all the effort of a particularly lazy sloth taking a nap on a hot summer's day. From a pouch on the front of his holster he withdraws a small multitool, emblazoned with the logo for the 'Leathermen of Caprica' down the side - disregard the 'made in picon' sticker just underneath the logo. "You may be right that it needs junking. I'm sure parts of it are still useful, depending on where it was hit." He pauses for a beat and frowns, "Was the carrier of the weapon harmed by debris fragments?"
"Shame that it took pilots being shot down to get you jocks on the firing range," Charlie says, voice a touch dry. "You lot should be down here more often. Proactive rather than reactive." She takes down the paper target, folding it rather than crumpling it. It'll be easier to cart to the trash that way. Don't mind the one she threw at Tomak's head as the Tauran left before Johannes arrived. There's a few others from similar shenanigans littering the floor, too. She'll take care of this one, at least. It's tucked into the thigh pocket of her BDUs as she looks to the SMG on the shelf. There's a grunt at the query. "Probably." The Corporal, herself, has a light bandage on the side of her face from a recent mission. "Couldn't say to what severity."
"Yes," Johannes says with another bob of his expressive eyebrow, "when I have enough down time, I'll be sure to spend it here. Unfortunately if people keep being so selfish as to get shot down, the rest of us will have to pull longer CAPs." Though it could sound insensitive, his voice does have an ever-so-slight tinge of something akin to sorrow in it. Naturally that tinge fades the moment he eyes Durant and follows where his fellow pilot's rounds end up. He offers another small shrug as he flips out a screwdriver head on his multitool and points his weapon down range again, "Of course the main idea should be to avoid getting shot down in the first place. But when you're driving a space bus with an aft bigger than some colonies, perhaps getting shot down should be expected." He angles his wry little gaze towards Charlie and Charles in equal measure, "Especially if we have to rely on Viper pilots."
Durant is able to hear Charlie suggest flyboys and girls should spend more time here and the aquarian man snickers. He glances around the stall to see who is the woman that offered such words and he prompts, "I actually was a decent shooter back at the academy, so your advice is a good one." He pushes the button that releases the used magazine and it clatters over the table. "As it stands, I am barely making my qualification scores." He now pans to te other side and notices the elder pilot. He nods and smirks, "Captain, sir." With that, he seems to agree on his viper pilo comment.
There's a slight shake of the head from Charlie; directed to both pilots in turn. "I'm sure you can find time, shipside, to skirt paperwork or whatever it is you pilots do when you're not cushy in those cockpits. Brush up on your marksmanship." She's a sniper; marksmanship is what it's all about. The woman gathers up both SMG and the ammunition she'd brought along. The box jingles and rattles with the empty space it now has for all the ship-safe rounds within. Or lack thereof, for those used. "As it stands, I'll leave you two the range while I go and inform the armory that this-" she lifts the rifle, "ought to just be used for parts rather than make any poor sod suffer its use."
With a shrug of his shoulders, Johannes begins tinkering with the screws around the rear iron sight on his pistol - using the screwdriver, "I very rarely have any time on ship. There's only a handful of Raptor pilots, and you Marines always need to get flown somewhere and back. And if we're not doing that we're playing CAP hotseat." He does let out a little chuckle and prepares his weapon in an aiming posture again, "So if you Marines ever feel like not doing anything for a week or so, let us know. We'll be sure to brush up on our marksmanship then." His lips turn up ever so slightly at the corners, to show that no ill-will is present, though he does arch his eyebrows slightly as his gaze shifts to Durant, "Mister Durant," he says with a slight nod, "Perhaps a firearm competition. Raptors against Vipers." He gets a very slight twinkle in his eye, "We'll have to find chairs for the fighter jocks, of course. Wouldn't want them to put any more effort in than usual."
Durant chuckles at the captain's words and agrees with a nod of his head. "I could grow an interest in this as a sport and not just for a grade with that sort of encouragement, sir." The slide is pulled and Charles gives the chamber of his gun a good look to make sure it is empty. "I will get back for some more practice after my next CAP." He holsters the pistol and grabs the empty mag off the table before he remove his ear protector. Getting ready to leave the area, it seems.