CanadienneBacon
Explorer
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CB's Grim Frequencies IC -- COMPLETE
- Thread starter CanadienneBacon
- Start date
Forged Fury
First Post
Cyril was totally disinterested in this trip to the gun range. He didn't like guns, let alone want to learn how to fire one. His frequent representation of armed individuals who were rather lax in their understanding and appreciation of the rule of law didn't help matters all that much. The former lawyer lost count of all the ways he had argued that a particular bullet from his client's personal firearm could have somehow found its way into the interior of a certain dead body without incriminating his client.
Cyril slid up to Marks and said, "Hey, can I just get someone to show me how to use a stun gun and some pepper spray? I'm not a big fan of guns... talking my way out of situations has gotten me by so far. Well, with the notable exception of my arrest and incarceration."
Cyril slid up to Marks and said, "Hey, can I just get someone to show me how to use a stun gun and some pepper spray? I'm not a big fan of guns... talking my way out of situations has gotten me by so far. Well, with the notable exception of my arrest and incarceration."
KirayaTiDrekan
Adventurer
Feral shrugs, "I ain't much of a fan of guns either but better to know what you're doing when you need it than need it and not know it. You know what I mean?"
CanadienneBacon
Explorer
Marks nodded at Cyril. "Good. Someone else besides me doesn't like guns. We'd still like you to go to the range. I'm told one of the deputies will there to meet you, and she'll have a taser and some pepper spray for a demonstration. She's also supposed to be a crack shot with a .44. Or so I hear. Wanna go?" Marks waited for Cyril to comment.
Forged Fury
First Post
Not really having anything better to do at the moment, and certainly not wanting to be teased by the rest of the crew, Cyril nodded his head.
Death Otter spends her 'downtime' getting busy. First, she has some gear but it's all factory-preset. Not good enough. Digging into her little black book of tweaks and adjustments, Otter spends hours getting the new computers optimized and purring, even if it takes a few CMOS wipes to do it. Then there's the software. Hours of downloads from torrent sites and other, shadier areas of the Net. It doesn't even occur to her to ask Marks if legit licenses can be gotten for this stuff. She's much happier with it being under the table.
Then there's the matter of Net connection. The building is newly wired for high-speed, but Otter starts making arrangements on the side for an alternative connection as well...satellite wireless isn't NEARLY as fast, but it's very secure. There will be times she wants to do things without wondering if Marks and the FCC are monitoring her broadband. Proxy IP addresses and encryption only go so far when someone else is paying the ISP.
Somewhere along the line, somehow, she hears the words 'firing range' though and appears to perform a site-to-site teleportation to the area Marks said the words. Smudged with dust from wriggling around under the desk with the wiring, in the grungy overalls that she does that sort of work in, and holding out her hand eagerly.
"Gun please."
The way she says it, one can almost hear the vowels being omitted.
Then there's the matter of Net connection. The building is newly wired for high-speed, but Otter starts making arrangements on the side for an alternative connection as well...satellite wireless isn't NEARLY as fast, but it's very secure. There will be times she wants to do things without wondering if Marks and the FCC are monitoring her broadband. Proxy IP addresses and encryption only go so far when someone else is paying the ISP.
Somewhere along the line, somehow, she hears the words 'firing range' though and appears to perform a site-to-site teleportation to the area Marks said the words. Smudged with dust from wriggling around under the desk with the wiring, in the grungy overalls that she does that sort of work in, and holding out her hand eagerly.
"Gun please."
The way she says it, one can almost hear the vowels being omitted.
gribble
Explorer
T-dawg spends the evening between cooking and cleaning, prayer, and making up for the couple of lost days in his regular exercise regime. He revels in his new found freedom and seems to like jogging around the neighbourhood as a warm up before he hits the weights. Despite his youth, he doesn't have much time for the PS4.
When Marks mention the firing range, his brow creases in the now familiar frown and he calls out from the kitchen, "If you say we gotta boss, then I will, but I ain't one for guns either". He seems to pause and consider a moment longer, "But a trip out if the city sounds cool. Be good to get outside in nature and stuff". Then he turns his attention back to the firecracker chicken and dark chocolate brownie he's making for dessert, absent-mindedly rubbing his hands down the front of the rather incongruous (and much too small for him) floral apron he is wearing.
When Marks mention the firing range, his brow creases in the now familiar frown and he calls out from the kitchen, "If you say we gotta boss, then I will, but I ain't one for guns either". He seems to pause and consider a moment longer, "But a trip out if the city sounds cool. Be good to get outside in nature and stuff". Then he turns his attention back to the firecracker chicken and dark chocolate brownie he's making for dessert, absent-mindedly rubbing his hands down the front of the rather incongruous (and much too small for him) floral apron he is wearing.
