2019-12-14 - Group Therapy


Neena's nerves are a little shot but Posse knows the drill.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Sat Dec 14 23:53:04 2019
Location: RP Room 3

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Theme Song



Staccato pops reverberate against pre-poured concrete slabs and the faint smell of gun smoke hangs in the firing range of the Raritan Rifle and Pistol Club just south of Staten Island, across its namesake Raritan Bay. In a break from the club's normal weekend activities, bright flyers in the front shop and a banner over the entryway announce their current fundraiser; for a few hours at least, ammo and range fees are marked up from the norm, with the excess donated to rebuilding efforts in the Disaster Area and the ever-busy NYFD. It's an event that draws a few more faces beyond the normal member traffic, and makes for an eclectic if sometimes concerning mix of shooters.

Range safety officers have already called line stops twice and ejected a pair of shooters once in the past two hours.

Despite the crowd, a few open lanes exist at any time, owing to the churn of shooters. With nobody standing directly to either side, a woman with short-cropped white hair and bright yellow ear-plugs is making slow and methodical work of her target with a Beretta 9-mil. Her posture is straight, textbook, and her eye protection isn't rented. Dressed for a day at the range with an empty holster at her thigh, a second pistol of larger caliber is resting on her table, unloaded and open while waiting its turn.


It's a mix of elements which Neena would have preferred to avoid. Crowds, fundraisers, public events. It would have been easy to pass it by, take one glance then wander on. The only problem is that there aren't many places one can go and shoot in such an urban area. Even fewer which have a low turnout. Plus, this event seems to be welcoming of all sorts so long as they don't turn out to be jerks.

She might be able to manage that…

Where the one female shooter has white hair the next one to step up to the line nearby has white -skin.- Not that much of it can be seen. She's hunkered into a winter hat with a fall of straight black hair along the right jawline, a black puffer coat, heavy cargo pants in an urban camo thene, and cold climate combat boots. Only her face is showing, all snow white with some peculiar black markings like a circular patch around the left eye.

Even being indoors with the winter gear she's looking chilled, though also quite wary. Like she hasn't been around people or loud noises in some time. Despite this she's come prepared for the event, uncasing an all matte black Sig P226 and going through the motions easily enough. She's clearly had some practice.

By the time her first shot goes onto paper it's ..off the mark. Then the second. And the third. She stops and takes a moment, shoulders and jaw tense as she attempts to burn a hole right through the target with nothing more than her eyes.

This is not going well. It might seem that she's gotten rusty. Or lost her nerve.


It might be easier to zone in on her own shooting and lose track of the targets and shooters around her in the tunnel vision of steady practice, but the woman with the Beretta takes a long pause some time after no fourth shot follows beside her. She noticed.
Dressed more plainly in jeans and a denim jacket that offer a single faded-blue color the entire way down, she also has little in the way of adornment; no jewelry, no obvious make-up, but as she clears her pistol and crouches to collect her brass, the chestnut-hued woman turns right and a thin vertical scar makes itself visible crossing one cool, emerald green eye.
"Gun troubles?" she asks, not finding the bleach-skinned shooter's appearance a reason not to comment.


Electronic muffs are the best. For a time Domino's lost within the turmoil of her own little world then suddenly there's a voice beside her as clear as day, like there aren't so many guns all popping at the same time. "Head troubles" the albino grunts while continuing to stare at the target for a few more seconds.

A glance does eventually slip Posse's way. One which bounces back for a second pass upon noticing what sure appears to be an all metal hand. That's curious…

The gun is similarly noticed. It's possible that's the first detail the pale lady had noticed. "Em-nine. From the service?"

There are some peculiarities which can be observed in the bundled up off-of-her-game shooter. There's clear evidence of training but she doesn't give off any vibes of having been in a specific branch of military. There are some motions and quirks to her stance which don't follow any official doctrine. There's also some physical quirks, such as a Riddick-like mercurial sheen to her eyes at certain angles and what could possibly be small pointed fangs.

