Orbreak - Blog Posts
optics flicker across the scarred skin of her instructor, observing the way his calloused digits point and gesture towards the arsenal of weapons mizuse definitely has no reason to be in possession of. it’s not like she is a terrible shot. the entire round pierced through the target’s bullseye; however, why would she need to rely on a weapon she can out run ? ❛ tsk — yeah, it would be a bad idea to bring a gun to a fight against ME, sir, ❜ gaze shifts back up towards his visage at the mention of the gala — guilt slamming down her heart into the pits of her stomach. i wasn’t fast enough. the devil-may-care smile falters in the slightest, sensing the mood of the lesson shifting. mizuse sets down the secured weapon she had previously fired back on the table to put her hands on her hips. she notices the glint of specialty knives and daggers, similar to the ones that her father had used during his clandestine career as “ kage. ” let’s not forget the katana that is his prized possession ( mizuse has secretly played around with … hey, her mother did put her in kendo classes ! ). ❛ i know my way around these, ❜ mizuse picks up one of the combat knives, grip secure around the handle, with the edge oriented away from her. as of right now, mizuse does not carry weapons with her while on duty as a sentinel. when she was moonlighting as a vigilante way back when … that’s a different story. ❛ if we’re talking about using ANYTHING in arms’ reach, sir … i suggest there should be, like, more unusual items here. this laying around would be a miracle. ❜
OPEN ! summary training together a week after the buchanan's gala
moments ago, he had instructed them to empty a round into a single metal plate one-thousand meters away. exactly one emptied round later, as the last bullet falls loose from the barrel of their gun, he returns with a bundle in his arms. wayne lays out a cloth spread of weapons on the table. four different guns, three different knives. "put the safety on," he reminds, without looking up, as deft fingers load copper-plated steel bullets into a black fnx-45 tac. glinting off the fluorescents are scratches on the barrel, like someone used this gun to hit something. or someone. in the harsh light, nothing is forgiven—every inch of him shows hard and carved and calloused. casually cut and scarred. along the jutting bone of his left wrist, snaking around his hand then disappearing into his palm, is a line of scar tissue about an inch thick.
and his knuckles are still puffed up and scabbed over from the attack a week before. "alright," he starts. "never bring a gun to a supers' fight and, best case scenario, your target's dead before they know you ever existed," he lists off lessons from their past few sessions as he attaches an omega 45k to the barrel-end of a gun. "but," he pauses. "you were at the gala. or you've heard of it by now..." he holds a sigh in his chest. all of this almost feels silly—something so hopeless about trying to shoot at shadows, preparing to fight an enemy no one can see. but he wants to help, but he's no good at asking so how have you been, and he's even worse at saying the right thing, so this is the best he can do. "you need to know how to fight in any situation, with anything within arm's reach." he nods at the spread of weapons in front of them, cueing them to take their pick. "let me see your grip."
