xp_logs | Quentin & Kevin, Wednesday afternoon

xp_erverse posting in

Perhaps against everyone's better judgment, Quentin learns about guns, courtesy of everyone's favorite shapeshifting spy.

Quentin did not like surprises. He had asked Gabriel to hook him up with someone who knew their way around a gun, part of Quentin's project to copy and surpass Braddock's psionic constructs. The speedster had been characteristically tight-lipped when he later sent Quentin just a time and place to meet. Quentin probably would have ignored it, but firearms were such a foreign concept to him that he admitted to himself he could not learn alone, so he'd given in.

The address he'd gotten was a small firing range outside of town with a number of private ranges available. He expected Gabriel to be there himself, luring Quentin here in a butch display of masculinity that perhaps would end like many of their one-on-one encounters did. It wasn't until he walked in that he saw Kevin Sydney, a figure he only knew peripherally from the mansion.

"Quire." The man said with a nod, He was drinking coffee and leaning against a table with an array of firearms neatly lined up.

"Where's Gabriel?" asked the telepath, opening his mind to locate the familiar mind, but all he picked up was a handful of gun enthusiasts and this odd, Teflon-coated brain standing before him.

"Oddly enough, this isn't really Gabe's scene. He asked if I'd be willing to show you some proper weapons training." He said. "Unless that makes you uncomfortable."

Quentin raised an eyebrow. "Why would I be uncomfortable? I don't even know who you are." His gaze turned to the nearby display. "And it's gonna take more than that to intimidate me."

Kevin gave him a level look. "I'd hope that a table full of unloaded firearms doesn't intimidate you. It would be inconvenient to have to do this to soothing music while you're wrapped in a weighted blanket." He waved towards the other table. "I'm Kevin. I work with Gabe. Go collect some ear protection and we'll get started."

Quentin returned a moment later with a pair of earmuffs in a green that clashed horribly with his hair. He made a note to find something more fashionable for next time, assuming he survived this first time. He approached the table and picked up one of the handguns, keeping his fingers far away from the trigger. "So. You work with Colbert, then, too?"

"I do. I run a lot of the global intel side of the shop." He took the gun from him, placing it back down firmly. "Rule one, you don't touch a gun until I hand it to you. Have you ever fired a gun of any kind? Pistol, rifle?"

"I grew up in the Upper East Side with the WASPiest WASPs to ever WASP. What do you think?" Quentin reached for another piece but stopped himself halfway, and looked up at Kevin. "And for what it's worth, I hate these. These things only exist to kill, they have no other purpose. But I have an experiment to run, so this is research."

"I used to live there myself." Kevin said, ushering towards the range. When Quire was there, he brought over a pistol. "The other two rules. Unless you have cleared the gun yourself, you treat every one as being loaded. Third, you don't point it at anyone, loaded or not unless you plan to use it." He stepped into the lane next to Quire. "This is a Glock 22. Very standard. Pull the trigger a couple of times. Tell me how it feels."

Though his first instinct was, as usual, to disregard the instructions and do what he wanted, Quentin carefully took the gun from Kevin, pointing it at the ground until he turned to face the target. He raised it, holding it with just one hand like so many action movie stars, and hoping Kevin did not notice his trembling finger, he squeezed the trigger. "It's heavier than I thought," he said simply.

"Glocks are pretty solid. Some people like something lighter, but I find a bit of weight helps the recoil." Kevin nodded. The size looked like a fit and Quire wasn't straining for the trigger. "Also, when you hold it properly, you'll find the weight managed a little differently. So I'm going to teach you the simplest and most effective firing stance. It's called the Isosceles stance. Hold the gun out with your right hand. With your left,you wrap it around your right hand, supporting the weapon and then centre it. Properly done, your arms and body should form an isosceles triangle."

"Is this the type of weapon cops carry to murder civilians?" Quentin asked as if he were just inquiring about the weather. But he still followed instructions, and found this stance more comfortable than the last. At least this time, he steadied his hold on the gun and didn't even shake that much.

"Depends where you are. Most US departments switched over to Glocks about fifteen, twenty years ago. A lot of the European ones like the SIG Sauer series." Kevin moved behind Quire, showing no real reaction to his comment. "Now, you want to maintain that triangle, so when you aim, you use your waist and shoulders to move side to side and your arms to go up and down. Like your upper body is a turret."

