abraxaslogs | Per Aspera ★ October catch-all ★ Open

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Per Aspera ★ October catch-all ★ Open

Who: Shepard and various + Open
When: October
Where: Around Cadens and Shepard's Horizon
What: Shooting Range practice & lessons, social mingle, and some planned threads
Warnings: guns, cursing, likely discussion of violence

I. Range at the Horizon
The Normandy loomed over the shooting range, all two-hundred sixteen meters of sleek faster-than-light spacecraft. It was parked, ignominiously, on the dirt itself in very much the way that the real Normandy would only have been if it were trapped in dry-dock for repairs.

Today's occasion is nothing so necessary.

Instead, on the ground-space aft of the cargo hold there's been set up a shooting range. It looks a little makeshift, but it's serviceable enough. The Horizon's ubiquitous wish-fulfillment makes set-up and tidying simple enough, for a start.

Off to the left, there stand a few weapons racks, featuring a variety of firearms ranging from the types of firearms that might be familiar to any member of the Cadens military to a row of oddly-shaped rectangular devices representing weaponry native to Shepard's own home-universe, each gun neatly folded-down and in its place.

There are half-a-dozen shooting lanes with targets of varying distance and sophistication, ranging from holographic figures posed in attitudes of threat, paper cut-outs with zones of deadliness printed on them, vaguely humanoid outlines in plywood, aluminum, and sand-backed paper. There's even a line of bottles perched on a metal crate off to one side: the labels are printed in an alien script, and not all of them are completely empty. The lanes themselves are nothing more glamorous than strips of soil and grass, with an odd mix of gravel, beachsand, and whatever else had come in from the bordering Domains. Shepard had chosen this spot specifically for its position at the crux of several, unclaimed, and unlikely to be contested; all the better for a meeting-place.

In any case, Shepard is on-hand to assist. There's even a sign:

PRACTICE RANGE OPEN TO THE PUBLIC
help yourself if you know what you're doing
assistance available upon request

II. Rager at the Horizon
The cargo bay of the Normandy stands open, the wide bay door slid down to form a sturdy ramp, and up in the belly of the ship itself, amongst the crates and spare machinery is... a wet bar? Well, it's a table surface, and there are a variety of options, which may or may not be familiar. Serrice Ice Brandy, Batarian Fire-whiskey... Ryncol? Maybe you just want to stick with a nice beer, or seltzer-water, or maybe someone here should reconsider the combination of guns and alcohol.

Or maybe you should just go home, if you're going to be a coward about it.

In any case, Shepard is there, standing behind the bar, sitting around in the shade having a drink, or just messing around with the equipment. Step on up, and have a go, why don't you? It's hardly a wild party, but it's not as if anyone has anything better to do.

III. October Event
[ TBA ]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'm no archer, but the basic principles of aim and shoot still apply," Shepard says, considering Claude's speech with considerable anticipation. Normally she'd hand him something small and harmless and set him to building up a little muscle memory, but this is the Horizon. He isn't going to sprain his wrist here, and even if he blows a hole in something that he shouldn't, it's not going to matter.

Imaginary targets, imaginary weapons, imaginary damage, imaginary stakes. Smoke and mirror and god she hates this fucking planet so damn much.

"Let's get you started on something you might actually get to handle," She decides, motioning him over to the equipment. A moment's consideration more, and Shepard puts a simple pistol into his hands; simple by her standards at least. If it were real, it would have been handcrafted, iron and wood, ball and powder, more art tan antique as Shepard saw things.

But quite modern indeed, by the standards of the Free Cities civilian market.

"Now this is pretty primitive from my angle, but unless you change your mind about joining up, or rob a soldier, you probably won't see much different out there. How's the weight for you?"

At twenty feet, the figure is too tall to fit anywhere interior of Normandy, with the exception of the cargo bay. Space is always at a premium in space, ironically enough; every cubic meter is another hungry mouth devouring resources. Air, heat, mass, none of it is free, and nothing is ever more expensive than when it's in space.

But Shepard has fought bigger and meaner things than a six-meter set of black bedsheets. From her height of five feet and three entire inches, she folds her arms, sets back her chin, and regards Hythlodaeus with the same emnity one might feel for an inconvenient patch of rain. She doesn't think much of the drama of it all.

"Alright, what's your problem?"

Bigger, more than likely. Meaner, most certainly. The aptly described mass of black bedsheets seems to not hear her at first- as taken as he is with the machine. Yet he seems harmless enough. Even human, in some respects- such as his hand finding its way to his chin and a sound- an odd sound- coming from him which is almost akin to a chuckle of delight and amusement both.

However. Shepard is not to be unnoticed for long. For he does seem to gather himself, inclining his head down. And. What would come would be really strange. Words? Or just moans? The variance in the sounds that come from him suggests the former, rather than the latter.

