Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2012-03-10 05:00 pm
flint_garou) wrote2012-03-10 05:00 pm
Doubleyou-tee-eff.
Would someone tell me. What the fuck is Going On?
10 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (83% full).
Rina brings Flint down to the range, where they go through all the brouhaha of signing in. And then FINALLY, after a brief course in gun safety, Rina shows him a proper Weaver stance and he gets to shoot at paper and foam targets to his heart's content. They go through a collection of different calibers and types, 9mm, .38, .45, revolvers and semi-automatics, and in a few hours Flint learns the basics. She's very neutral about adjusting his stance and grip, just a prod here or there.
The boy's gotten a decent enough grasp on the main concepts, not always so much on hitting the targets, but. After actually hitting one of the targets, finally, Flint sets the safety on the gun and then sets it down in front of him before pushing off the earphones. "Better," he says, peering at the target and turning to grin at Rina. "Right?" And indeed, it is better than most of Flint's earlier attempts.
Rina flashes him a crooked smile. "Yeah. It'll take some consistent practice, you know? But you will improve. It's mostly relaxing on the trigger that's the trick… I mean, there's that keyed up thing that you need to fight. You want to condition yourself to cool down when the gun's in your hand, so you can chill when the shit hits the fan for real."
As the pair work, a slight, clean shaven man with close-cropped dark hair and a leather bomber jacket steps into a nearby alcove.
Rina's gaze flicks across to the new arrival, as it normally would—just a run-of-the-mill hyper-vigilant awareness, an instant's check before she returns to the lesson. "All right. Let's try… oh, halfway between there and all the way out, and see if you can still punch holes in that paper when it's further away." She sends out a pristine target and takes him through the list. "Safety? Load… and chamber the first round. Relax those shoulders." She gives them a little shake with her hands, despite the fact that he's holding a loaded firearm. "Loosen that shit up. Ground the body, and breathe."
Flint gives his own glance sideways, without even moving his head, to the person who arrives next to them, before picking up the handgun again, quietly repeating the things that Rina tells him as he does so, and puts the earphones back on. Another small grin follows, too small to be noticeable as he fixes his stance, breathes in and lets his shoulders loosen. "Right." Bang. The single shot hits the outside ring of the paper, and then two more follow it. They may not be on center, but they're clustered closely, and then Flint sets the safety on the gun again, sets it down in front of him, clearly a little easier when he doesn't have the gun in his hand.
"Good. Go ahead and go through two more groups, and then I think we're just about out of ammo." Rina's gaze shifts from the target to the boy.
From that nearby alcove comes a set of shots, quick, but not unreasonably so, practiced. The pair can clearly see the target as it's brought forward, and the marksmanship was exceptional.
Flint shifts his gaze sideways again, though posture and the set of his chin remain straight ahead, chin down a little until the Glass Walker picks up the firearm again. "Sure," he offers to Rina, taking up an easy enough stance and then emptying the remaining rounds into the paper target. The boy is… humming? Under his breath, now, a small indication of additional concentration and focus, before he finally sets the safety. "Yep. Out of ammo," he states, tension easing from his shoulders just a little bit more. There is a pleased quirk of a grin when Flint does turn around to look back to Rina.
Rina raises an eyebrow slightly as she watches him shoot, but doesn't comment on the musical moment. "Not bad for a day's work," she says, giving him one of those trademark crooked half-smiles.
"Head 'em up, move 'em out," Rina says, starting to pack everything up in cases.
The man with the exceptional aim unloads another magazine into his target as the pair begin to clean up.
"Yeah," Flint agrees, grinning. "'s more than I've gotten done otherwise." Though the post-it notes on the breakroom walls would suggest that the boy's been far from idle. He hums wordlessly to himself as they work on packing things away.
Rina sweeps up their brass and dumps it in the trash can provided (how do they empty that thing?). Then she loads up the duffel bag on a shoulder, hands the other bag to Flint, and heads out. "Good show," she tells him.
The slight man with the good aim begins to clear as the pair pass. He glances sidelong at them, though not long enough to gain eye contact.
Flint hums cheerfully as he slings the bag over his shoulder, one hand holding the strap of the duffel and the other hand hooking a thumb into his pocket. "So, not so bad," Flint agrees, gaze darting around as they walk.
