[He doesn't really need to spend much time on the militia's compound much anymore. He'd earned his stripes a long while ago and he's up to his ears in research- but new calibrations to the eye and adjusting to the weight and resistance of his new left hand have him on the firing range, peering down the scope of a rifle and cracking off shot after shot in the middle of a bunch of plebes. Some watch. Some whistle. Some know he's a genuine callsign, some even know he's Whiskey- most of then mumur about his family and that's fine.
he's used to it.
What he's not used to is a bullet winging sideways into his goddamn target from the next booth over. Being off is terrible. Being off by THAT much? That's horrible. He sets his rifle down and scowls at the kid next to him, bionic eye whirring and clicking as it shifts from long range to normal.]
5
he's used to it.
What he's not used to is a bullet winging sideways into his goddamn target from the next booth over. Being off is terrible. Being off by THAT much? That's horrible. He sets his rifle down and scowls at the kid next to him, bionic eye whirring and clicking as it shifts from long range to normal.]
Who the hell taught you to shoot, kid?