Summary:Target practice at SHIELD. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Winter break at SHIELD Academy is a pretty short-lived thing. After all, SHIELD doesn't shut down for the holidays, so why should the Academy? Even if it wasn't, Helena isn't really the sort to take it easy. But while much of the training that SHIELD cadets go through she can do at home, there's one part of the training course that doesn't have an equivalent in the Batcave: the firing range.
While Helena's toward the top of her class in most subjects, she's definitely behind the curve when it comes to firearms. Obviously that means she just needs to work harder at it. So when she has a free minute between classes, she's down at the firing range, working on her marksmanship.
At the moment, she's got a lane near the end of the range, glasses and ear protection on as she takes aim.
Clint Barton does do a bit of training for people at the firing range. In general, he's kept away from instructive fields. Not that he doesn't have skills to share, he just tends to be a more corruptive or chaotic influence. Teaching's not really his forte, so to speak. But, given his gift of marksmanship, it seems silly not to have him give at least some oversight.
None of which has anything to do with what he's doing here today. He's just getting in his daily rounds. He has a quiver of simple steel shafts and a bow in hand, cocking his head at the sight of Helena, "Hey there, paperwork," he says as he takes the next lane over.
Helena glances over as Clint comes in, offering a faint smile. "Agent Barton, sir," she greets, managing to make it sound just a little bit like a joke. Her look at the bow is also more envious than otherwise - not exactly the usual response, no doubt. "Apologies in advance if I borrow your target."
She's not (usually) that bad, but better to be underestimated. Somewhat. Taking a deep breath, she squares off with the handgun, taking her time to line up a shot before firing down the range.
Armed with a sniper rifle, Kwabena Odame is positioned at one of the mechanical target lanes; wearing the necessary protections, a SHIELD uniform bearing the PPU badge, he's just finished practicing on 'disarm and disable' mode; the computer beside him calls up a score of 87%, a couple notches down from his high score of 89%.
A slightly dissatisfied grunt prompts him to tap a new program into the computer; kill mode.
Reloading, he lifts the rifle and begins tracking the moving targets; slow motions down the lengthy range, patience, followed by two quick shots to the chest, and another to the temple. The last first two strike true, fatal shots to be sure, but the last one comes in a bit low, striking the target just below the nose.
You are anxious, a computer voice says to him. I can read it in your bio signature. Relax.
"Thanks," Kwabena utters to himself, bitterly, and reaches himself for another round.
Clint Barton shakes his head at Helena, "Any target I pick is my target. Even if someone else is shooting at it," he says, putting a little gravel in his voice and holding eye contact.
Then he breaks into a grin.
"Did I sound scary? I'm working on my bad ass voice. Thor does it really easy. I think it's because he usually punctuates it with thunder."
He's much more casual in his approach to the range, drawing three arrows with one hand, notching them in sequence. His motion is smooth, seemingly effortless. The last one he doesn't even look.
They all land true, of course.
"You need more of a mask," Helena replies to Clint, smile flickering briefly. "You've got too much reputation otherwise. But yeah, keep the voice in the shadows and you might scare…people." Not so much her, but hey. She's got the inoculation.
Her shots at least hit her target. And they're in the general area of center mass. Just…not all the way center. She grimaces after each one, as if it's a personal insult that they aren't landing where they're supposed to be landing. "Stupid guns," she mutters.
Breathing slowly, Kwabena takes aim and tries again; this time his two-tap, one-tap strategy rings true. Lowering the rifle, he takes a step back and lets a breath out through his nose, then goes again.
This time, his shots are all off to the left. "Dammit," he curses.
You are anxiou-
"I know!" Kwabena spits, interrupting the computer voice. He flinches, and immediately steps back, silver eyes glancing down the range to see who heard his outburst. Eyes fall upon Helena and Clint, and he shakes his head begrudgingly. A hand reaches over to cancel the program, and he begins securing his rifle. Apparently, he's done for today.
"I've tried the mask thing. It worked for a while, but I started to feel silly after a bit. Plus, it's murder on your peripheral vision," he says.
He's about to remark further when Kwabena has his outburst, leaning out of his lane to look down at where the African's been shooting.
"Sounds like somebody needs a Scooby snack."
"William Tell here can talk a big game once he's blindfolded 'nd able to hit his targets dead-on five times in a row."
Steve's good-natured ribbing towards Clint floats down to easily reach everyone in the immediate area. Dressed casually today (and by the looks of things, the duffel bag indicates he's going to run a few laps in the gym track), he stashes the gym bag beneath one of the benches and then takes up an easy lean, shoulders against the wall and arms lightly crossed. He can be spotted in everyone's peripheral.
"Let's see how it's done, Will," he continues, grinning at Clint. Both Helena and Kwabena both get little nods of greeting.
Kwabena's outburst draws Helena's attention as well, the cadet popping her head out from around the edge of the shooter's stall. "I feel your pain," she calls over in solidarity, offering a thumbs up. "Damn things. I should see if Bucky's got any tricks."