Also her ability to hit a target kinda sucks.

Two more missed shots leads to something of a snarl. The gun goes down. Her eyes pinch closed and her head is given a quick shake. Then the Sig leaps back up to the target, now only held in one hand as she proceeds to hit two bullseyes in a row without..ever opening her eyes…

The only reaction she gives the hits is a quick snort.


Her hand isn't the only bionic part of the other shoot, and the Peltor-brand circuitry in her ears comfortably raises the off-kilter albino to an easy conversation volume without even leaving her lane. A hand thumbs her holster as Posse waits and watches, giving her fellow shooter some space with her thoughts until she nails two dead-center shots blind. Her ghostly white brow raises and the tawny woman smiles, quietly impressed.

"Not this one, but most of me is. I left a little behind," she jokes, waggling the fingers of her prosthetic hand with all the apart ease and comfort of natural digits. There's no artificial skin, no attempt at concealment or blending in, but each segment and articulated curve is sleek, nimble, and clearly sculpted with care and attention.

"That posture says fobbit but those shots say operator. Need help getting your mind down-range, Cinderella?"


The pale lady might have been putting off Doom and Gloom vibes at first but the comment about leaving a little behind gets a blackened smirk. "Carrying a bit more iron than the average gunner. Looks like quality work. You running sponsors on that tech?" Because it looks ex-pen-sive. Odds are pretty good that someone else had probably been footing the bill.

With the offer..and the nickname..Neena breathes out a sigh and trips the pistol's decocker with a gloved thumb. "Something like. I never had trouble when the targets were shooting back. There might be some truth to the saying that it's a perishable skill."

She picks up the gun and takes a point-shot at the paper, missing by another half of a foot. Her off-hand flies out in disbelief. "See, what is that shit? I can't"
The fucking"

The empty mag isn't ejected so much as neatly flicked away from the grip before the sidearm is left cleared on the mat. "This is a load of bull. I should go right back to the deep end."


"Abso-ing-lutely. I'll pass you their card after we're done here," Posse replies readily, and smiles just a bit wider as she watches the woman literally vent her frustration down-range. She turns and raises a hand for the range officer, leaning in to exchange a few words along with a gesture towards the pale lady, then after receiving a nod, Posse walks purposefully over, coming up empty-handed and behind the black-garbed woman.

With the briefness of someone who knows what to look for, her green eyes sweep at once the firing lane and down-range target before landing upon her fellow shooter. Her thumb remains hanging cockily in her holster as she quips, "I know the perfect drill for ya' but this range don't have enough pine-cones. How 'bout some guided shooting?" A bit of drawl seeps out with the veteran's offer.


Through the exchange with the RSO Domino's thumbing rounds back into the mag, staring at the target and fuming internally while muscle memory takes over. She's just about to shove the stack into the grip when Posse comes up behind her with the offer. "What is this, group therapy?" she asks over her shoulder with more than a bit of sarcasm in the words.

This, too, would be easy to write off. She doesn't like asking for help, so much that Posse can probably hear the albino's own thoughts snapping back and forth at each other over the idea. Whatever happens to tip the scales in the end may not be obvious (maybe something about the pine-cone remark?) but a hand flicks upward with a "Sure, whatever" before turning to look back at Posse. Dom knows where not to put her index finger and what not to muzzle, at least.

"What's on your mind, Anodyne Oakley?"


Posse's smile flashes teeth when she gets a nickname back, then it cools to stern expressiveness. Not one to smile on formality, she points a metal knife-hand to direct Domino back into position. "Aim down-range, condition two, hold and breathe. I'll Ghost you back into shape."


A lone brow arches upward when the other woman's expression jumps into instructor mode. For whatever reason Neena's choosing to look somewhat -amused- by this turn of events. But, she did agree to see what Whitecap had in mind so with a subtle half-shrug she flicks the slide catch to go into battery then resets the hammer. Sights are brought to target and held, favoring a modified Weaver stance which certainly looks aggressive while she's standing still.