"Later," Rina offers to Daryl. The man responds with his usual grunt and leer.
Rina's steps are purposeful, as she heads with him back toward the tenement. "So. We can set up once a week, maybe with you and Devon both. I'll arrange for you to get armed soon as I ask Mouse if it's okay."
It isn't more than a minute after the pair depart that the other man exits as well. The hood of a sweatshirt is pulled up to ward off the chill, and he falls into step somewhere behind them.
A nod from Flint. "Yeah. That sounds good," he responds, quiet. "Should have enough time from my project to do that, anyway." There is a faint twist of lip at the mention of Devon, but nothing further than that, just evidently enough to make Flint think about something.
Rina's brow furrows, and she glances over. "You guys getting along?"
The distance between the pair and the man behind them slowly closes, and after a few blocks, he's only a few paces behind them.
Rina makes a quick unscheduled turn onto another street.
Flint follows only a beat behind, half a step that he jogs a pace or two to catch up, lips pursing slightly. Rina's question is forgotten as he looks over at her, a faint nod and the humming abruptly stops.
Rina shifts the bag on her shoulder, freeing up her right hand and reaching into her jacket to flip a safety.
The turn is matched by the man behind them. His voice is low, cool and quiet but not whispered. "You're just as he described."
Rina pulls the .45 and turns on a dime, letting the bag drop with a heavy thud and clatter of gun-laden Doskocil boxes and dinging padlocks. Her expression is hard, fierce, a mask of competence. "Who?" she challenges.
There is a decided frown as tension rises in Flint's posture at the words, and the young Garou drops his own bag next to Rina's, though the boy produces no weapon. The teen turns a hard gaze on the man who'd followed them, chin jutting up and lips pulled into a tight line, one hand shoving into the pocket of his jeans.
The man's eyes meet Rina's, and though his expression is as cool as his voice, he seems relatively relaxed in the face of that gun. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable for this conversation."
"Let's not," Flint snaps, quietly. "She asked you a question."
Rina gives a tiny shake of her head, a moment's disorientation crossing her features. "Don't," she grates out. "Who sent you."
"Does that matter?" The man doesn't so much as look at Flint. "I've been told you're quite the artist. I really think we should have this conversation someplace more suitable."
Flint jams his free hand into his pocket, possibly into a fist to match the one that's already hidden away. "Maybe," Flint states, levelly, though the tension is very clearly present in his posture now, "you should tell me who sent you."
As abruptly as Flint jams his fist into his pocket, the man turns his gaze from the kin to the cliath. Cold blue eyes fix on the galliards, and his voice retains that cool, calm quality. "I think," he says, "that this conversation is best held in private."
Abruptly, Rina lowers the gun and flips the safety, without looking away from the stranger, without breaking that hostile staredown. A subtle tension runs along the line of her jaw. "Fine. We'll talk."
"Alright, fine," Flint echoes, taking a half step and picking up and shouldering the bag that he'd dropped, again, this time slung across his shoulders and balanced so that he doesn't need to keep hold of it. Nor does the Glass Walker break his own eye contact with the man.
Rina holsters the .45 and picks up the second duffel, handing it off to the cub. "Park or marina? Or there's someplace else we could try."
The man smiles for the first time, a small, thin expression, not showing so much pleasure as satisfaction. "Your studio?" he suggests. "I'd love to see your work."
"I don't think so," Rina says flatly.
Flint downright scowls, looking from the man to the street around them, and then to Rina. "No," Flint responds, evenly. "The park it is."
"Perhaps another time," he says, turning to Rina again. "The park is close enough." He half-turns, waiting for the others to begin.
Flint doesn't move, not quite yet. "You first," he states, then, not quite bristling, but perhaps close.
"This is a very bad idea," Rina says hoarsely. "Coming anywhere near me. Not something that will bring you long life and prosperity." She takes a couple of steps, setting herself even with the man and well to one side.
He settles into pace alongside Rina, and that slight smile of satisfaction momentarily shifts to a grin. "That would explain what happened to the others," he says. "But I think your companion is too young to have been involved."
The cliath grumbles very faintly when Rina starts, but Flint paces himself to Rina's decision on this matter, catching up the few steps easily once they've started, and putting himself to walk not quite next to Rina, but a half a pace behind, between her and the man. There is a distinct furrow of a frown in the teen's expression and posture, and a wary gaze kept half on the stranger, half on where he walks.
