#fhq.starter

Loch fancied he could be forgiven for having been the first in line for this. It was, perhaps, a bit of overkill to have arrived as quickly as he did when he heard exactly what this was, but the mere possibility of being able to touch a keyboard again was enough to push him to a level of punctuality he'd never before demonstrated. It was as exciting as the first time Nathan Drake realized he had the ability to survive the impossible. Survival was not, perhaps, Loch's strength, but adapting was and he was confident in his ability to jailbreak even this limited system into something more useful. Christ on a bike, he was excited about this.

Turning to the person with the (mis)fortune of standing behind him, Loch began asking the questions he considered to be of paramount importance. "So, have you worked with this system before? Is it pretty standard, like Linux or Windows? I've heard it's more like a search engine before. Have you heard if it's particularly intuitive or is it running off of like Windows 84-style bullshit? And, most importantly, how good is the WiFi? If it only works on WiFi, we'll need a halfway decent connection, unless someone's willing to get into the details of hardware, which I'm not. I'm more than happy to optimize the software, but actual hardware is so far beyond me, it makes a summer trip to Andromeda feel feasible."

A pager. Christ. This was old school by his standards. But, apparently, there was some sort of way to catch a radio signal on the damn thing? (There was a whole damn station, out here? God knew what it'd play.) Only problem was figuring out who the hell he was supposed to talk to about that.

Guin wasn't in the mood for a chase. The lady who made the coffee would know. And she'd share, for the low, low cost of a little harmless small talk about the Omega-1 and Iota-10 vets - he'd already absconded for a smoke break when that second bombshell dropped, but he'd caught the whispers during their over-long site tour; a Damn fucking Fed?) - who were, apparently, running the new circus onsite. And had some kinda history. History, even. From what he'd heard...

(Well, almost harmless. Small talk, by and large, did Guin nothing but harm. But Barb was alright.)

And, yeah, she'd happened to know just the thing for anybody sick of listening to the HVAC hiss along. Glancing at the office number scratched on the back of his receipt, Guin folded that up and into a pocket in his tac pants. "Much appreciated. Don't suppose you could - use another plant?" Plant, in scare quotes. He held up the... whatever it was, some sort of plasticky succulent that'd been in his welcome packet. To go with her shelf of the damn things behind the bar, a dusty, fakeass garden he couldn't fathom the fucking appeal of. Just made him miss real, living scenery. Fireweed on the hills, the pithy-herbal taste of spruce tips, the give of thawed muskeg under his boots. The real world. Not this concrete and glass hamster cage they'd be quartered in.

"Oh, hon. I'm all set. Maybe your friend, there?" Shaking her head with one of those apple-cheeked smiles, Barb pointed past his shoulder. Guin swiveled, already frowning - a friend? No. Just a teammate. He offered the plant again, dangling from a lifeless frond. "Want it?"

Forgive him for not having a background in these things, but it was Loch's esteemed opinion that anytime weapons were needed, he'd already failed in whatever job he was supposed to be doing and he may as well accept his fate as the red shirt of the group. Sure, he played enough video games to have half-way decent hand-eye coordination and could at least hold his own when it came to hand-to-hand and self-defense, but picking up a gun? It put a sour taste in the back of Loch's throat, like the tingling promise of bile. He was not going to enjoy this.

The person next to him likely, in his mind, didn't expect to be addressed with how quiet the room was, but the few cares Loch gave for social convention had long-since decided to abandon ship when this requirement came through. "Is this really necessary," he demanded, hand shoved so deeply into pockets it was a question on whether or not they'd reappear at all. "I'm a techy. Support class. Unspoken genius of the electronic variety, whatever you care for. Is it seriously so important I know how to shoot?"

All the bells and whistles and shiny new toys, this place had. Guin reassembled the one he'd helped himself to - a Nosler 21, shit, a pleasant surprise - for the second time, eyes elsewhere. Squinting at the unnecessary flatscreen guide to this gussied up firing range. He'd taken his time with it, letting his hands get to know the rifle on their own, unseen, as he watched through the range guide. Bleeding edge. To think, they could've set up a couple cans and called it a fucking day. Spared a few cool mil, most likely. Goddamn ridiculous.

That said, he couldn't not try the night sim.

Pressing the last cartridge into place, ready in the chamber, he let the bolt clack - smooth, quiet, good - and started clicking his way through the screen, going over modes and shit. Those fucking overhead lights dropped. Were replaced by a silvery-blue, faint glow, overhead. He dimmed that a little further. Just a sliver of moonlight. Or close as he'd get, in here. One last sip of coffee, another drag on his smoke - both first of the day, he'd got up early, ready to miss the no-doubt crowded defense seminar as he settled into the armory his own damn way - he balanced his cigarette between the lip and handle of his mug and stepped to the firing line. Alright; rifle shouldered, boot on the ready sensor.