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CanadienneBacon
Explorer
Marks nodded. "Good deal. Take the van. Leave at 9:00, you should be there in plenty of time to make your 10 am shoot time at the range. Take Washington Street east, it turns into U.S. Hwy 40. It's a straight shot all the way to Greenfield, probably take you about half an hour, tops. I think it's only something like twenty miles...there's lots of stop-and-go traffic until you get past Sam's Club on Washington, then it's smooth sailing. Should be a nice, quiet drive. I'll drop off the SHO at the repair shop while you're out. Meet back here tonight." Marks looked sheepish for a moment. "Headquarters wasn't too happy about the train wreck. So text if you'll be past 6 pm, yeah? You're still synced up on your anklets, too." He flipped the van keys to J.R. "You'll be spending the next three days at the range, rain or shine, so play nice with the Deputy."
J.R. drove. He was moody today, quiet, and left everyone else alone. Once everyone was loaded in the cargo van, J.R. took a left turn onto East Washington Street and eased the vehicle into the flow of traffic. The van trucked in the right hand lane past the usual brown brick craftsman style homes with concrete porches and sagging asphalt roofs, empty parking lots riddled with weeds and cracks lining strip mall after strip mall, past the BestBuy, and past a Sam's Club of truly alarming proportion on the righthand side of the road.
The intersection immediately after the Sam's Club was the crossroads of East Washington and German Church Road. A three-story brown brick building with limestone cornerstones stood on the northeastern corner of the intersection. It was a lovely building with interesting features, but it had plywood boarded across its lower windows and someone had tagged it in black spray paint that read "Subsurface" in stylized print. Opposite the boarded-up brick building stood a field, probably corn if the orderly rows of fat yellowed stalks that had been shorn a foot above the loamy soil were anything to go by.
The drive was quiet. Stark white clapboard farmhouses lined the U.S. Hwy 40 corridor, flanked at intervals by grain silos whose conical rooftops glinted in the wan winter sunlight. The silos were alien-looking, like space-age ships straight from a 1950s science fiction novel. Most of the snow from the last major storm had worn away after the last two days of sun. Only patches of brown slush remained along the roadside.
After twenty-five minutes or so, the density of homes thickened, gave way to red brick ranch-style homes. J.R. looked down at the van's gas gauge and cussed. "We gotsta stop. Need juice." He made a left into a Speedway gas station and pulled the van to a stop alongside a pump. "I'll pump. Yous who need da restroom, get out now an' do your bidness." J.R. slid out of the driver's side seat and walked around to the pump, where he swiped his FCC debit card then started to fill up the tank.
J.R. drove. He was moody today, quiet, and left everyone else alone. Once everyone was loaded in the cargo van, J.R. took a left turn onto East Washington Street and eased the vehicle into the flow of traffic. The van trucked in the right hand lane past the usual brown brick craftsman style homes with concrete porches and sagging asphalt roofs, empty parking lots riddled with weeds and cracks lining strip mall after strip mall, past the BestBuy, and past a Sam's Club of truly alarming proportion on the righthand side of the road.
The intersection immediately after the Sam's Club was the crossroads of East Washington and German Church Road. A three-story brown brick building with limestone cornerstones stood on the northeastern corner of the intersection. It was a lovely building with interesting features, but it had plywood boarded across its lower windows and someone had tagged it in black spray paint that read "Subsurface" in stylized print. Opposite the boarded-up brick building stood a field, probably corn if the orderly rows of fat yellowed stalks that had been shorn a foot above the loamy soil were anything to go by.
The drive was quiet. Stark white clapboard farmhouses lined the U.S. Hwy 40 corridor, flanked at intervals by grain silos whose conical rooftops glinted in the wan winter sunlight. The silos were alien-looking, like space-age ships straight from a 1950s science fiction novel. Most of the snow from the last major storm had worn away after the last two days of sun. Only patches of brown slush remained along the roadside.
After twenty-five minutes or so, the density of homes thickened, gave way to red brick ranch-style homes. J.R. looked down at the van's gas gauge and cussed. "We gotsta stop. Need juice." He made a left into a Speedway gas station and pulled the van to a stop alongside a pump. "I'll pump. Yous who need da restroom, get out now an' do your bidness." J.R. slid out of the driver's side seat and walked around to the pump, where he swiped his FCC debit card then started to fill up the tank.
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KirayaTiDrekan
Adventurer
Feral stayed in the van. He needed to piss, but using public restrooms was out of the question. He'd learned long ago that public restrooms simply weren't worth the stress. He figured he'd do his business at the shooting range.
He lounged back a bit and put his hands behind his head, waiting.
He lounged back a bit and put his hands behind his head, waiting.
"Pee break," Death Otter announced, not even looking up from her smartphone. She picked up her laptop, tucked it under an arm, put the smartphone into her breast pocket and clambered over Cyrill to the side door and popped out.
Inside, she angled for the fountain drinks and started filling a 60oz cup with Mountain Dew.
Inside, she angled for the fountain drinks and started filling a 60oz cup with Mountain Dew.
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