Greetings!̴̡̧͍͓̺̾̽̍̑͘
̴̙͈̍̐̋
̸͍̱͕̱̔̐̾̈Ǐ̸̢̦̹͚͎̻̮͈͇͜͠ ̵͔͕̖͚̦͑̅͋̉̾̿̋̀̈d̵̡̛̫͙͖̠̟͚̈́̆̎̀̚̕ơ̷̠̳̮ ̵̡̧̳͔͉̝̠́̇͛̾ͅh̵̛̳͉̪̀̓̎ȯ̸̞̳͛́͌̀̑͒͝ͅp̸̡̼͔͓̤̤̭̀̈́͐̉̿͒̕̚ĕ̷̖̪͕̮̪̤ ̷̧̫̪̥̄̍̏̌̕ỹ̸̰̬̺̲͚͓̒́́̂͛͒͑ò̴̧̩̗̠̣̙̪͗͑̕ͅu̷̜͂̐͊̾ ̴͚̜͕̝̉̀̆̕͠c̸͇̫̓̓̈̒̕a̷̛̺̹͎̿͒̔̀̍́n̷̢̨̛̪̣̹̭̣̿̓̉̏̒̚ ̵̞̣͈̪̝̪͔͉̎͝hear me.̵̢̯̭͓̣̀͌̀́̑͛͋̚͝͝ ̸͈͑̊̈́̃̈̋̓̾̅̈A̸̙̹̗̼̲̮̣̽n̴̢̡̢͔͇̺̲̙̽̿̌͊̈́̍̅̕͘d̸̫̠̱̫͓͎͈͌̌͜ ̸͓̄͒̄̈͋̃̐̚ẗ̴̨̗̻́̐͝h̴̨̞̼̝͈͖͇̣̑̂͛̔a̵̟͙̹̝̪̠̩͉̲͂̾́̐̔͂͒̎͜t̸̨̨͕̖̞̦̥̟́̀͠ ̶̳̭͚̰͚͈̻͓͈̒̑̀̉́̕ḿ̸̲̓͌̀̋͠ỷ̴̖͍̣͔̌͗̆̔̋ ̴̪̱̂ẘ̴͇̜̱̹̖̺̱ͅo̸̧̞̓̈́̆̇͗͑ͅͅŗ̷͔̞̙͓͚̥͎͕͌̎̈́̄̇́̈́̌̑d̶̛͕̍̈̋̊̏̉͝s̴̡͕̥̜̩̲͚̐͋͒̉̕͠͠͠ ̸̙͚͇̩̟̳̊̏̎͑̋ͅm̶̨͗́͂̓ȩ̸̨̛̬͕͙̔̈̄͆͒̓͑̄͜͝a̵̡̡̢̺̙͇̹̜͕̣̓̓͐̈́̎̉͝͝ň̷͚̥̟͇̟̬̩̜̽̏̇̿ͅ ̶̼̞͔̟͈̖̀̿̈́̌̑͆̃͑͠͝s̷̹̭̖͖̹̯̥̳̫̘̈̓̀̊̌̀̿́o̶̬̐̊̎̐̔̀͠m̴̧͍͎̠̍̈́̃͌̎̒́̕̚͘͜ë̸̤̅t̶̛͔̺̼͎̹͈̮͓̃̏̾̈͐͌͐̎͜͝ͅh̸̡̛̦̠̩̗͓̝̞̩́͐͛̎͛͂͒̉͂i̸̥̱͐̈́̂͋̂̍͐͐n̷̢͔̖̣̟̖͓̜͆̈́̔͘ͅǵ̵̲̪̂͛ ̶̰̠̤͚͋͊͋̆̈͝ṭ̷̝̤̘̜͍̘̃́̎̌͌͛̈́ŏ̶͉̳̈́̈́͆̚͝ ̶̗̩̱̬̜̜̳͌́̉́͆̈́͘̕ͅy̶͈͖͐̃́̓̐̓̔̕͝o̵̦̻̳̻͍̥̍̾̉̔̓ͅu̷̞͒̔̑̉͠.̴̨̢̡̛̘̗͎̹̱̺̄͒̃̑̃̍͝ ̸̢̧̖͇̹̬̭̭̿̋̐͂͒͂̌̋͜͠W̴̢̦̱͇͑̽̈́̾͠e̴̡̨̞͂͆̃̈́͌͗ ̶̠̳͕̬̳̲͙͇̪̂̂̃͋̒s̶̛͔̓͊̓̅p̵͇̠̃̌̀͠ô̴̢͙̠̞̥͇͍̞̺͂̀̇̀̐̓̚͝k̵̡̡̭͓̫͓̺̺͌͑̎e̶͚͙̯̜̟̺̥̮̍̓͒ ̴̡̫͐̐͋̋̽ọ̸̠̮͕͍͐̀̋͛ņ̴̩̗̙̥̝̭̤͖͒̃̂͛́͐͑ ̵̳̖̹̲̥̲̦̦̤̾̓͌̓͗̎̀̕͝ͅt̴̹̮̬͕̙̳̯̳̯͐́̃̇͘͝h̷̭̼̰̗̐́̊͑͂̍̄͂͝ͅę̷͔̰͍̙̓̍ ̷̛͎͖̯̱̣̖̺̮̀͋̌͛̌̄͝network ̵̦̝̥̌͐͊s̴̭̾̒̆͒̎͘ò̸̧͎̣̗̭͜ͅm̷̢͔͍̣͈͓̈́̒̅̑̇͘ĕ̶̛̪͌̒̆̔̚ ̸̣͖͚̼͙͉̐͌̌͂̿̅͜͝͠ẗ̸̛͚̳̣͍̝̪́̏͊̈̑̀͐͠͝ḯ̶̡̧̡͈̭̹̼͇̈́͐͝ṃ̶̳̎̄̈́è̷̠̮̓̈̃̂̀̐̄ ̷̪̲̓̈́̌̽̔͂̈̚͠ä̷̗̯̫͔͓̹̥̿̐͒̀̓g̵̡̣͙͈̗͈̥̾̔̀͗̓͘͜͠ͅó̷̡̯͊̆͌̾͘͝.̴͕́̉̒̋͒̀ ̸̛͈͙̠͂̌̾͗̈́̃̉̚͝ͅR̸͎̞̫̹̽̄̔̅ĕ̷̹̥̺̗̤̈͊̈́͐̍̄̕g̴̢͙̖̣͙͉͌́̇͆̾̓͠ͅá̴̞͙̈́̈́̿́́͊̏r̴͕̙̤̤͍̻̘̜͓̀̋͘͜d̵̯̻̼̠͂̓̌̒i̶̛̘͚̩̭̼͂ṉ̴͗͌̀͊̐̅̂̀́̇ǧ̸̡̛̦̯͉̟͖̼ ̴̢̛̤̠̹͓̟͘t̵̪̪͒́̀̃̄̓ͅŕ̵̢̛͓̿̆͌̃͐͝a̶̱͂͆̒i̶̧͇̱̰̜̹͓̰͌̋̽̕͜n̷̛̥͙͎͚͈̞̼̻̆̅̀̽̔̍̊̌i̵̛̞̠̟̗͌̽̍͐̀́̃͜͠͝ṇ̷̇̍͛̋͗̑͜ģ̷̤̳̙̝̆͘̕͜͝?̸̯̗͇̪̗͎̪̙̿͑̐̀́̉̋͜͝ͅ

If Shepard were to concentrate- really concentrate- utilizing the power of her Horizon and her influence here- she would find more and more of the sounds forming more words, rather than sounds. Some sentences, even.