"So then what does the CIA use to assassinate the democratically elected leaders of low-income countries who stand in the way of American capitalistic-imperial expansion?"

"Generals of their military is the preferred method. Coups are always better than a direct assassination because you already know what the power structure of the new government will be." He walked over and picked up a tray with a number of pre-loaded clips on it. "Are you ready to try firing it for real?"

Quentin eyed the clips like they were venomous snakes poised to strike, but surprised himself by saying "Yes." He cleared his throat and cocked his head side to side to crack his neck, trying to get back into his "I'm better than all this" act. "And then if the generals don't cooperate, it's just down the line until you find the right corporate-friendly stooge?"

"Not always. There's insurgents, rival political or clerical figures, the odd would be martyr. The problem with assassination is that it is messier than the movies show and getting away clean has a lot of risk. Better to funnel money and resources to someone who will end up doing what you want while providing deniability. Do you want lessons in regime change as well as guns now?" Kevin took the gun from him and slotted in a clip. He held it by the barrel, the grip up so Quentin could only take it back with it pointed at the ground. "So, use the stance and sight down the barrel."

Kevin pressed a button and the typical head and shoulder silhouette target came forward on the overhead track until it was halfway down the range.

"Could be a useful skill set," Quentin answered, smirking, "Next time we need one at home. Could be soon if those genocide-bots ever get up and running." He froze when he turned to the target, standing in proper isosceles stance but with the gun pointed down. The target could be so many things. He imagined the high school bullies who still tormented his nightmares. Tom Logan. Any assortment of politicians. The NYPD officers who had torn through the District X street festival so many years ago. Sabretooth tearing through his teammates. The gaseous demonic form of the Shadow King.

He shouted an unintelligible challenge and fired.

"if it helps, I think you scared the target." Kevin said dryly. "But next time, a barbaric ywap isn't the most effective approach. Or firing before being properly sighted, firing while the weapon is in motion, and jerking the trigger, On the other hand, you still have all your toes, so I've seen worse first attempts."

He ran the target in close enough that Quire could see it was untouched. He cycled it back out. "If you want to overthrow the government, you're going to need better aim. This time, I want you to get into your stance, line up the target, and take a deep breath. As you let it out, squeeze the trigger."

Quentin gritted his teeth to hold back a snarky remark. He refused to fail twice, so was going to get this right. The chatter of other shooters in nearby private ranges were incessant in his head, so he fortified his mind, blocking them all out and basking in the quiet. Deep breaths, just like he did when learning to control his mutant powers. Air in and out.

He raised the gun again, focused down the narrow lane of the sight, breathed in again, and fired on the exhale.

He lowered the gun after a few seconds, still holding it tightly in both hands, and couldn't help but smile. "Maybe not a kill shot, but he's going to need a colostomy bag after that."

"You hit the target, but you're still low. You want to be aiming centre mass, especially in nine millimeter. Again." Kevin waved his hand. "Empty the clip in steady measured shots."

"Geez, not even one word of encouragement." There was the snark Quentin had been withholding, although success in deadly violence had tempered it. He turned back to the target, took a breath and aimed, counted to three, and fired again on the exhale. And again. And ten more times. Then he breathed in again.

The target zoomed forward again, and Quentin's face was impassive as he counted the holes in the paper. Five, including the previous one. About a 36% accuracy. "Pathetic," he said, halfway between a growl and a sigh.

"I know I fully expected you to be a sharpshooter after your first thirteen rounds." Kevin unclipped the target and held it up. "You're letting your left arm collapse when you fire. That's why you're all over the place. See?" He pointed at the erratic scattering of the rounds.

"Let me see how you do it, then." Quentin handed Kevin the gun, holding it by the barrel. "Show me your moves, killer."

Kevin took the gun, placing it on the tray as he clipped up a new target and sent it the full way down the range. He took over in the range from Quentin, waiting until the other man was clear before reloading the weapon. As he brought it up, his stance was a bit different from the one he taught Quire and he emptied the clip quickly, no hesitation or pauses between the shots. When he was done, he pulled the clip and cleared the weapon before drawing in the target. In the headspace of the silhouette were three holes, tightly grouped around where the nose would be. The other nine rounds were clustered together in the centre, shredding the target and at one point creating a jagged hole so several of the rounds weren't discernible as individual hits. Wordlessly, he passed the target over to Quentin.

"Fuck you, too. Fuck. Fine, let me try again."