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On the other side of the door, Voodoo's getting closer to Legion territory by the day. From what he can gather, they're a hard bunch of dudes - assholes, but hard. That means he's got to be harder, and that means PT.

Bar's loaned him a weight vest, one of the 60-pound ones, and he's running a circuit of wind sprints and bodyweight exercises in-between sprints to and from the shooting range, where he takes a series of snapshots with his carbine. The targets are all man-sized and at varying distances - the important thing is being able to hit them accurately and consistently under pressure.

You'll hear the gunshots if you're close, the occasional curse when he misses if you're closer. It's hard to bat a thousand right out of the gate.

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Ahsoka knows this game! The clone troopers used to play it all the time. She also knows it's not really a game.

Still, old habits die hard and so the next time Shephard gets ready to take aim, right before he pulls the trigger (but still enough time to adjust his aim), the target will shift, not more than a foot. Just enough to challenge his aim and not make him miss the target altogether. That would be dangerous.

If he looks about after the shot, he might notice a friendly alien meditating.

Edited 2015-07-07 04:29 (UTC)

"-the fuck?"

It's actually enough to make Voodoo stop in his tracks, looking around for the exact cause of this horsefuckery after he puts his weapon on safe.

Ahsoka gets a squint, but not a long one - he's on the clock, here, and it doesn't pay to drag ass in training. He's only got one more round of this to go before he's done, anyway.

And so he hops back to his feet, sprinting to the next piece of cover before sighting in and snapping off two quick shots.

[OOC: And reading comp fail. Don't know how I thought this was Shephard.]

Ahsoka winces inwardly when she actually sees the face of the man and realizes it's not the guy she's met before. Dang humans all look alike from a distance. She'll offer an awkward smile before he heads off again.

She'll also leave the targets alone on his next pass and plans to apologize if he takes a break anytime soon.

It's all over and done with fairly quickly - after a few more shots, he stands, and clears and makes safe his carbine before walking back up the line. He's worked up a sweat, but there's no chance of the weapon slipping secured to his chest like it is.

He's still puzzled as hell as to what caused that target to jank, but that's for another time. For now, he's content to sit in the shade and put his feet up.

William was in the paddock reading but he's been watching Voodoo go through his practice rounds and thinks of his father and his rifle. Gunshots still bother him even if he knows they're in practice or for a good reason.

The horses are used to odd noises but a few of them end up clustering around William for a few extra treats and pets as they're being good. On one of Voodoo's rounds, William waves to him.

The most William will get out of Voodoo until he's done is a grunt and half-nod.

Fortunately, it's all said and done pretty quickly, and he clears his weapon before putting it on safe and taking the opportunity to rest under one of the eaves of the stables.

Now if only these damn straps on the weight vest would cooperate-

"You want somethin' cold to drink or some help?" That vest looks pretty heavy.

Voodoo shakes his head, sweat rolling down his skin as he manages to rip one strap off. "Water. You got water?"

"Yeah, one sec," He heads to the tack room and soon returns with a cup of water, "Here you go."

"Thanks."

It's downed quickly, the cup itself plunked down next to him as Voodoo works on the rest of the straps.

"What's your name, kid?"

"William Evans, you want some help with those straps?" Someday he won't be called kid maybe when he's fifty.

Edited 2015-07-08 04:29 (UTC)

Voodoo shakes his head. "Nah, I got it."

Indeed he does, and the vest is tossed to the side as he lounges against the stables.

"So you're one of the stable workers, huh?"

He doesn't venture there often, so he doesn't know too many people from there - there's Kate Barlow, but the magnificently disastrous way he made that shebang crash and burn is best left to history.

"Yeah, when I've got a door I'm here. Its quieter than in the main Bar and the horses don't mind if I read and don't talk to 'em."

Another grunt. "Farm boy, huh? Good for you."

He takes his carbine, careful to point the barrel toward the ground as he pulls the bolt back, checking the chamber so he can estimate just how much cleaning he'll have to do tonight.

"You can call me Voodoo."

"Rancher out of Arizona Territory. William Evans. You in a war?"

He has that look of someone like Shephard or Ellen, who's always aware and ready. Being called a boy stings a bit, but its a little better than kid.

"Mhm. Got out of one, going to be in another pretty soon."

They're about a thousand miles shy of Vegas, but Legion territory starts well before that. Satisfied with his weapon's condition, he lets the bolt fly forward with a CLACK and stands.

"Hell, that's tough. What kind of fightin' do you do? I've seen a gun of your make before. My Pa was a sharpshooter in the War, I mean he was with the Union, lost his leg."

"The kind of fighting others won't do."

He seems to think that a sufficient description as he secures the carbine to his vest.

"This shoots faster than anything you'd be familiar with," he says, patting the stock. "Further and more accurately, too. Can fire full- or semi-auto, depending on what I want. 's called selective fire."

William nods, he knows what Voodoo means, someone has to be willing to get their hands bloody,

"Must be useful."

"Mhm."

He sizes up William for a few seconds - normally, he'd never dream of letting anyone touch anything he'd be going into battle with, but the kid looks like he's got his head on straight.

He pats the stock again. "You want to try it out?"

"You sure? Long as its out at the range and not so close to the horses. They'd spook. Some of 'em aren't too bad with loud sounds cause its Milliways, never know what'll end up here but firing range is best,"

Handling another man's gun is a lot of trust and Voodoo just met him.

Edited 2015-07-09 04:43 (UTC)

"I'm feeling magnanimous and putting you on one hell of a short leash. And if you fuck up, it's easy to contain the damage here."

His piece said, he unslings his weapon, holding it by his hip as he walks to the firing range.

"Follow me."

The HK416 is very different to anything used in the Civil War - among other things, the parts William will be gripping are plastic, painted over in makeshift camoflauge though they are. It's also a couple of pounds lighter than anything William's likely handled before.