.̸̡̛͎͖́̀.̷̢̙͕̫͇͇̖̱͂̂̎́̀͌͆̒̂̕ͅ.̴̻͍͓͉́͛Ä̸̡̛͍̰͕̺̖̰͕̣̞́̋̄̽̋̓h̸̛̞̫͋͌͒͗.̸̼̙͗̀̍̏ ̷̬̩̘͒̑́͆Y̵̛̠̻̻̻̞̳͋̅̒̾̔͆͜͠o̷̲̱͇̲̥̠͋͌͜ừ̵̼͚͒͊̍̃͊̇̕͝ ̴̧̛̘͙̬̂̐͆̾̋̉̕ḑ̵̛͍̐͆́̐̊̅̈͠ŏ̴͉̈́̊ ̴̺̤̉̒̈̀ņ̵̙͖͖̓̀̉̓́͗ȍ̷̗͖̳͂͒̍̌̄͌ͅţ̴̛̮̞̩̦̪̬̄̊͊͐͋͝ ̵̖̠̭̰͂́͠understand ̷̛̘̟̆̀̃͊͘m̸̦̯͉͈̰̰̑̊͝ỳ̸̩͍̬̟̃͘ ̶̢̼͒words.̷̟̦͍̹͂́͋̊͑͛ ̵̬͉̔̉͆̇̃̓
̶̮̐̌̈́͊̑͌́̒͠
̶̞̼̖̪͍̠̜̹͍̈́̄͌̂̆̉R̵͇̦̫̻͆̇͌̿̆̑̂͘͝é̵̲͋́̇̕̕͝͝ģ̴̡̛̞̤̹̙̙͔̈́͑̏̈́̈́̓́̂͠r̸̨͉̖͇̤̜̲̤̭͒̈͛͘͘͝e̴̪̤̬̝͔͓̖͇͒ͅt̷͇̮̟̘͇͕̖͗̔͛̃̎̏̽̊͘͝t̵̥̳̯̓ą̴̳̙̱͍̃͆ḇ̴̠͂̽̅́͂̃͘l̴̢̡͎̣͍͖̻̠͍̊̋͠y̵̱͈̠̬̗̘̟͖̠̅̂͌̂̎̃̑̒ͅ,̸͓̞͓̬̞̹̹͉͚̾͜ ̴̨̡͚̫̳̪͍͖̣̻̀̾t̷̤̺̙̺̙̪̜̘̦̘́͂̅h̵̺͙̼̙̬͛̂̅͑̌̓̾̑̄̕ͅë̶͓̙͉̙̣̳̪̤́̾͂̓̎ ̸͓͉̲̹͉̱͇̮̀̐̽̋̄̃̍̆͘͜S̵̜̩̮̰̺͎̟͌̎̇̋̔͒́͐͂̕i̵̘͈͓̬͉͇̙͋͐͊̒̄̑͝ņ̵͕̳͉̻̟͍͔̥͓͆͒̎̅́̇̒̆g̴̮͌̽̇̂̾̔̎̾̇ű̴͔̠̻̝̗̦͖̩̿̏́̀͐̂ľ̶͓̼̮̙̠̲̫͓̤̄̒͂͋͗̋̀̕͘ä̷̛͚̹̗͕́̽̏̐͗̒̕ŗ̴̡̺̞̖̟̰͊̄̿̋̋͋̆͊͠ì̵͖̮̟̘͔̥̠̌̑̊̈́t̵̘̤͓̱̖̟͓̐́͝y̷̞͇̼͔̺̬̩͖̎̔̒̓̓͌͂͌͘͝ ̶̡͚̗͕̘̥̪̺̎̍̃̈́i̷̻̯̣͎͙̬̲̝͔̇͘ͅs̸̳̬̼̓̄͒̄̿̚͠ ̵̥̺͓̅͛̑͛̄̕͝ṉ̵̬͎̎́͋̍̎͑͒õ̵̱͍͋t̸̜͔̹͈̎̎̒̋̀̍ ̷̧̂ŝ̴̡̟̝͎͉̠́̕͘ừ̵͎͂̍̾̅̇̑̀b̴̭̤̘̳͙̳̤̤̭͌͜j̵̧̡̩̣͔͓͉̦̥̑̽̈̀̌̒͌͆̿͠e̷̹̘͍̩̳̭̦̮͎̮͝ç̶͉͇̲͎̳̯̐̍̾̓̓̚͜ţ̵̜̮͇͖̭͎̎̇͊͋̄͑̽͊͜ ̴̢̞̔́͗̔͒̌̃̏̕͝ṱ̸̢̣̩͇̩̯͙͌̏ỡ̴͉̯͇̌̊̉̆ ̴͚̱̟̠̰͙͗̀t̶̢̝̘̠͍͍͓̰͆̓͊͑̂̍̾̚ḥ̵̣̘͉͙̥̇͒͋̈́́͐e̵̻̹̖̯̫̲̐̈́́͠ͅ ̵̢̧͍̱̉͗̀̀l̴͔̦̱̭̬̪͇̟̞̋̾̑̓͛͐̈̎̽ã̵̙̱̟̭̳̪͔̯̅w̴̗̜̘̥̺̓̅̓̈́̚ͅs̶͙͒̈̍́͘̕͠ ̵͇̳̙͇̼̳̻͉̚w̵̡̡̫̙̮̦͔͈̻͊ì̸͉͔̼̜͉͊̅̏͐̈́͋̈́̚͠t̸̛̯̘̻̉͌̊͛̋̏̑h̶̰̩̹̎͛͐̎͋ĭ̴̢̭̬̦͔͗́̂̍̀̾͒͘͝n̶̖̰̺̼͈̖͔̩̾̔͑̎̉̈́ ̴̜͍̟̖͔̪͈̣̩͌̐A̴̪̖̹͎̳̠̤͓̰̪̽̕b̷̭͗͊͌̃̒͠͝ͅr̸̨̛̹̭͈͋͊͘ä̷͔͔̙́̿̏̽̈̋̓͝x̶̨̲̱͙̼͊̎̍͝a̷̢̼͎̗̮͔͇̋̈́s̸̳̭̖̯̠̟̊͑͠͝.