"What do you want," Rina says tightly. That tension's echoed in her posture.
"I'm sure that you can guess," the man says with a glance across to the galliard. "At least some of what I want. And I may be able to do you a favor, too."
"I. Don't like guessing games," Flint says, voice still even and level although there's a definite bristle of anger in tone.
Rina ducks her head slightly, and swallows. "Leave it, cugine, or I'll ask you to go," she says in a low voice. There's a soft firmness behind the words that clearly directs them at Flint.
Flint angles a glance from one side to the other, before simply nodding to Rina, a quiet acknowledgement as well. It doesn't do anything to ease the tension in his posture, though.
It isn't until the park is in sight that the man speaks again, pausing at the corner despite the lack of traffic. He turns to face Rina more directly. "You've already guessed who I am. I found you. I can find you, again. I think we can help each other, but I'll leave it to you to decide if this is a cordial, accommodating relationship, or something else."
Something crosses the woman's expression, a shiver of tension that leads to another swallow. She turns her face away from Flint slightly, her head bowed to hide the conflict, the look that crosses her face. "Tomorrow." The word's without sound. "The fountain," she says, a bit hoarsely. "I'll listen." She looks across to the stranger, then, pinning him with a stark gaze. "Don't expect anything."
Flint shoves his hands further into his pockets, settling to merely observe the stranger for the moment, though there's another furrow on the teen's brow.
That thin smile becomes a grin, a flash of white teeth for just a second, and the man glances briefly to the youth before returning to Rina. "I'll be expecting you."
"Get outta here," Rina says, her voice a harsh whisper. "Before I change my mind and send you to hell." The words don't match the look in her eyes, though: a sullen hunger, shot through with longing. Her fists are clenched at her sides.
Flint taps his thumb against his pantleg, perhaps waiting. Nonetheless, the cliath's tension at the situation is evident, and a furrow of worry makes its way into his expression when he glances to Rina again.
The man's smile doesn't fade at all, but he tips his head to Rina, and then glances again to the cliath, before he turns the corner, rather than crossing to the park itself.
Spurred into motion, Rina stalks off in the other direction. It really doesn't matter what direction, as long as it's AWAY.
10 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (83% full).
Rina brings Flint down to the range, where they go through all the brouhaha of signing in. And then FINALLY, after a brief course in gun safety, Rina shows him a proper Weaver stance and he gets to shoot at paper and foam targets to his heart's content. They go through a collection of different calibers and types, 9mm, .38, .45, revolvers and semi-automatics, and in a few hours Flint learns the basics. She's very neutral about adjusting his stance and grip, just a prod here or there.
The boy's gotten a decent enough grasp on the main concepts, not always so much on hitting the targets, but. After actually hitting one of the targets, finally, Flint sets the safety on the gun and then sets it down in front of him before pushing off the earphones. "Better," he says, peering at the target and turning to grin at Rina. "Right?" And indeed, it is better than most of Flint's earlier attempts.
Rina flashes him a crooked smile. "Yeah. It'll take some consistent practice, you know? But you will improve. It's mostly relaxing on the trigger that's the trick… I mean, there's that keyed up thing that you need to fight. You want to condition yourself to cool down when the gun's in your hand, so you can chill when the shit hits the fan for real."
As the pair work, a slight, clean shaven man with close-cropped dark hair and a leather bomber jacket steps into a nearby alcove.
Rina's gaze flicks across to the new arrival, as it normally would—just a run-of-the-mill hyper-vigilant awareness, an instant's check before she returns to the lesson. "All right. Let's try… oh, halfway between there and all the way out, and see if you can still punch holes in that paper when it's further away." She sends out a pristine target and takes him through the list. "Safety? Load… and chamber the first round. Relax those shoulders." She gives them a little shake with her hands, despite the fact that he's holding a loaded firearm. "Loosen that shit up. Ground the body, and breathe."
Flint gives his own glance sideways, without even moving his head, to the person who arrives next to them, before picking up the handgun again, quietly repeating the things that Rina tells him as he does so, and puts the earphones back on. Another small grin follows, too small to be noticeable as he fixes his stance, breathes in and lets his shoulders loosen. "Right." Bang. The single shot hits the outside ring of the paper, and then two more follow it. They may not be on center, but they're clustered closely, and then Flint sets the safety on the gun again, sets it down in front of him, clearly a little easier when he doesn't have the gun in his hand.
