[Who'd have thought that instruction in gun use could be so soothing. The litany of guidelines, given just behind his ear, are reassuring for how precise they are. Lulling for how careful they make the whole thing seem. It almost makes Prior want to close his eyes again, just to listen.
He doesn't. He is listening.]
I never knew you had to be so gentle about it.
[Not firing from your wrists is complex advice, when your wrist is the guide you're looking down, and the point where the weight of the metal counterbalances your arm. Prior spends long moments rediscovering the ways his joints link together, letting go of the tension in them without losing the correct posture. He's been so distanced from his body as a whole - just this painful, malfunctioning thing he's trapped in - that it's nearly revelatory just on its own.
Gentle.
He lets his eyeline meet the end of the pistol and focus on the target beyond. Still not sure if it's how you're supposed to aim, but it feels right. And. Breathe.
He can feel the lift of Byerly's chest, lets his own breathing fall into sync with that. Exhale and
His wrists don't break.
His arms lock more that they should - instinct - and he can feel the kick of the pistol reverb through his elbows, pushing him back, knocking his arm up. He keeps hold of the gun. He probably yelps like a girl, though the sound competes with gunfire and loses, and the next moment it's being muffled along with a rush of quick, nervous breath against Byerly's shoulder. Now his eyes are closed.
He's got no idea if he hit anything at all, but the adrenaline hit is dizzying.]
no subject
He doesn't. He is listening.]
I never knew you had to be so gentle about it.
[Not firing from your wrists is complex advice, when your wrist is the guide you're looking down, and the point where the weight of the metal counterbalances your arm. Prior spends long moments rediscovering the ways his joints link together, letting go of the tension in them without losing the correct posture. He's been so distanced from his body as a whole - just this painful, malfunctioning thing he's trapped in - that it's nearly revelatory just on its own.
Gentle.
He lets his eyeline meet the end of the pistol and focus on the target beyond. Still not sure if it's how you're supposed to aim, but it feels right. And. Breathe.
He can feel the lift of Byerly's chest, lets his own breathing fall into sync with that. Exhale and
His wrists don't break.
His arms lock more that they should - instinct - and he can feel the kick of the pistol reverb through his elbows, pushing him back, knocking his arm up. He keeps hold of the gun. He probably yelps like a girl, though the sound competes with gunfire and loses, and the next moment it's being muffled along with a rush of quick, nervous breath against Byerly's shoulder. Now his eyes are closed.
He's got no idea if he hit anything at all, but the adrenaline hit is dizzying.]