These motions are also well practiced. She's definitely had instruction. Probably with a lot more yelling involved.


After giving her a couple seconds to settle in her stance, Posse steps in behind the albino woman. Neena's black puffer coat presses into her back as the veteran's arms come up to mirror her own, using the slight bend of her Weaver strong-arm to reach and overlap her hands, finger for finger. The cyborg's metal digits are cold and slick while her opposite hand is hot and just a little clammy from shooting, with calloused tips and a noticeable Garand thumb.

Neena's camo pants receive the same support from behind before there's any chance to ask about Posse's opinion's on personal space. Woman-to-woman, there's something strangely firm beneath the veteran's denim… body armor perhaps, but the impromptu instructor doesn't comment. Instead, her attention is down-range, as she peeks just enough around black hair to eye their target off-angle. "This is your shooting posture?" she asks coolly, only inches to Neena's right.


The anticipation is for verbal instruction. Drills being called out. A familiar step back into training which had been received in what seems like a previous life. Neena remembers this dance, a weird zen-like state prior to blasting something to pieces whether it's five feet away or five thousand.

What she's expecting isn't what happens. Not at all. Dom knows her stance is good. She knows her hold is good. The only short-circuiting connection seems to be somewhere between when the brain says 'shoot' and the hand obeys. In her mind it should be easy to dial in. A couple of targets, a couple of mags, maybe a couple shots of tequila…

Instead the instructor of the hour is folding herself around the albino's stance. The chill from the metal hand starts to seep right through Dom's glove, almost bringing a shiver to her.

"Is that a plate carrier or are you just enjoying the moment?" comes her off-handed inquiry before the subject about her shooting posture is raised. "It is today" she cryptically replies. It's a question which happens to have numerous answers for this mercenary.


"Lean back in it a little more," Posse advises coolly, and molded as she is from Neena's knees to her shoulders the white-haired woman seems ready to support her. A coy hum is almost completely lost in the noise of the range. Only being so close gives the digital ear pro a chance to capture it. "Mmmake a guess. How many rounds you think you'll need for this?" she asks, making conversation while feeling the albino shooter's stance, shifting her fingers just a little to better line then up.


As a matter of pride Neena almost scoffs at the suggestion. This is like the -very- last skill she should need any correction on! But, well… The group that's on the page staring right back at her proves that somewhere during the last 'tour' something had gotten rattled loose. It's a swift kick to the ol' morale but isn't it fortunate that she already found someone who seems capable of helping? Her pride can take five.

Her grip is perhaps a little -too- firm on the Sig, like she's more mentally prepared to punch a knife through a skull than soak the recoil of a nine millimeter. Her pulse is somewhat elevated as well, lending more to someone who's ticked off or ready to destroy something instead of being fluid and level. The whole ordeal feels like less of a markswoman and more of a brawler with a gun.

"It -should- be a sucker bet, I've made tougher shots in my sleep. I don't know. Third time's the charm?"

There's tension in the lean and somewhat overly dressed albino. It doesn't feel like anticipation for the trigger pull, though. More like an apprehensive tension. Maybe she's not used to physical contact.


Posse is quiet in reply, offering nothing but the feeling of their overlapped shooting stances and an occasional puff of breath against her hair. A faint pulse thumps in her right palm while the cyborg's left for all its careful sculpting is eerily silent as it slowly warms from stolen body heat. "Yer stiff enough to climb. You get it in two, you owe me a beer. Get it in four, I owe you a beer. No matter what I guarantee five'll hit right," the veteran assures as confidently as if she were making the shot herself.

Neena's hand is brushed by metal as her bionic grip softens, almost lifting back. "I've got a few we can start with. Give the slide a good cock and let's get to business."


