Mar 30 19:03:09 109 PA - The Firing Range Isn't Always Smiles
From Chronicles
Mar 30 19:03:09 109 PA.
PUBLIC FIRING RANGE
Nighttime is as good a time as any to be called out to the range. As he doesn't know how long he might be here alone, or even what he's here for, Gabriel has brought along a tool to test. It's a rifle as odd as the weird pistol he carries. A clearly lovingly hand-oiled wooden stock, a long metal barrel ending in another long cylinder that looks like the end of a cat o'nine tail. All of the metal has been Parkerized, and a complex scope system sits atop, balanced by a straight magazine hanging from directly in front of a double-action trigger mechanism. He's whistling up at one of the ranges, with a small military duffel on the ground next to him. Despite the weather, he has definitely changed into warm-weather clothing. It's a pretty quiet time at the range, at least as quiet as a firing range can be.
"Gabriel, over here!" A younger man's voice calls out between missile detonations. Seems someone is practicing in the power armor range. He's got a pistol in hand, but it's pointed at the ground, outside of his feet. "I've got the info you wanted.. He calls, then turns away. There in his little private box, he's got ammo spread all along the edges, E-clips standing on their square bases. His pistol comes up and the air between him and the target is filled with brilliant light for just an instant, laser burns appearing in the target. He's not a half bad shot.
At the call, Gabriel's head turns. He takes his time packing up what little gear he had out of the bag. The rifle is closed inside a blackened carrying case. With a whistled tune taking him down to the more flamboyant part of the range, he watches Max's marksmanship for a short time. "Not bad. You can stay back and defend Tek and the supplies. What can I do for you? I guess I got lost in my own little world, didn't see you here."
Max grins, as he fires once more, then crouches and his free hand comes forward. Flames burst into life in his open palms and he hurls the handful out at the target, watching the ball burst and light the target on fire, burning merrily. "I can do that. But I called you here because I was thinking more about your request. I can help you or us or whoever.. get into Coalition controlled areas. See, I've done a bit of research on my own, and apparently.. the Coalition has a liking for psychics. They despise the so called rogues, Psychics who aren't allied with the States. However, they take special interest in those that sign up for their psi program. They prefer sensitives.. but an eruptor.. like myself.. they'll take as well. Based on what I remember, and backed up by several people I've talked to in town here.. If I go there claiming to want to become a deadhead.. they'll give me a temporary ID, normally 12 to 48 hours additionally to what I ask for. Those in my company could be family, or escorts ensuring I get the help I need. More than enough time to get through the city, and out the other side. One option at the very least. And if they want a show of loyalty.. well.. tattoos can be removed as can implants."
Gabriel listens and nods, patting the man's shoulder with a gentle slap. "Thanks, Max. But I think that it would still be best to keep it as low-key as possible. If we need to go through a city or something, you can put you your 'I love Prosek' T-Shirt, but otherwise leave it up to someone boring like me. The worst they can do to me would be telepathy."
Max shakes his head. "No.. the worst they could do is pretend to read your mind, declare you an ally of the Federation of Magic and execute you on the spot. But uh.. ok, we'll do it your way." He says, frowning slightly. He worked hard on getting that information. But it'll be useful, he just knows it. "Didn't know I was clairvoyant." He mutters to himself, his thoughts running away without him.
With raised brow, Gabriel says, "It's good work, Max. It's just best to keep it simple. All I have heard since I got to this city is how much the Coalition hates mages and psychics, and *particularly* psychics because you can do things with just a thought. You don't need to mumble and charge, or whatever it is that the mages do. I get that they like psychics in certain cases, but... you said their psi-program. I could be wrong, I get that." He pushes away any protest with open palms. "But I think that it would probably be easier to read my mind and let me pass as a human who just has a grudge against their emperor, versus a psychic eruptor trying not to get caught."
Max considers this but offers only a look. "They hate Psychics not on their side. They prefer baseline humans, like you.. but they are always on the lookout for magic and supernatural sympathizers. Their psi program.. takes humans born with psychic gifts, and trains them from infancy up, or whenever their talents manifest. They are trained, brainwashed, and conditioned to use their more than human powers to protect humanity, while at the same time they are second class citizens at best. According to the Coalition, that which makes them.. me.. more than human can also make us less than human, in which case the States will terminate people like me. And it's always to their discretion."
"Okay. But see, could you pull that off?" Gabriel asks, palms upraised. "Trained, brainwashed and conditioned to protect humanity above all else when trying to get through a gate or infiltrate a patrol? Particularly if we traveled side-by-side, and they caught me. A psychic caught along with a human who doesn't love Prosek? All I'm saying is that for people with this level of paranoia, they'll really be watching to see if someone is literally part of the program or not. What if they called you out as a legit psychic, and thought you'd like some time with psychic sensitive pals who *have* gone through the brain-washing program and tap into your skull just because there's nothing else to do?" The older man offers a smile. "Let's call it a backup plan. A plan that will probably work, but is potentially more dangerous than others."
Max grins, having already thought of that. "When it's my turn at the checkpoint I am required to volunteer my status as a psychic, my classification and type. Then I get a removable and temporary bar code stamped on me. Otherwise I get turned around and told to have a nice day with a boot print on my ass. But they won't. I'm from Ishpeming, what everyone here calls Northern gun. They're allies. I don't foresee any problems but.. as you said, we'll deal with that as it comes up."
"Still, your own mind can betray you." Gabriel crosses his arms but manages to wag a finger just the same. "In war, you can man a machine-gun post and literally kill thousands of people all by yourself if you're in a good spot. You might get killed in the line of fire, but if you're not killed in battle, by the laws of war you are taken to a prisoner of war camp to live out your days until somebody wins. However!" He stomps his foot lightly for emphasis. "If you are caught fighting, doing the *same thing* while wearing the uniform or otherwise claiming to be your enemy? You *will* be executed, though there may be a fun period of torture first. Nobody likes spies. Even we did this to the English-speaking Fallschirmjäger who got across our own lines in '44. Not our finest hour to be sure, but just an example. Even the good guys look poorly on spies. It's why many of us have short lifespans."
Max looks at the older man like he's insane. "This isn't war... and even if it was.. laws and rules have no place in war, you kill the other guy, until one of you runs out of guys to send, or one side gives up. There are no.. 'Oh you fought valiantly.. we're going to keep you prisoner.' No, if you kill hundreds or thousands of their side, they shoot you in the face for doing it. There is no place for honor on a battlefield." He says collecting his few E-clips left and heading for the entrance of the range. Something has perturbed him, though it's unclear what.
Gabriel simply allows Max to slip out without a word of complaint or agreement. He offers a shrug, checks his watch... and apparently decides that there's still time for a little range time, moving back to his previous slot where he prepares to lay out his things with minimalist precision.
