milliways_bar | (no subject)

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teja

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OOM: The World We Live In.

Fury is out back doing sit-ups. Rather more specifically he's got his legs hooked over a tree-branch and is doing sit-ups from that position, curling up toward the sky until crossed arms touch his knees and then relaxing until his head is again pointed at the ground. His sword is hung within easy reach of him, and there are several knives strapped to visible portions of his body.

He has a modern shirt draped near his sword, as purple as his armor, but his boots and trews are proper garments for a man of his time and place. He only wears modern clothing when he must.

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"...."

Has Fury ever heard Freeman laugh before? Well, he still hasn't- but that's a heck of an amused snort that finally comes out of him.

"That's two worlds, now."

"A title you have born before? I suppose that Anti-Citizen One is slightly better than The Man In The Orange Suit?"

Another snort, this one even closer to laughter. "That's exactly what the Combine public announcement system in City 17 calls me," he says. "They don't like using my name because people've turned it into a title, or something. I don't know."

It occurs to him, briefly, to wonder what his mother the judge would think. Of course, Barbara Freeman wouldn't've put up with a ruler like Breen for any longer than it took to construct the most scathing letter of resignation possible, so.

"They call Rojhaz The Alleged Captain America." Fury agrees, "They are not certain what to call me."

It amuses him. A lot.

"Trouble," Gordon suggests.

What? It's true.

All Fury has is laughter at that. "Perhaps so, Master Freeman, perhaps so!"

"If we're lucky, anyway. And good at it." Freeman shakes his head, but he's smiling just a little. "Did you want a round or two with either of these, by the way? Just to get a feel for them?"

He's well aware that he's not the only one with a freakishly instinctive knack for guns, but it's courteous to offer.

"Of course." Fury says, the predatory edge to his nature coming further out. It's never really gone. "I thank you."

"You're welcome," says Gordon. "Your pick. Shotguns're a little more common, but the rifle's an energy weapon. Doubt you'll have seen one of those in action before."

"Let us begin with what may be found on Earth 420." Fury says after a moment, "The shotgun."

"Right."

Gordon passes Fury the gun before they head out towards the actual range.

"Twelve gauge semiautomatic pump action shotgun. Fires standard buckshot shells, one or two at a time; maximum capacity is six shells. Lousy accuracy at any kind of range, but it'll make a big mess of a human-sized target whether they're armored or not."

"Hmm." Fury says, looking it over carefully as they walk, "Not unlike those of my time, then, in accuracy and shot."

"Hard to improve on the basic design. The ones we had at Black Mesa could hold up to eight shells at once, but that was about the only way they differed."

"This is true." Fury says, smiling just a bit, "It still serves as a good place to begin."

Gordon nods. "One good shot- maybe two- will take down an antlion," he says. "They're difficult to take down with anything less."

"Hmm." Fury nods and sights in, "Are we like to face them?"

"I don't think they're likely to show up inside the city limits," Gordon says, "but if the door opens onto anywhere between the Nova Prospekt prison and City 17, we're going to have to fight our way through a lot of them."

He'll start prepping the pulse rifle now himself. This kind of thing is why he likes to have two guns on hand. It keeps him busy.

Fury nods, once, and then all is silent while he gets to know the shotgun.

He will speak again when he is confident that he could fire the gun under any circumstances at all.

Gordon waits until Fury's reloading before starting with the pulse rifle. The dull, heavy thud of a shaped energy discharge slamming through the air and into the target startled Racer X badly the one time the other man was on the range at the same time as Gordon. Best not to take chances.

Fury watches this, as well, memorizing Gordon's moves. It is a shocking sound, but so were those of the Witchbreed Sommers.

The pulse rifle is capable of fully automatic fire, although Gordon never fires it for more than the occasional three-round burst. This is partly because it chews up ammunition ferociously, and partly because the damn thing wanders like a small child on black coffee if he holds the trigger down for much longer than that.

The holes on the target are scorched black, and tightly grouped.

"Amazing." Fury breathes quietly, "Where did you get it?"

"From a group of Combine soldiers outside of Ravenholm," says Gordon. "They were using it to fight headcrab zombies, but once the zombies were down they went after me and the local Resistance."

"Hmm. So there may be more of these to capture. Good." Fury may be very slightly in love with the idea.

Fury is more than very slightly insane about weapons.

"Anybody in white body armor with a single red lens in the front of their helmet is going to be armed with them," Gordon says. "Ordinary soldiers mostly just get submachine guns and shotguns, but Elites always have these."