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Who: Prior(ly) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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?
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?
no subject
If I could count on that, I wouldn't be pushing a gun into your hand.
no subject
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.
no subject
Very well.
[ And he doesn't move back. ]
no subject
And just - squeeze?
no subject
[ 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.
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.]
no subject
Good.
[ Not incredibly accurate, that shot, but not terrible. He thinks. He's not entirely certain what Prior was aiming at, but one leaf does have a chunk taken out of it. Hopefully that was the goal. ]
no subject
That felt like - I've taken drugs that felt like that, and not the medicinal kind. Did I hit anything? Not my feet, which is already an improvement on what I'd imagined.
no subject
[ He gestures at the damaged foliage. Then: ]
Rather fun, isn't it?
no subject
[He can't seek out where he made any impact in that leafy cluster, but it's not hitting things that seems to matter. It's the momentary spark of something stronger than himself. He so rarely feels strong, anymore.
And yet.]
I'd still sooner not point it in the direction of anything with a face.
no subject
Well, we've ammunition left. Let's enjoy ourselves a bit more - and work on that accuracy of yours. Do you see that small iron nub, there, at the end? Work on lining that up with your target.
no subject
This time Prior clips the target at the very edge. The dent is examined (he can't decide if he should be proud, but is.
And another. More guidance, careful positioning. This actually makes a hole roughly where it's supposed to, and it's like Robin Hood splitting his own arrow. Before the jungle has recovered from its shocked silence, Prior's taking the target from where it hangs and turning back to Byerly.]
A trophy! We can put it on the wall.
[Behind him the sounds of the deep undergrowth start again. Gurgling birdsong. Crickets. A low, rumbling sound and a shadow falling across the grass behind where Prior stands.]