"Good. Go ahead and go through two more groups, and then I think we're just about out of ammo." Rina's gaze shifts from the target to the boy.
From that nearby alcove comes a set of shots, quick, but not unreasonably so, practiced. The pair can clearly see the target as it's brought forward, and the marksmanship was exceptional.
Flint shifts his gaze sideways again, though posture and the set of his chin remain straight ahead, chin down a little until the Glass Walker picks up the firearm again. "Sure," he offers to Rina, taking up an easy enough stance and then emptying the remaining rounds into the paper target. The boy is… humming? Under his breath, now, a small indication of additional concentration and focus, before he finally sets the safety. "Yep. Out of ammo," he states, tension easing from his shoulders just a little bit more. There is a pleased quirk of a grin when Flint does turn around to look back to Rina.
Rina raises an eyebrow slightly as she watches him shoot, but doesn't comment on the musical moment. "Not bad for a day's work," she says, giving him one of those trademark crooked half-smiles.
"Head 'em up, move 'em out," Rina says, starting to pack everything up in cases.
The man with the exceptional aim unloads another magazine into his target as the pair begin to clean up.
"Yeah," Flint agrees, grinning. "'s more than I've gotten done otherwise." Though the post-it notes on the breakroom walls would suggest that the boy's been far from idle. He hums wordlessly to himself as they work on packing things away.
Rina sweeps up their brass and dumps it in the trash can provided (how do they empty that thing?). Then she loads up the duffel bag on a shoulder, hands the other bag to Flint, and heads out. "Good show," she tells him.
The slight man with the good aim begins to clear as the pair pass. He glances sidelong at them, though not long enough to gain eye contact.
Flint hums cheerfully as he slings the bag over his shoulder, one hand holding the strap of the duffel and the other hand hooking a thumb into his pocket. "So, not so bad," Flint agrees, gaze darting around as they walk.
"Later," Rina offers to Daryl. The man responds with his usual grunt and leer.
Rina's steps are purposeful, as she heads with him back toward the tenement. "So. We can set up once a week, maybe with you and Devon both. I'll arrange for you to get armed soon as I ask Mouse if it's okay."
It isn't more than a minute after the pair depart that the other man exits as well. The hood of a sweatshirt is pulled up to ward off the chill, and he falls into step somewhere behind them.
A nod from Flint. "Yeah. That sounds good," he responds, quiet. "Should have enough time from my project to do that, anyway." There is a faint twist of lip at the mention of Devon, but nothing further than that, just evidently enough to make Flint think about something.
Rina's brow furrows, and she glances over. "You guys getting along?"
The distance between the pair and the man behind them slowly closes, and after a few blocks, he's only a few paces behind them.
Rina makes a quick unscheduled turn onto another street.
Flint follows only a beat behind, half a step that he jogs a pace or two to catch up, lips pursing slightly. Rina's question is forgotten as he looks over at her, a faint nod and the humming abruptly stops.
Rina shifts the bag on her shoulder, freeing up her right hand and reaching into her jacket to flip a safety.
The turn is matched by the man behind them. His voice is low, cool and quiet but not whispered. "You're just as he described."
Rina pulls the .45 and turns on a dime, letting the bag drop with a heavy thud and clatter of gun-laden Doskocil boxes and dinging padlocks. Her expression is hard, fierce, a mask of competence. "Who?" she challenges.
There is a decided frown as tension rises in Flint's posture at the words, and the young Garou drops his own bag next to Rina's, though the boy produces no weapon. The teen turns a hard gaze on the man who'd followed them, chin jutting up and lips pulled into a tight line, one hand shoving into the pocket of his jeans.
The man's eyes meet Rina's, and though his expression is as cool as his voice, he seems relatively relaxed in the face of that gun. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable for this conversation."
"Let's not," Flint snaps, quietly. "She asked you a question."
Rina gives a tiny shake of her head, a moment's disorientation crossing her features. "Don't," she grates out. "Who sent you."
"Does that matter?" The man doesn't so much as look at Flint. "I've been told you're quite the artist. I really think we should have this conversation someplace more suitable."