̶̠̘͌͋̎͛̈́̃͋ ̷̨̩̘̣̤̣̫͈̗̘͋̋͋̊͛̇̒̾͑̕T̸̨̨̻̗̺͇̮̞̙́̃͋͛̅ḩ̷̗͚̮̮̜̽̂̓́e̶̡̧̟͋̌̂̿̈́̕͜ŗ̸̣̥̙̺̯̥͂̿̿̔̉̃́͝ė̶͓̠̪͔̣̩͌f̷̨͍͍̭̦̪̯̒͒͒̓͠o̸̢̧̥̝̻̰͕͉̍́̋̚r̴̠͉̙̩̻̗̫͎͚̈́̔͋̀͆͝ę̸̼̒̌̃̏̃̀̌̔̉͒,̵̤͍̽͒ ̷̗̠̤̤̯̮͙͋̇͐̌́͛̅͠t̸͎̪̗̂̀̇͂̎̚ḫ̸̡͇̲̠̻̻͛͑͋̄͛̊̑̈́e̶̡̱͝ ̸̮̜̔͛̽̈m̴͖̣̳̺̤͐a̸̛̳͙͖͇͋͌͗g̶̣͍͕̦͚̫͌̿͆̓͂͋͌͝ḯ̸̢̨̝͈̞̱̣̜͕̗̓̋̈͂͝č̶̢͖̔̓́̆ͅk̷̯̩͔̗̫͔̤̏̍́̀̃̌̎̌̚͝ṣ̵̔̓͆̈́͊͆̏͠͝ ̶̛̮̯̭̖̟͛͂̍̀̆̈́̉͠t̶̛͇̮͈͔̾̈́̓̈́̉h̷̛̯̜̦̟̥̪̥̞͊͗͘a̴̡̭̼̬̩̼̳̭̫̟̋̑̈́t̵͖̃̌̈̀́̍ ̶̢̢̹̤̙͍͓̟̝͎̃͑̆̚̕ţ̸̫̫̤̻̦̙̝̹̃͒͌̐̓͌̅̈́͘r̵̭̩̈́̆͆̍̉͝͝a̵͎͂͆̿̀̄͝n̸̨̧̡̲̠̭̜̫̤̳͆s̶̱͈̹̗̟̻̪̩̯̻̓͛̄͐l̷͙͚͓͓͕̫̦͉̱̉̇̽̈́̿̈̈̀a̸̜̘̦͚̪̟̦͎̤̓ͅt̶͓̤̭̻̞̀ḙ̴̺́͗̐̀̀͗͘͝ ̵̱̝͇̭̻̙͖̝̱͂̊̔̉̽̕͜ļ̴̖̺̳̗͓͕̒̈́̂a̷͕͋͆̅͒̓̒̅̊̒̚n̵͚̻̩̪̟̣̞͎̼̳̅̌g̵̨̙̠̙͔̻̘̞̭͒̂͒͗͠͝ŭ̴̜͈̫̓̀͜ạ̴̖͒̊̀̓́͗͆͐̏͝g̸̢̳̲̻̝̈́̆́͊͛̐͋͝ḙ̴̀̚ ̴̢̛̘̐̍̿́̍̇̚b̴̢̨̫͕̪̗͕̘́̅̅̀̓̌̑̑̔́ȩ̸͎̻͚͝ͅt̵̨̢̰̝̎́̈́̿̑͛͛͑̈́̚ẁ̷̹͕̺̭̎́̐͛͝e̶͍͂̑̈́ę̸̧̼̘̤͋͋̋̊̏̂̈́n̴̜̦̯̼͉̰̗̩͕͒̓̎͌͜͠ ̷̳̗̮̗̈́̏̑͒t̴̻͓͈͕̲̱͊̾̊͑̇͐̈́̚h̶͍̥̪͕͈̺͍̿͗̂e̵̡̮̫͈͉̟̖̬͌̅̀̆͑ ̶̖̿̋S̶̰̈́̆͆́̈́̕u̶̢̢͖̰̱̬̞̱̍̂͌͂̆̅͑̈̐m̴̙̯͙̹̄̅͂̆͠m̴̛̳̹̼̳̎̉̓͠ó̷͚n̵͈͎͈͆̈͑͂̽͘͠ͅė̴̯̮̪͕͚͋͌̚ͅḓ̸̤̩͕̋́̃̌̿͝ ̵̤͋̓͆̀͝ă̷̛̪͕̹̩͛̄͐̽͒̚̚͝r̸̡̗͓̲̹̪̲͓̃͂̓͑͠ͅȩ̸̻͉̜̗͕̺̹̬̝̇̈́͛̾͑ ̴̢̭͙̻͂̂m̷̮͔͇̱̞̖̤̗̯̾́̃̍̐̆̍ǒ̸̧̦͇̣̪͙̫͖̲̹̅́́͑̎̆͘͠ó̴̲̝͓͌̓͋̈́̾̎̆̀͝t̴̫͋͊̅͌͂̇̅̈́͜͠.̶̛̗̖̮̓̎͛̓̀̅̚ ̴̳̭̻̲̜̘̐̽̅̂̊̈́͘͝H̵̼̺̙̹̳̓̇̒͐̌͘͜o̶̧̨̨͎͖͇͕̼̊͒̉̈́̏̽̎̓̀w̴̨̛͍̱̞̝̜̳̙̞̅̃̓̒͋͜ȩ̸̥̹̟̞̦̻̠̤̥̓̈v̴̢͉͙̝̍̾̐͒͂̀̔̅̾e̷̪͖̖̫͇̹͝r̴̞̂͒̋̈̐̈́͆̈!̸͕̤̞̣̊̓̈́͛̅ ̴̼̳̳̖̪̙̳̳͊̆̔͆͜͜Ą̷̞̩̱̰̣̠̘͈̋̃͑̌͆́̇̒͂͘s̴̼̼̹̣̻̖̝͊̐̕ ̶͔̰̭̳͆͝t̴̡̡͎̰̜̫̘͖͆ͅh̷̭̤̗͛̈́̃̅̀̊͘͘͝ì̷̧̛̬̝̬͙̺̦͖̎̈̀͠s̸̺̣̲̘̉ ̸̡̪̻͍͓̣͓̹̝̾̈́̂̀͝͝͠à̶̢̢͙̮̱̻̭̓̐̽̈͝ȑ̵̜̠̖̽͊͑̐͑̓̽̓ȩ̵̘͔̣̻̞̳̓̇̒̇ä̵̹̥͔̜͕̞́̌͗̓͌͝'̵͕̮̑̄̆͝s̶̢̭̞̙̑̂͆͑̏̈̉̋̚͠ ̸͇͓̦̂̇͐̈͐o̷̧̘̼̪̲͂̈̿̍̎͑͑̀͜͝w̸̧̧̳̙̥̗̦̣̪̌̈́̇n̷̜͂͛͋̀̀̇͐̓͋͠é̷̜̞̦̃͌ȓ̵̡̤̳̥̯̺́̊̈̕ͅ,̶̮̾͑̀̍͛͑̽͜ ̴̹͎͛̓͗̏͌̇̈́͘͜y̸̲̻̥̬̆̾̋̃̍͜͝ȏ̶̺͕̖͎̺̄̓͋̎́̒̀́͠u̶͈̗̗̦͔̞̪̍̌̾̈́͗́̀̏͗͘ ̷̨̼̠̞̺͈̘̲̠͒̎̄̚͘͜͠a̵̰͇̳̜͎͉̤̟͐͒͘͜r̷̹̫͚̩̚e̵̡̟͑̏͊̇͗͊̈́ ̵͍̾̓́̍̓͂͠c̸̢̟̳̺̱͖̒̈̿̽a̴̮͍̒̀̏̂̑͗͆͒́͘p̸̧̱̹̘̭̋̚͝ͅȁ̴̪̻̼b̴̛̫̳̲̎̀̈́͊̄̎͊͝l̷͙̮͙̰̹̦̭̍̃e̵̝̝̋̊̈́͒̽͘̕͝ ̶̨̘̩̹̬̦̭̒̏ô̵̢̨͎̣͙̞͕͇͙͊̌̚f̶̨͈̭̲̺̆͒̇͘ ̶̛̳̏͋̍changing the laws ̴͇̙̝̇̑̓ǫ̷̲̬̖͖͙̜̯̞̇f̴̛̛͙̹̪̼͕̭͑̈́́̎̔̅͜͠ ̵̰̠͊͑̄̈̌͝ț̶͍̍͒̊̓̅̕̕̕̕͝h̶̹̜̺̫͂̏̎̾̓̄̃̋̚í̴̧̛̮̺̗̺̔̎̽̾̎͠s̶̡̞̲̭̰͗̃͂̇͆̈ ̸̫̳͍̣̮̹̲̠͙̈́̈́̓̈̄ͅp̷̬̗͒͊͊̍l̴̛̳͇̪͙̯̜͕̲͈͙̓̍͂͘ą̸͈̰̭͎̯̲̝͆͌c̴̲̣̦͉̮̩̲̗͐́̋e̸̢̢̨͔̼̥̱̯͋͂̊̈̍̎͘ ̸̙͊͂͆̇t̶͕̤͍̎ǫ̴̰̠̖̦̲̬̯̿͜ ̶̢̬̰͔͓̯͕͛̃͌͜ÿ̵͚́̚͜o̶̫̯̺̿̏͌u̴̢͖̩͖̭̍̿͊̾ŗ̸̖̗̘̞̍̀̉͜ ̴͎̞̪̗̩͚̗̱͉͇͂̀̔w̶̨̛̗̰͎̉̾͂̎̐̓̈́̄ḩ̵͉̥͎͔͚͇͇̜̏̔͌́̒̎̕̚ḭ̸̧̡̛̞͚͇̜̯̏̔̾̑̅m̶̤̣͕͑͂̐̿̂̔̋̚͝.̴̦̺͔̣̯̳̺̩̉̎ ̵̨̰̭͍̞̬̠͓̬͕̾̏̈͋͒Ś̶͎̞̫̤̙̼̘̼͚͗̑͊͂͝ͅḩ̷̙͍̺͚͎̲͎̝͝ͅo̶̼̲̬͕̦̟̳͎̪̔̿̍̋̓̌̽͐͠ų̵̡̻̹̱̦̠̲̇̈͜͜l̸̫̞̹̘͚̯̤͓͛ḑ̸̖̬̠̭̳̊̒̅͐͂ ̸̠̬͇̟̰͌̾̂̔̎̾́̚ý̵̹̫̝̳̗̙̘̃̈́̽̄̎͝ͅo̴̤͖̳̺͊̋͛̑͝u̸̢̧̡̲̟͋̀̕ͅ ̵̨̭͓̪̯̤̭̞̪̠̆̀͠focus,̴̘̮̱̝̜̪̽̾̽̾̇̐̋͝ͅ ̸̧̧̛̖̮̖̏̍̑͠y̴̭͚͓̑̄͗̆̋̔̔̐̈́o̸͕̽͛̎̊̎̉̎̍̚u̶͎͕̲̠̇̈́̀̔͋̅͠ͅ ̵͉̝͙̭̅̆̍̂s̵̻͕̣̜̦̓̂̃͂̿͆̾̽ḩ̶̺̮͙͗ȁ̵̢̺̝̮̇̈́͗̾̈͛l̶͉͎̩͑̍̈́̏̈́̑͒̈́́̓l̷̳͇̮̻͍͈̏͒ ̸͖͈̰́̽́͆̈́̐̑̌͝f̴̢̼̱̈́́̚̕i̶̦̫͈̘̳̐̅͑̄̿̅̕ņ̵͖̼̮͙̫̙̌̓͜ḑ̵̞͍̻̺̞̬̏̒̅ͅ ̴̦͍͋m̷̢͇̳͔͔͔͂͌͆̋e̵̬̠̲̓̊͌̈́̏̐̊̈́ ̸͓̠̲͎̿speaking your tongue.̴̢̼̞̦͎̤̎.̵̠̤̝̫̣̖̲̟̞͐̋.̶͍͇̾͌͑̑̏̓ ̶̨̛̝̤̘͚͉̬̞̫̺̎͒̋͑̿̓̀̿͐ţ̵̦͓̠̖͇͕̘̈͑͒̊́̅͠ͅḧ̵̨̧͍̱͈͙̞͇̺̱́̇̆͌̈́e̷͇̺͙̣͇̫͛̾̈́͋͝r̸̛̦̜̺̃̐̈̀̿̅e̵͈̜̔̄̀̇̇b̴̪̬̖̩͚̎̆̂͐̐̾͘͜͝y̴̧̧̱͕̮̤̼͉͊̔̇͐̓̾͝ ̸̦͚̰̟̯̣͍̩͈̕͝ͅm̵̯̯̻̺̫͉̗̘̅ả̸̻̲̳̞̹̬̠̃̿̊͆̆̔͗͘͜͠k̵̗̀ì̴͔̜̠͇͔̞̪̽͐̓̎̿͜ͅn̵̦͓̦͐ͅĝ̵̢̥͔͉̻͙̈́͂͑͝ ̵͓̂t̵̡̙̦͚̜͒́̈́͂̂͛̉̇̒͝h̴̳͕́i̸̙͔͛͌̆̆̌ͅs̷̨̜̞̲̖̹͎̅́͆͝ ̷̹̟͊̉̏͒͌̓͑͝͠m̷̛͖̖̑͐͌̃̽͛̽̃͝û̵͇̭͌͌͜c̷̺͖̯̦̺̍̏̾̈́̒̌̉͑͝͝h̴̻͖̐̈́̉ͅ ̸̨̲̤̝̠̀s̶̡̡̪͍͓̺̪͈̎i̶͈̩̬̭̭̗͑͂̓͜m̶̼͂̾p̷̯̯̈́̈́͗̓̓̿̓̿͘͝ͅl̶̢͖̰̘̹̰̙̼̃͌ͅę̶̗̞͇̩̈͆̉̽̎̀̐͘r̸̡̝̝͚̪͔̘̘̾̋̊̋̊̇̈́͊̀͘ͅ.̶̹͇̠̠͙̞̇͋̾̎͗͠ ̶̧͖̪̼̤̟͉̯̺͑̋̓̍̏̈̏͘W̴̩̩̠̩̭̜͚͒ó̵͎̼͇̯͓̹̽̅͗̀̕͘͜͜͜u̸͍̤̤͈̖̽ĺ̷̺d̴̛͔̩͒ ̷̧͙̖̯͕̥̬͕͓͖̉̀y̸̢̢̨̤̬͚͛́͝o̸͎̪̖̤̔͆̑ú̸̜̜̲͑̀̀̇̈̈́̚ͅ ̴͍͈̘̮̳̤̻͕̔̊͐͊͐͊̕m̵̲̜̪͗͑͂̿͑͑̿͌̓̏ī̷͖͇̳̻̌̃͂̿̿̉̌̐ͅn̸̻͖͐d̸͎̊͋̽͗̃?̵̥͇̤̠̽̋͗͆͝͝ͅ

