Ignoring Gilliam's further attempts at infuriating one of the two people on the ship with the authority to shoot him, you exit the mess and head for the range. You pass a few of the Inquisitor's serfs on the way, taking a quick elevator ride to the third deck. A number of lockers line the side of the the room along with a servitor waiting for instructions. Shrugging off your greatcoat, you draw your boltpistol. Loading in a clip of training ammunition, you take your spot on the gun range. Time for a warm up.
You go over to the Servitor, and state your command code. In a static filled voice, it answers "Welcome Commissar. Activate prefered routine?
" You give a nod, before cursing and then saying yes in a clear voice. Training Servo Skulls active
A number of small drones rise up from their charging pits, their eyes glowing red. Waiting for the command order, which you proceed to give.
The reinforced skulls begin moving in erratic patterns, slowly moving forward as they do so. You exhale, and squeeze the trigger of your bolt pistol.
The recoil is surprisingly light for the size of the round, due to the weight of the gun that fires it, but you still have to compensate for it. A skull is hit
, it's countergrav disc disabled as it falls to the floor.
Two more fall. The Mauler in your hand is lighter then the Garm that you wore during your regiment days, allowing you to hold it one handed for more then just a single magazine before your arm gets tired. Which is good, because more often then not, you needed that other hand to hold a chainsword.
dakka dakka dakka
You smell the propellent fill the air as more of the skulls fall. You smirk as you extend your arm fully, the final servo skull in your sights. Time seems to hover as it dodges to either the left or the right. You have a split second to choose.
You blow the smoke from your gun barrel and put it away. The servo skulls all move back to their repair bays. One is smoking, meaning that you hit something important when you shot it.
you think, before unloading the weapon. Placing the bolter on the table that seperates the range from the shooting line, you head over to your locker, quickly rattling off the combination. Inside lies a lasgun and a pair of stubbers. You quickly take up the small weapons, grabbing their regular ammunition. .45 caliber rounds, coated with teflon to assist piercing armor. Against modern infantry it was a joke, but against the average ganger or cultist? Especially if they weren't expecting it.
"Human simulation." You state clearly to the servitor.
A full training servitor rose from it's resting place. It was fully armored, but more importantly, covered with sensors. It was not calibrated to ignore any damage that wouldn't kill a person wearing a flak vest. That meant that headshots are the name of the game, which is what you would want to aim for anyway in a firefight.
The small guns in your hands only hold three bullets each before needing a reload, and were a lot less powerful then a bolter. However, they were concealable, and could be attached to a device that allowed them to pop into your hands with a flick of the wrist, which was important for undercover work, as you had found out the first time you had tried to draw a weapon in a dress. Not a pleasent experience, and rather embarrassing too.
You take aim and fire at the servitor.
The sound is disappointing, and the recoil on the small weapon is marginal at best. However, you managed to hit your target.
The servitor begins doing evasive maneuvers, as close to human as the Magos could make them. You fire again.
A miss. Or rather, a hit to wear the flak armor would be. You curse and fire again, this time from the left hand.
This time the servitor collapses. You smirk and reload both weapons.
You continue this for about an hour, stopping only to reload the pintsized guns. You think you have a handle on them now, and that you could get a use out of them if a firefight occurred.
"Who knows, maybe the Inquisitor will be able to solve things peacefully?"
You laugh at your words. What were the odds of that
Locking up both weapons, you grab your own bolt pistol and holster it, before taking up your greatcoat once more. Now... to find that Sororita. You take the elevator, and find her in the mess hall, calmly drinking some sort of hot liquid while reciting one of the Emperor's benedictions.
"You, me, sparring mat, now." You say, a look of eagerness on your face.
Sister Grace of the Order of the Martyred lady gives you a look, before a small smile on her face.
"Ah, commissar. I was wondering when you would come back for another beating."
You give her a look. She simply smiles and sips her tea, before turning to you.
"I'll be down in a minute. Must finish a prayer to the Emperor, for protection for those fool hardy souls who wish to exceed their reach."
You let out a small laugh, before heading back down to deck three, and this time head for the the sparring theater. In truth, it is an open area with a floor made of a stiff, soft material and a bunch of seat bolted down for a good view. You strip down to your white undershirt and pants, before putting on the barefingered gloves that protected your knuckles.
You were honestly surprised when you found the Sororita shared your interest in hand to hand fighting. Most prefered fencing, to practice their skills with an evicerator while in powered armor, but Sister Grace prefered the powerfist. Since then, you had a friendly rivalry with the Battle Sister, and practiced whenever you could with her.
Which was often.
edited 3rd Apr '12 2:30:27 PM by MaskedAndDangerous