Preferably ones that don't require fancy prosthetic arms, but hey.
Still, she's not ready to give up quite yet. There are still bullets left in the magazine. Taking a deep breath, she centers herself and promptly and vastly overthinks the entire process, causing an even broader spread to the shots. "I feel like the gun is the literal depreciation of skill in favor of wanton destruction," she mutters, looking at it like it's a foreign creature in her hands. Steve can probably even hear her father's voice when she says it.
Brows furrow at the Scooby snack remark; someone isn't familiar with the referenced cartoon.
After stowing the rifle with the armory, he walks down to join the others, arms folded over his chest. "Is a formality," he tells Helena. "Do not use guns in field; I always lose dem." A brief smirk is given, before he glances toward Steve.
"What is William Tell?" he asks. After a pause, he adds, "And Scooby snack?"
Gotta love those reformed-terrorists-turned-SHIELD-agents. Always asking weird questions, like they were raised in a bunker or something.
Clint Barton sticks his tongue out at Cap and addresses Helena first.
"The thing with a gun, you're always reliant on the tool. Most of a gun is hidden. How do you get a feel for it? I know some people can, but I just have trouble trusting them. My bow, it's all out in the open. If anything's off, I'll know at a glance. I can see where I touch it, how far I pull my string. Every one's different but I can get a feel in a few seconds, whereas every gun would take me…weeks to adjust to its specifics."
"Scooby Doo is one of America's greatest philosophers. He taught never put yourself in danger unless there's a treat in it for you. William Tell was some rich dead guy who was almost as good at me with a bow."
The raspberry aimed in Steve's direction makes him grin all the more. Bullseye. He pulls his lips to one side at Clint's explanation as to the legendary bowman and the snack-loving dog, but decides it'll do.
"William Tell also shot an apple off somebody's head at great risk, kind of a folk-hero in a way. Scooby's a cartoon dog." And wise beyond his canine years.
Stepping forwards from his lean on the wall, the Captain then meanders down towards Helena's stall in particular. "Bucky'll tell you the same thing he told me: press the trigger, don't pull it — that, 'nd focus on your front sight, not on your target. Pull your trigger finger too hard, you then pull away from your target. Wobbles'll happen, but it takes practice."
"I'm just saying, guns exist in order to change the theater of war," Helena grimaces. "Before guns, you either had to have a trained populace of bowmen, like the English, who needed to dedicate hours a day to practice for longbows, or else you relied on a small force of true professionals backed up by a whole lot of - literal - cannon-fodder. Mercenaries, if you had the money to pay for crossbows, which were the only way to get through the armor of those professional fighters otherwise known as knights. Mercenaries were also good for pikemen, who were - again - good for taking out knights on horseback. But you break out guns and suddenly any idiot with a finger can take out someone with actual skills and training. Multiple times a year, toddlers accidentally kill people with guns. And yet here I am, struggling to hit something on purpose, as an adult.""
Okay, so maybe she's a little bit bitter about not being good at the guns thing.
Of course, when she realizes she's been waxing poetic about the evolution of war, she flushes, clearing her throat. "Sorry. Yeah. William Tell. Famous archer. There's an opera." Nerd.
Clint gets a weird look from the African; Kwabena is clearly going to do some googling later.
That strange look is passed toward Steve next. "Cartoon dog?" he asks. "Like Jar-Jar Binks?" A toxic expression appears; Kwabena might actually be getting ill.
Kwabena's strange look extends to Helena next, to whom he listens to such a lengthy explanation around the history of guns and conventional warfare. He shakes his head and remarks, "You make head hurt, Cadet Wayne."
Clint Barton stares for a moment at Helena, "Sure. Yeah. What she said," he says.
"Look, the William Tell guy probably didn't even exist, while I am super duper real, so I am, henceforth, automatically better than him.
When Kwabena mentions his head hurting, Clint smacks him on the shoulder, "Try a cold shower, buddy. You'll get over it. Anyway, Cap's got the right of it. Just gonna take some practice. Even I have to practice and I'm a friggin' archery god."
"The only thing Jar-Jar Binks and Scooby Doo have in common is a weird and floppy way of moving, some kind of speech impediment, and an ability to solve problems by accident." Helena pauses, brows rising. "So on second thought, sure, kind of like Jar-Jar Binks. Although I read a theory once that Jar-Jar Binks could have been some sort of force user along the lines of a drunken master school, if that was a thing."
Now that Steve's advice has had a moment to sink in, she goes to change out the clip on her gun, peeking around the stall at Clint in the process. "Are we talking like Artemis, or Apollo? Do the Asgardians have an archery god? I am so behind on my pantheons."
"I would much prefer shot of whiskey," Kwabena tells Clint, "and a smoke. Or three. Cold shower is unpleasant." He shakes head in all of this talk of guns; after all, while he has used them and is clearly familiar with them, they are not his tool of choice.
