Closed

[vorrutyer]

Who: Prior(ly) (priorly) & Byerly (vorrutyer)
What: By fusses about Prior's life potentially being in danger and consequently endangers his life. He's sssoooo good at his job.
When: The 26thish
Where: The jungle
Warning(s): Cursing without a doubt


[ By would not, by choice, be coming out into the jungle. It's a dreadful place, truly: full of buzzing insects and sweat and mud and foul odors. Give him the open plains stretching to the sea any day - better a hundred times over than this, the wretched sticky stinking jungle.

But he has a task out there, doesn't he? And the task is this: ensure that Prior has the tools he needs to avoid a bit of murder. And so he finds a relatively open clearing, far away from any place where anyone would be alerted by noise, and settles them down there. He brushes off a fallen log for Prior to sit upon, and then asks, a bit solicitously: ]

All right there, dear fellow? Do you need a rest?

Comments

[priorly]

[Look, he's nervous around these things, and disguising that requires flippancy. It's one or the other.

He raises his arm, resisting the inclination to hold it two-handed, or with one palm supporting his wrist. Twenty seconds in and his arm isn't steady any longer, but he hasn't lowered it either.]

[vorrutyer]

[ A small nod of approval, measured. ]

That's what you'll be fighting against when you actually hold it. Fatigue will throw off your aim. So will the kick of the gunshot. Modern energy weapons don't have that kick, thank heavens - it's a dreadful thing - but since we're working with barbarian technology, here we are. All right - use your left hand to support your right, to keep it up.

[priorly]

[First he swaps the gun into his left hand, still tentative in how he handles it, shaking the ache out of his right wrist.]

If my century's so barbarian, perhaps we should be out here with fur loincloths and clubs? I'm sure I could source at least the first part.

[Right, another go. It's easier with two hands, at least. Gun raised, he doesn't even realise he's automatically closing his eyes.]

[vorrutyer]

I wouldn't fancy the draft on my nether parts. Eyes open, darling.

[priorly]

I don't know, fresh air can be quite exhilarating.

[He blinks, frowning as he opens his eyes, narrow but as functional as they get.]

You understand I'm unlikely to be precise in this? [But if he has to hold this pose much longer he'll barely manage to aim at all.] And now? Point and crook my finger? Is everything on? Or, off. Whatever it's supposed to be?

[vorrutyer]

The safety is off, yes. That's the switch that keeps it from firing accidentally. So don't pull the trigger just yet, eh? Now -

[ By grasps Prior's wrist gently, then adjusts the way that the gun sits in his hands. Then he bends down to reposition Prior's feet, then rises up just a bit to grasp his hips and turn them at an angle. ]

Do you feel balanced?

[priorly]

I feel practically seduced.

[Just a flash of a smile over his shoulder before he reminds himself to watch the gun, stupid.]

Balanced. Yes.

[vorrutyer]

[ Just to check, Byerly shoves Prior's shoulders, checking for any hint of stumbling. ]

[priorly]

[Well that's how to spoil a moment, of course Prior stumbles. Stumbles, reels and hisses, and comes incredibly close to firing off a warning shot somewhere near Byerly's shoulder as he spins.]

Well I was until then. I take it back, your seduction is lacking some finesse.

[vorrutyer]

[ Altogether - infuriatingly - unperturbed by the snarling - ]

Aren't we full of vinegar today. Plant your feet more firmly, dear Prior. Bend your knees. Get firm.

[priorly]

[Oh he's barely snarled, it would take a lot to put Byerly in receipt of the worst of that. But he's certainly no less than snippy.]

I have a shoddy leg, it doesn't do firm. I was managing balanced until someone decided to tip it.

[And it hurt, which is one thing he's not accusing Byerly of causing deliberately, though it may lend a little to the sharpness of his tone.]

[vorrutyer]

The kickback from the gun will tip you, too, Prior.

[priorly]

Well maybe I should consider not shooting people, then.

[More frustration than anything else, now, ebbing down into something more gracious.] No, spare the reasons, I know. I don't... not appreciate it.

[He's still holding the gun like something that could bite. Tipping his chin, he checks Byerly's stance.]

Are you balanced? Stable?

[vorrutyer]

[ By responds to neither frustration nor apology; he just watches Prior's gamut of emotions with eyes slightly hooded and his mouth a placid line. There's a stillness to him when he's in ImpSec mode, quite unlike his usual half-drunk garrulousness. Steady indeed. ]

Give me a shove, if you'd like.

[ He also lets the obvious "unstable" joke pass. ]

[priorly]

No, I believe you.

[You and your sudden stoicism.

Which is why this time when Prior takes up a stance, it's with his shoulders braced back against the supporting structure of Byerly's chest. There. Recoil can't knock the both of them back, right?]

[vorrutyer]

Ah -

[ That gets a slight blink of surprise. Then, dryly (though not without amusement): ]

This rather defeats the purpose, you know.

[priorly]

Does it? I'm being resourceful. You're being the nearest wall in a crisis. Take it or leave it.

[At least let him figure out how to stay upright after he's established some kind of aptitude for the rest of the process.]

[vorrutyer]

In a crisis, there might not be a wall.

[priorly]

[Sigh, why all this logic. He looks up - upside down - at Byerly.]

Will there be a you?

[vorrutyer]

[ For once, there's no bullshit. ]

If I could count on that, I wouldn't be pushing a gun into your hand.

[priorly]

[And that's appreciated. Prior closes his eyes, a little nod.]

Pity. You steady me. You do. [No matter. A breath, enough to laugh that comment off though not quite enough to convince at it, and - ] Lets assume in this crisis there's a wall.

[vorrutyer]

[ A little pause. That comment causes a little twist of emotion in the pit of his stomach. Still, finally, smoothly enough: ]

Very well.

[ And he doesn't move back. ]

[priorly]

[So, arms raised, left steadying the right. One eye open, because isn't that how these things are done? He aims in the direction of one of the larger targets set up.]

And just - squeeze?

[vorrutyer]

Both eyes open.

[ Sure, Byerly is behind him and can't see for sure, but he figures it's a good guess that Prior is closing his eyes again. He taps gently on Prior's chin - ]

Chin up. Shoulders relaxed. Arms bent just a little - [ He reaches out to adjust the posture of Prior's arms - ] Locking your joints is a recipe for injury. And remember you're not firing from your wrists. You don't move your wrists at all. That's what throws off most people's aim - when they fire, they tense their whole hands, and their wrists yank back. Concentrate on your breathing. When you're exhaling, look at the target. And when you reach the end of your breath, just move your finger back - lightly. You only need a light pressure to fire.

[priorly]

[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.]