Once they reach the firing line, Voodoo ensures the magazine is out, the chamber is empty, and the fire selector is on safe before holding it out to William.

"There. Point it downrange, get a feel for it."

"Yes, sir,"

He follows Voodoo and when he picks up the HK416, he's careful, its so light its hard to believe its a gun. There is some of the memory of a rifle in it and he with a watch on keeping it downrange, tries to see how it aims and holds. His father taught him and Mark when they were young with rifle and revolver and he's kept in practice as there's a need sometimes but this is new.

Voodoo makes some minor adjustments to William's stance and grip before nodding in approval.

"You've got good instincts."

He takes a magazine out of his vest and starts to load it up with the appropriate ammunition.

"Your old man teach you? -here," he says, holding the magazine out. "Five rounds to start you off with. Seat it in the mag well and press the bolt release there," he says, tapping a button just above the trigger.

"Yeah, my brother and I are some of the best shots in Bisbee, doesn't come up much but its true,"

He's not bragging, not anymore about this but its true, his father was a good shot and made sure his sons were too. William watches Voodoo's motions and the explanation, its a lot simpler than loading as he knows it. He puts the mag in and presses the releases, the motion feels similar but not, like riding a horse that's not yours.

Voodoo grunts in acknowledgement, leaning with one hand against a convenient support pillar.

"This fires a five-five-six-millimeter round, lighter than what you're used to. Kick won't be as bad, but it'll still put someone down."

He gestures to William's shooting hand.

"There's a switch by the thumb of your shooting hand. That's the fire selector. Flip it so it's pointing straight up. That'll put it on semiautomatic. Pick out what you like downrange and commence fire."

(OOC: I'm off to bed but will return tomorrow. I'm enjoying the thread.)

Before he adjusts the selector, William finds a target, its a bit beat up already but still standing. Then he flips the selector and aims, bracing himself and fires.

Edited 2015-07-09 05:30 (UTC)

Down it goes, shot dead-center.

"Nice one. Just like that."

With a quick glance to William's posture:

"Don't need to work the bolt in-between shots, either. Semiauto means one shot per pull of the trigger 'til the mag's empty. Cool, huh?"

"Yeah, saves a step. How many can you get off at once?"

It must be a lot if this is Voodoo's weapon of choice.

"If you switch to full-auto? You can get off 15 rounds a second. Drains the magazine fast. Good if you're fighting in a closet or laying down suppressive fires, but not for much else."

He scratches his beard as he makes some quick calculations.

"I can maybe get four or five off a second on semiautomatic, max, with any kind of accuracy. Depends on what I'm shooting at."

"Fighting in a closet but wouldn't the sharpnel be awful from all the wood around you?"

For that, William gets a side-eye.

"Maybe. If you were shooting at the wood. Shoot at a person and you'd just have to worry about the blood."

He turns his attention back downrange to the targets.

"Even then - if you can't shrug off a splinter, you can't hack it as a SEAL."

"Alright, if you're a good enough shot, it ain't a problem," He aims again and this time tries firing two shots in a row before asking, "Seal, what's that?"

The two shots hit their mark, and he nods in approval.

"Type of sailor in my world. Stands for Sea, Air, Land, the environments we train to operate in. Imagine-"

Dammit, what can he compare the Teams to that Will will understand?

"-imagine Mosby's Rangers. Only we don't use horses, don't fight for no Confederacy, operate all over the world, and we're a hell of a lot better trained and equipped."

"Huh, and you do the sorts of jobs that no one else can do?"

"The sort nobody else can do, the sort nobody else will do - it's a mixed bag."

He scratches his beard.

"Imagine swimming through the Arctic Ocean in the middle of the night just so you can stick a limpet mine on a ship the Navy's decided needs to get sunk. Then imagine you're sweating your nuts off on the hottest day of the year in the Sahara Desert just so some desk jockies up the chain can get some photos and soil samples from what they think's a biowarfare lab. Then imagine being sick to your brain with malaria in some godforsaken jungle and having to assault a rebel camp and free a couple of hostages. That's the kind of jobs we do."

He puts the fire selector on off and offers the gun back to Voodoo,

"Must be an honor and a hell of a job to get to be a SEAL."

Voodoo takes the rifle in both hands, taking the magazine out before working the bolt to ensure the chamber is clear.

"Anyone could do it - if they were willing to put in enough work. Most aren't."

He spares another glance at Will.

"You'd stand a chance. But the Teams won't be formed for another - hundred or so years in your world, so you're just S-O-L. -'shit outta luck'."

"Thank you, good to know you think I could do it. My place has always been with my family. All my work goes into the ranch,"

Its nice to be thought well of, but its one of those compliments that's complicated. He saw the toll the war took on his father and its not a path that he would take.

"I believe it."

He sits on a bench, one leg dangling from the edge as he reloads the magazine.

"It's good work. Keeps your head on straight."

"Yeah, lots of time for thinkin' out in the range."

"Mhm."

He finishes reloading the magazine, and moves on to reloading the next empty one.

"You gonna stay on it all your life, you think?"

"I don't know. It'd be nice to do somethin' else someday, but I can't see how to."

"Mmn. Felt the same thing when I was your age. That's how the recruiters got their hooks in me. 'Join the Navy, see the world'."

He tucks the two freshly reloaded magazines into his vest. "But I'm guessin' your options are a lot more limited than mine were."

"Maybe when Mark's out school and livin' his own life, I'll be able to do more."

"Maybe so. You'd know more than I would about that."

He hops off the bench and takes his rifle in one hand.

"Catch you later."

With that, he walks off towards Bar.

"Yeah, thank you," William waves at Voodoo before heading back towards the stables.

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