Looking back to Helena, Kwabena's eyebrows rise. "Drunken… master… dis is strange place full of strange people." A pause, and a grin. "I like it."
Clint Barton shakes his head, "I have no idea. All those groups of gods kind of run together for me. Aren't the Greek and the Roman ones like the same guys anyway? And they're all related to each other but boning? And they live on mountains. Oh man, gods are just superpowered hillbillies."
"The whiskey I could go along with. And I only have a vague idea who Jar-Jar is and I feel like it has something to do with Jamaica," he shrugs. "I get the feeling you guys are all target practiced out for the moment, though, now. I'm sure Cap could think of some wholesome, old-fashioned entertainments that we could sneak out of to go get wasted."
"I dare you to say that to Thor," Helena grins when Clint brings up hilbillies and gods. "And then explain what it means." Because that's the really fun part. "Drunken master's a type of kung fu," she adds to Kwabena. "You know, like snake or eagle or tiger or praying mantis. You ever see a Jackie Chan movie?"
One minute she's talking about operas and the evolution of warfare, the next minute it's Star Wars and Jackie Chan. Kwabena is right, Helena's a weird kid.
Not so weird, though, that the offer of going out and getting into a little bit of trouble doesn't appeal. She turns a sidelong glance in Steve's direction, catching the corner of her lip between her teeth. "I mean. I've been here for an hour and a half, so…"
"Jar-Jar Binks is annoying cartoon of Star Wars," Kwabena informs Clint. "You are not missing a thing."
Turning to Helena, Kwabena snaps his fingers. "The Matrix!" he exclaims. "Drunken Boxing. Neo downloaded it." His attention turns between the two, a dubious expression on his face.
Clint Barton squints, "I think I saw that one. Keanu. Lots of machine guns. Digital secret agents," he says. "And I'll happily tell Thor, in part because I'm almost certain Thor has no idea what hillbillies are. I should get him some Beverly Hillbillies DVDs. Now THAT, my friends, is a TV show. Ellie May bah gawd Clampett, yes, indeed, that's a woman," he says.
"Under the authority vested in me by the power of Avenging, I hereby declare this training over and all of us to go on break for the foreseeable future, when and until the world is threatened with destruction or Cap comes back from his phone call and makes us go back to work."
"Sure, that's close enough," Helena smiles crookedly at Kwabena, taking Clint's declaration as word enough. "Sounds like a direct order to me," she says, dropping the clip out of the gun and checking the chamber before taking off the ear protection and glasses. All of it goes into a bin, then is checked back in at the counter at one end of the range.
"All right. You're the expert on trouble," she grins at Clint. "What's the plan?"
A glance to the distracted Steve, then back to the others. "I suggest a 'dive bar'," he says. The quote marks are audible in his accented words. "Quiet, cheap drinks, and place where smoking ban is ignored." He shrugs; what's an addict to do, after all?
Clint Barton touches his chest, "An expert? Me? I'm flattered," he says, doing a little sniff with his nose.
"Carbuncle here has the right idea. Someplace where the booze is cheap, the lights are low, the skirts are short. THere are only five hundred such places in the Tri-State area, most of them populated by people who would be likely to shoot us on sight because we're good guys. Well, me. I'm the famous one. You two would just be collateral damage."
Helena gives Clint a dubious look, a flicker of amusement in the arch of her brow. "Uh huh. Sounds good. You know of one, or are we going to walk the streets until we find one? Also, can we maybe add some short sleeves to those short skirts, for those of us who are less interested in things that are under skirts?" So demanding.
"I cannot he shot," Kwabena answers matter of factly. A wicked grin appears on his face at that.
"I know some few places," he remarks on hand. "May give us de chance to practice being de 'good guys'."
Clint Barton grins at Helena, "I imagine we can find a bit of beefcake to go with the cheesecake. Let's follow the shady guy and see what he has in store. I like surprises," he says.
"Can't be shot, huh? Must be nice. I got shot five times last year and one of those wasn't even on duty. People be wilding out over chicken sandwiches…"
"Yeah, I can be shot, so let's avoid the parts where we get shot at," Helena chimes in, smile wry. She pauses to consider Kwabena for a moment, head tilting. "Did you want to change, or were you planning on using the uniform as a conversation-starter?" She may be a nerd, but at least she's still enough of a girl to think about outfits.
"Makes me de ultimate cannon foddah," Kwabena tells Clint. Sure; go ahead and shoot at the mutant who can't be killed. "I will change," he tells Helena. "I am different, but am not uncivilized. Meet me at…" He considers some options, then smirks wryly. "JD's in Staten."
Helena, for certain, will be familiar with the place; a shady place near the docks on Staten Island. Cash only, ignorance of the smoking ban, the kind of place where, if a bar fight doesn't break out, the bartender gets worried.