The silence which follows has Domino left wondering if something more is supposed to be happening. Is this a little weird..? This feels a little weird.

Maybe she should stop worrying about it. Shooting zen, remember? The other people don't matter. They don't exist. It's just Neena with a gun in hand. It -should- be the most familiar feeling in the world.

She's not feeling so damn cold anymore, either. That's a plus.

It's almost a false start. Her hand wants to be -quick- on the trigger like popping the clutch at a drag race. Maybe she's familiar enough with the motions to be brisk but it would have lacked the finesse. She would have pulled yet another.

Steady, Thurman.


Send it.


The sights are right back on target as the shell casing pings off of the divider and flicks back over their shoulders, rolling across the concrete floor. Another piece is missing out of the center of the target.

A gloved finger drifts back to the side of the frame, her focus still on the sight picture when she asks "What happens when I get it in one?"


Posse grins in a way that's felt instead of seen and her eyes glint at the new little hole far away. Having followed Neena's hands through the jolt of recoil, the cyborg keeps a soft, cupping grip, miming her resting aftermath. "We both drink," she concludes with a tone that's a little lighter but not offering celebration just yet. "One more to prove you're not just lucky." And apparently it's still with the cyborg doubling her stance.


"I like where your head's at," Domino says with a thin smirk. "Was gonna make some comment about having dinner before getting all cozy like this but drinks sound way better."

One more. She just about sets the gun down to laugh! If only Posse knew… But it's a good point. Dom does bring the luck but she's not -just- luck. Sometimes it's too easy to think that her power will take care of everything, that she's just along for the ride.

"You're just enjoying holding on, aren't you," she teases while lining up for a second pull. Slow and steady. It's more than a piece of paper…

She has someone else in her crosshairs these days. Someone who needs to be taken care of—

A quick snap of recoil leaps into their combined arms as a second shot very neatly overlaps the first, as neat as you please.

No cocky remarks are made. On the inside Dom's just glad to be more like herself again.


Once again, Posse waits until the bullet is behind its target to answer. When she does, the albino shooter gets a squeeze - and a bit of a push from behind to support all of her own weight again. " dinner. I've got a bit of a thing for dead-eye women, but not for long courtships," the white-haired vet cracks as she steps back and gives Neena a pat on the back. "Just had to put yer mind on somethin else. Now come on, empty the rest of your box and we'll go drink."

"You took mass transit here?" she asks while walking back to her own lane, smiling just a bit in satisfaction.


Huh. Well, point for honesty. "Good. I'm not in the market for anything with commitment," Dom replies without elaboration. "Though it turns out you make a pretty good distraction." Now hopefully she can still be on target without the assistance…

"You think I'd step onto a bus looking like this?" she calls back before taking a few more shots and not hating the results. "If I'm gonna be stuck in traffic" which is all but completely guaranteed around this city "it's gonna be in my own space."

The accuracy should keep improving but she's easily got the rhythm down. If it wasn't for the range rules for rate of fire she could probably double the pace without breaking a sweat.


"I've seen weirder on the L," Posse notes with amusement as she takes her own pistol and rearms, following suit to clear out her mag. Having surreptitiously eyed the albino's ammo, she adjusts her own shooting pace slightly but doesn't rush. Her second set of .45 might go unused. "Dump your ride in a satellite lot. I've got a motorcycle - I'll take you back to my place. You like Old Leghumper?"


Seen weirder on the L. "And I would rather not," Neena easily replies. "Met my quota of disturbing imagery for a while.

The call to park her ride somewhere and get a lift causes the albino to hesitate for a moment. "Yeah, anything that doesn't have 'Lite' on it is fair game. That bike got a good heater? I've been feelin' the chill this year."


The mention of a heater draws an amused scoff, the kind normally reserved for Michiganers and transplants from Alaska. "I'll get there quick for ya. If you're that cold you can borrow my jacket," Posse quips.


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