Flint jams his free hand into his pocket, possibly into a fist to match the one that's already hidden away. "Maybe," Flint states, levelly, though the tension is very clearly present in his posture now, "you should tell me who sent you."
As abruptly as Flint jams his fist into his pocket, the man turns his gaze from the kin to the cliath. Cold blue eyes fix on the galliards, and his voice retains that cool, calm quality. "I think," he says, "that this conversation is best held in private."
Abruptly, Rina lowers the gun and flips the safety, without looking away from the stranger, without breaking that hostile staredown. A subtle tension runs along the line of her jaw. "Fine. We'll talk."
"Alright, fine," Flint echoes, taking a half step and picking up and shouldering the bag that he'd dropped, again, this time slung across his shoulders and balanced so that he doesn't need to keep hold of it. Nor does the Glass Walker break his own eye contact with the man.
Rina holsters the .45 and picks up the second duffel, handing it off to the cub. "Park or marina? Or there's someplace else we could try."
The man smiles for the first time, a small, thin expression, not showing so much pleasure as satisfaction. "Your studio?" he suggests. "I'd love to see your work."
"I don't think so," Rina says flatly.
Flint downright scowls, looking from the man to the street around them, and then to Rina. "No," Flint responds, evenly. "The park it is."
"Perhaps another time," he says, turning to Rina again. "The park is close enough." He half-turns, waiting for the others to begin.
Flint doesn't move, not quite yet. "You first," he states, then, not quite bristling, but perhaps close.
"This is a very bad idea," Rina says hoarsely. "Coming anywhere near me. Not something that will bring you long life and prosperity." She takes a couple of steps, setting herself even with the man and well to one side.
He settles into pace alongside Rina, and that slight smile of satisfaction momentarily shifts to a grin. "That would explain what happened to the others," he says. "But I think your companion is too young to have been involved."
The cliath grumbles very faintly when Rina starts, but Flint paces himself to Rina's decision on this matter, catching up the few steps easily once they've started, and putting himself to walk not quite next to Rina, but a half a pace behind, between her and the man. There is a distinct furrow of a frown in the teen's expression and posture, and a wary gaze kept half on the stranger, half on where he walks.
"What do you want," Rina says tightly. That tension's echoed in her posture.
"I'm sure that you can guess," the man says with a glance across to the galliard. "At least some of what I want. And I may be able to do you a favor, too."
"I. Don't like guessing games," Flint says, voice still even and level although there's a definite bristle of anger in tone.
Rina ducks her head slightly, and swallows. "Leave it, cugine, or I'll ask you to go," she says in a low voice. There's a soft firmness behind the words that clearly directs them at Flint.
Flint angles a glance from one side to the other, before simply nodding to Rina, a quiet acknowledgement as well. It doesn't do anything to ease the tension in his posture, though.
It isn't until the park is in sight that the man speaks again, pausing at the corner despite the lack of traffic. He turns to face Rina more directly. "You've already guessed who I am. I found you. I can find you, again. I think we can help each other, but I'll leave it to you to decide if this is a cordial, accommodating relationship, or something else."
Something crosses the woman's expression, a shiver of tension that leads to another swallow. She turns her face away from Flint slightly, her head bowed to hide the conflict, the look that crosses her face. "Tomorrow." The word's without sound. "The fountain," she says, a bit hoarsely. "I'll listen." She looks across to the stranger, then, pinning him with a stark gaze. "Don't expect anything."
Flint shoves his hands further into his pockets, settling to merely observe the stranger for the moment, though there's another furrow on the teen's brow.
That thin smile becomes a grin, a flash of white teeth for just a second, and the man glances briefly to the youth before returning to Rina. "I'll be expecting you."
"Get outta here," Rina says, her voice a harsh whisper. "Before I change my mind and send you to hell." The words don't match the look in her eyes, though: a sullen hunger, shot through with longing. Her fists are clenched at her sides.
Flint taps his thumb against his pantleg, perhaps waiting. Nonetheless, the cliath's tension at the situation is evident, and a furrow of worry makes its way into his expression when he glances to Rina again.
The man's smile doesn't fade at all, but he tips his head to Rina, and then glances again to the cliath, before he turns the corner, rather than crossing to the park itself.
Spurred into motion, Rina stalks off in the other direction. It really doesn't matter what direction, as long as it's AWAY.