[Incomplete.]
Who: Veld & Jericho.
When: Today.
Where: Shooting range.
Rating: TBA.
Warnings: Language so far.
Summary: Angry bitches with guns and alcohol.
The shooting range had come to be something of a safe haven, a comfortable place to be when everything else in Jericho's world was inconsistent and hazy and a damn pain in the ass. It was the familiar, what with the rhythmic bang-bang-bang that echoed and richocheted off the walls, the occasional sight of another suit with arms outstretched, fingers clamped on a weapon and offloading bullets with perfect accuracy into the targets in front of them. Everything about the environment fit like a second skin; he could've left his whole identity here, defined it by what happened in these walls.
Today wasn't really about him though, or being pissed off about the Wesker shit, or any of that particularly. Sure, he wasn't in the best mood, but he wasn't in the mood to be wasting time on honing the one thing he was already good at, either. Wesker was unphased by it, Duke took the option away from him. Ultimately, he was going to need to accept the fact that his guns wouldn't always be there, and he needed other options, other talents to get him by.
Right now, that didn't matter. There'd be time later, when he wasn't sober enough to realise what an idiot he looked like swinging a baton around.
Today had other priorities because today, the other suit sharing space with him was Veld. Today, the suit was really, really tense, and his shoulders were hunched, his brow crinkled and his skin pronounced about his eyes where anger traced lines into him. Who knew how long he'd been in here, just doing this?
Unlike most, his anger didn't affect his accuracy, and Jericho watched him empty round after round into every target with near-flawlessness, admiring silently. Envious silently.
He was the reason Jericho was here.
Seeing Veld looking so young still felt strange. Awkward. There he was, moving to stand next to a bitter old man, a professional with years of experience on him, and they looked to be almost the same goddamn age. It was embarrassing, in its own way; even knowing Veld was that much older than he was, it did show him up a lot for anyone who didn't know.
Target practice next to him was just asking for comparison regardless. It was fortunate that, at least with this particular thing, he could be really fucking good when he wanted to be.
Jericho stepped into the space directly next to Veld, shitty substitute of a gun raised, relaxed his shoulders down and started firing. He only paused when Veld did, watching him reload. He was waiting for his attention quite pointedly; not for approval, although that would've been decent, given that he was shooting one-handed and his bullets were dead on target. It was more the fact that he had a bottle of whiskey in his other hand, unopened and unconcealed.
When: Today.
Where: Shooting range.
Rating: TBA.
Warnings: Language so far.
Summary: Angry bitches with guns and alcohol.
The shooting range had come to be something of a safe haven, a comfortable place to be when everything else in Jericho's world was inconsistent and hazy and a damn pain in the ass. It was the familiar, what with the rhythmic bang-bang-bang that echoed and richocheted off the walls, the occasional sight of another suit with arms outstretched, fingers clamped on a weapon and offloading bullets with perfect accuracy into the targets in front of them. Everything about the environment fit like a second skin; he could've left his whole identity here, defined it by what happened in these walls.
Today wasn't really about him though, or being pissed off about the Wesker shit, or any of that particularly. Sure, he wasn't in the best mood, but he wasn't in the mood to be wasting time on honing the one thing he was already good at, either. Wesker was unphased by it, Duke took the option away from him. Ultimately, he was going to need to accept the fact that his guns wouldn't always be there, and he needed other options, other talents to get him by.
Right now, that didn't matter. There'd be time later, when he wasn't sober enough to realise what an idiot he looked like swinging a baton around.
Today had other priorities because today, the other suit sharing space with him was Veld. Today, the suit was really, really tense, and his shoulders were hunched, his brow crinkled and his skin pronounced about his eyes where anger traced lines into him. Who knew how long he'd been in here, just doing this?
Unlike most, his anger didn't affect his accuracy, and Jericho watched him empty round after round into every target with near-flawlessness, admiring silently. Envious silently.
He was the reason Jericho was here.
Seeing Veld looking so young still felt strange. Awkward. There he was, moving to stand next to a bitter old man, a professional with years of experience on him, and they looked to be almost the same goddamn age. It was embarrassing, in its own way; even knowing Veld was that much older than he was, it did show him up a lot for anyone who didn't know.
Target practice next to him was just asking for comparison regardless. It was fortunate that, at least with this particular thing, he could be really fucking good when he wanted to be.
Jericho stepped into the space directly next to Veld, shitty substitute of a gun raised, relaxed his shoulders down and started firing. He only paused when Veld did, watching him reload. He was waiting for his attention quite pointedly; not for approval, although that would've been decent, given that he was shooting one-handed and his bullets were dead on target. It was more the fact that he had a bottle of whiskey in his other hand, unopened and unconcealed.