And finally;

Now I hope, you can understand me?

What's put in his hands is nothing he's seen before. There's some amount of caution which should go with it, Claude's sure, but: one benefit to the Horizon is leaving and coming back if something goes Terribly Wrong. Or so he thinks, anyway, which is all the leeway he needs to inspect whatever it is Shepard's handed him.

It's unfamiliar, yes, but (in what might be a faulty assumption) weapons are weapons, and there's a weight to it that speaks of the power in it. The crossbows he'd experimented with in Nocwich were much the same given how much further they could send bolts than with his far more manual bow could ever hope to manage. Shepard's invitation mentioned blowing fingers off, so. Best to learn from the experts.

"If this is primitive, what sorts of things are you used to?" Curiosity wins out as it always does for Claude though he thinks he can venture a decent guess based on the remainder of the weapons rack though he hasn't the slightest what those do compared to what's in his hand. "And, maybe a better starting question, does this-" with a lift of said object - "have a specific name I should be calling it by? And since I can't say I'm about to take up either of those suggestions, this should work for practicing shots here."

It doesn’t take long before their exchange over the mental network when Sephiroth shows up. The Normandy is difficult not to notice at a distance, and it draws the eye to the gun range — Sephiroth’s most obvious point of interest.

She will find him standing there, stoic as a statue as always, green eyes roving over the weapon’s rack. He pauses before reaching out for one; notably, one that might be more suited to having originated from a world other than Abraxas, far more advanced. His curiosity is obviously piqued, turning it over in gloved hands.

"That's a pistol," Shepard replies, and then has to cock her head for a shrug, "Personal sidearm, more or less. It's decent at short and mid-range, but its stopping power tapers off quicker than you'd think against armored targets, assuming you can hit them that far off."

And assuming that they didn't have other forms of shielding, of course. But one thing at a time.

"Here's my more typical form of the same," She continues, palming up a puck of metal that unfolds in her hand with a rapid, almost startled response. The resulting weapon looks almost nothing like what Claude is holding; it's a heavy, glowing, blunt-nosed piece of equipment completely at odds with the almost elegantly curved, hand-machined brass, steel and wood, "It's a little more power than I think you're ready for."

She puts it away with an easy familiarity; unnecessarily careful, given the horizon's easy lack of limitations, but guided by long habit.

"Any more questions?"

You'd be amazed how absolutely inhuman some languages sound. Turians, for example, sound like nothing so much as birds, or maybe dinosaurs— all rendered down by subdermal translators into something recognizable, even comfortable.

So Shepard simply squints as the person—thing groans and hoots and gets on with it, listening hard for the occasional piece of comprehension. She is a being of formidable will, and most of that will is at current moment bent towards forcing this encounter into something resembling an acceptable shape.

"Yeah, I understand you," She replies, when the creature has at length come to a finish, "You're telling me we spoke on the... communications network?"

If there's an official name for it, Shepard doesn't know it. She doesn't even want to, really.

"Remind me. Because if you can't get a handle on all... this," A circular, frustrated gesture to encompass the inhuman scale of the current situation, "Then I don't really see how you're gonna be able to get anything meaningful out of this setup."

Shepard's boots crunch on the gravel as she approaches, audible difference between the gangplank and the dirt. Very rarely has she ever been accused of being stealthy, but now she is deliberately otherwise, watching him contemplate the compressed form of— ah.

"It's an assault rifle," Shepard says, when the suspense seems to have gone on long enough, "There's a switch, there, left side bottom, grey silicon. The real one would be keyed to specific authorizations, but this is the Horizon, so..."

So he might shortly find himself holding an armful of the block, antiquated profile of the M-96 Mattock. Shepard liked to think of it as a classic, or at least of being classically intimidating, but the reality was that it was more Garrus' forte than her own. He liked precision, and she liked eliminating the need for it.

Still, doesn't hurt to have the option.

"...Sephiroth, I presume?"

As Shepard explains, the personal sidearm is the part which sticks in Claude's mind as he studies the gun in his hands. Strange to think of it in the same league as a bow or a lance, other things he's used to also described as one's personal weapon, what with this much smaller object being more powerful than either of those or anything else he knows.

Then it becomes apparent that even what's in his hands is in a different league than what Shepard shows him next, something much sleeker and able to change shapes of its own accord. Claude raises an eyebrow and can't help some quick glances between the pistols in his grip and hers and what differences he can see, and what ones must be lurking in there somewhere that he can't. At the mention of there being more power in that one he just nods, willing to accept this as a truth considering he's yet to see what guns can do.

"Yes, but several of those questions are more about the day-to-day type of things than with training with these specifically, so I'll leave it up to you if you'd like to humor me on those." An easy enough grin follows - he's only somewhat teasing - and while he does have several other questions he makes the decision to limit it to what's most relevant until Shepard voices her thoughts on the other. "To keep it business-related, so to speak: is there a stance that goes along with this? Archery has some varying ones depending on what you're doing or where you're aiming so I'm guessing much is the same here, but maybe that's better demonstrated in front of a target."

Questions or not, he's especially interested in the demonstration part.

Shepard laughs, both expecting the question and, obtusely, surprised by it. He wants to shoot. Alright, well don't we all?

"There's a lot of wrong ways to shoot, and a lot of right ways that you shouldn't do unless you know what you're doing, but let's start at the basics and go from there."

The basics are, ultimately, a lot more basic than she'd like. If Shepard had her way, as she so often does, he'd have drilled with all the safety mechanisms, and only then loading and unloading, assembly maintenance, lubrication, a thousand other things that went into handling a weapon properly. Only then, likely not even in the first session, would she have asked him to take a shot.

Unfortunately, they don't likely have the time, even if the Horizon's endless wish fulfillment tendencies wouldn't hamstring a lot of it. So. The short verion, then— She shows him how to load the antique.

It's simple enough, flintlock mechanism, chemical accelerant; she explains the difference between bullets and balls, and how wadding and powder functioned. Spark to make flame, flame to expand, a tiny explosion of air pressure and heat that propelled the bullet— or ball— down the shaft and, with some skill and luck, into the target... There are some things in this world taking methodically, and learning right. If you fuck up the foundation, it's no wonder if the house falls down afterwards and, whatever Claude's impatience, Shepard is a passionate defender of the outcome being all that matters.

"...The main thing is, if you see a gun, you assume it's loaded and ready to fire. Don't point it at anything you aren't prepared to see destroyed, including people," She thinks for a moment, watching Claude to see that he gets her meaning, "Right. Now you're ready."

Choose your target sir.

"Feet apart, don't lock your elbows. Both hands on the grip, keep your finger off the trigger until you're sure you're ready," This last said with real steel. If you're going to do something with a gun, Claude, at least do it on purpose. She nudges his shoulder to open up his elbow, putting it in proper alignment, "Line up along the sights. Breathe out, and squeeze."

She does not warn him about the kick; the experience of recoil, the shock of it, could in some cases injure you quite badly. But in this case, Shepard is wagering that that shock, the unpleasant lesson of it, would be a better reminder to Claude's future self than any amount of warning. Don't tense up; but be ready. Unlike what the weapon might do to someone on the other end, it won't kill you.

When Shepard gets into Mag's Inn, she'll be easily directed up to Sam's flat. It looks like any other room, there, but when she knocks, Sam will only be a moment or so before he's opening the door.

"Commander Shepard, hey." His smile is friendly, welcoming, before he steps back and ushers her inside. Peter, who he usually shares the flat with, is (as always) at the University, so the clean, fairly simple, but homey main sitting area is empty.

When she steps inside (if she does), he will close the door behind her. "What can I do for you?"

He had mentioned being hard to miss, and that was no exaggeration — at least, he thinks so, insofar as his own experiences are concerned. Sephiroth turns to look at her from over the metal pauldron of his SOLDIER’s outfit. His eyes are cat-like and his silver hair sways with the movement, a lengthy curtain behind him.

“That’s right,” he says, and there is something about his tone that could be confused as boredom, but given how he returns his attention to the weapon at hand, that is clearly not the case.

“I was curious.” An obviousness, but perhaps an explanation as to why he’s manhandling her Horizon toys without so much as a proper first meeting. Maybe it passes as an apology, in his own strange way. “This weaponry is more advanced than what I’ve normally seen.”

Left side, bottom. His thumb presses against the switch on the assault rifle.

"Yeah, I can see that."

She's couching it in what she knows about machine hunting--ripping the heavy weapon off of something and then unleashing that power in turn. Useful, situationally. Fun to play around with, in a place like this. It's possible that she's purposefully neglecting to further address Shepard's plans, and the weapons are a good distraction.

For now, she'll set the current firearm aside and start to peruse everything else on offer, but she doesn't make a choice just yet.

"Do you fight a lot of mechs?"

"I do indeed," Shepard replies, content to leave the rest where it lies, "Geth, mostly. Sometimes Reapers, or other machines. It's more usually just people; you might be surprised how often a steady payday is enough incentive for someone to go out and get dead."

Because that's what happens when they come up against her, almost universally; there's risk-reward calculus and then there's stupidity. Sometimes, it's time to quit your job while you're still ahead. On impulse, Shepard steps up beside Aloy and with a moment's focus one of the holographic targets shimmers and shifts— until it is a very faithful, if harmless, recreation of a Geth Hunter, standing head and shoulders over them both, sleek and imposing with its white armor and seeking eye.

"There's a Geth for you, one of the little ones. What do you fight?"

The visitor cannot help but smile, although for all intent and all purpose, he appears to have no mouth to smile with. It is a feeling, more than anything. Perhaps Shepard would be a perceptive enough woman to note it. Perhaps she would not. Regardless, the figure does raise a single hand to where his mouth should be, and does let out a silent motion, akin to someone laughing behind it.

He should not laugh, he knows. Yet he always had such a penchant for those prone to show irritation. Then he speaks, once more. Again, his words are crystal clear.

I think that in this place, you have power. Therefore, you have the power to influence my form into something far more conducive to what we both wish to attain today.

A pause, and...

That is, if you would not mind. I apologize for the fact I cannot do it myself.

The instruction Shepard provides reminds him a lot of those given to him as a child upon graduating from training bows and blunt arrows to ones that would do real, actual damage. For good reason; it'd only taken one misfired arrow to remind him of what damage could be done even after growing up watching others use bows and taking that for granted. Having even that relatively small amount of weapon power in one's hands wasn't something to take lightly.

And so, despite his eagerness here in an environment where critical damage is likely to be avoided: Claude pays close attention to each thing Shepard shows him, following along with each step and carefully filing all of that information away to save for later. While he can't picture a gun making it into his day-to-day usage, he keeps a sharp gaze on everything. At the reminder to assume he can do damage with this at any point, intentional or not, he nods solemnly. Horizon or not - and ability to be completely serious or not, as it's often the latter - this much he'll be sure to take to heart.

Soon enough it's time to pick a target and he selects the closest one, mostly because it means not having to take any longer for this experience. There's final instructions and some correction of how he's standing, more things he'll attempt to memorize, and then he's on his own. After one last mental run-through of all of Shepard's advice there's nothing left to do but pull the trigger and when he does, none of it is what he's expecting.

It starts with the recoil like the pistol in his hands is alive, not unlike a hero's relic moving of its own according but entirely more active than those weapons' twitches ever were considering this jolt feels like it goes through his entire body. Then there's the noise which even with Shepard's extremely helpful explanation of this being a small explosion Claude's still not prepared for, and the whole experience means his shot seems to clip the target. Maybe. He's a little too rattled to really properly look towards it since he's now examining the pistol in his hands once more (but not without all those safety measures in place, now even more aware of why they exist).

"Gods," he says when it feels like the shock's worn off a bit. The expression he turns Shepard's way is likely still uneasy but not without curiosity threading through it once more. "I know you said this is well behind what you're used to, but the only comparison I have to make is like I just lit a miniature cannon in my hands." A pause. "In retrospect, I probably should've asked what shooting was like before just... volunteering to try it. Now I really see why you wanted to give lessons to those of us who haven't the slightest what firearms are like."

"Doesn't take much imagination, does it?" Shepard replies, "Experience is a hell of a teacher; you get the lesson after the test. I'm a lot nicer."

She's not kind, but Shepard does see herself as fair, at least. She'll warn you before she blows you away, even if only the once.

"Modern weaponry is mostly about power and convenience," She gestures down-range, where Claude's shot has taken a chunk off the wooden outline of a human form. She considers the divot with a weather eye; it was only plywood, imaginary plywood at that, but his aim had been pretty good for a first try, "Say you're in a fight, and that's all you've got. Even if you're quick, it'd take at least a minute or two to reload. This, on the other hand..."

She touches the quiescent form of her own pistol, the weapon retracted into its most compact form, not even recognizable as a handgun by anyone who didn't know better.

"...Can fire twenty-four times before needing a pause, and can penetrate armor. Honestly, I usually carry something with a lot more stopping power; even heavy pistols are the small fries," She racks the pistol, one deadly weapon among many, and turns back, "Free Cities military standard issue is a rifle, which you're consequentially a lot more likely to encounter; it's got a real kick to it. Still, it's a shit starting place for a military professional, so unless you got any questions, let's see you hit that target a few dozen more times."

Even if Shepard were interested in doing this in the corridor, which she isn't, or if she'd not received an invitation to enter, which she has, she'd probably have come in. As things stand, it's...

...Actually, it's weird. She doesn't know a lot of people who answer at the door, and the gesture feels oddly natural and distinctly foreign, all at once. She covers for the awkward moment by taking in the decor, little that it is.

"I've been asked to go around and confirm a few things about the Summoned in the area. Standard stuff, mailing addresses, places of work, government paperwork, you know?" She has a clipboard in her hand, on which to write, "I'd appreciate it if you'd help me confirm a few things, for yourself and uh..."

Another glance around, as if confirming— no, she can see it.

"...Anybody else, who lives here. Nothing too out there, I promise."

No, it certainly doesn't take much imagination. And truthfully: even his (half-assed, he can admit, if only to himself) imagining of what the shot would be like was far different than the actual thing. Or the Horizon thing. Maybe the same difference, or possibly even more jarring and worse? Thinking too hard about that threatens to give him a slight headache when there's too much unknown about how 'real' the Horizon can be, and it's a bit too distracting for what they're supposed to be doing here.

Or rather what Claude's supposed to be doing, and he tunes back into current reality as Shepard gestures to the target. To his surprise since he'd been expecting to have not hit anything at all when taking the shot rather messed up the stance she'd guided him into, and equally surprising is how long it'd take to reload the pistol. He's quickly learning he'll continue to be surprised since the mention of how many shots her firearm can take in a row and what it can pierce is startling.

"Twenty-four times - that's beyond my comprehension. I believe you, but thinking about how long it'd take me to line up that many shots by arrow when there's a good chance someone could just continue shooting at me in the meantime?" He trails off there. There's not a need to finish that thought; he clearly wouldn't win in that battle. "Even with this pistol I have here I'd like to believe I could fire a good handful of arrows in the reload time, but still."

Her clarification that the Free Cities' known weaponry is somewhere on a rapidly sliding scale Claude's piecing together is eye-opening, both in what it means for potential use against them and the power behind it. But he also remembers Shepard works with the military so he keeps that thought to himself with a briefly creased brow, instead opting to line up again to take the shots she's told him to take. Now that he knows what to expect, the recoil isn't quite so terrible this time. It takes a bit of fine-tuning in that practice, but slowly but surely his shots become less sporadic and more focused, more likely to hit where they were aimed than far from it.

He can tell that she feels awkward the moment she steps inside, and Sam very easily steps into the role of trying to ease it, walking around her further into the room and considering asking her if she wanted something to drink or eat before she speaks.

Ah - so she's here on a job. Sam's demeanor doesn't shift, exactly, but he does feel a kind of tension in him again. Something keeping his back a little straighter, his jaw a little more edged. He's still smiling, still friendly, but this is different now.

"This is for Marlo, then? Didn't know they were keeping files on the Summoned."

He gestures for her to take a seat in the sitting area in the middle of the room, if she wants to. "I'll do what I can - what info you do have?"

Shepard looks at him sharply, then glances past his shoulder at the door and has to put effort, real effort, into not turning to look behind her, for any potential window.

"I don't work directly for the Governor's office, I'm just doin' paperwork like a good little soldier," she says, evenly, tilting her head to emphasize the not now of it, "Just needed to confirm your place of residence, and where you're making your income. Your cooperation is appreciated."

Particularly when she is, inevitably, going to have to write up a report. But Sam's not stupid, and this isn't exactly a subtle information-gathering mission. Hell, she'd announced herself in as many words.

"...And your uh... roomate, if you're willing."

Sam lets her do her check through the room - he assumes she'll want to do it, knows what it's like to need to look over your shoulder - and he doesn't react to the sharp look, either.

"Well- you've got my place of residence. Roommate's harder to pin down since I tend to let people come in and out, but at the moment it's Peter Parker. He's working down at the University."

Usually, Sam would have been a little more hesitant to give out anyone else's information. He's got the target on his back, and it's kind of a city-wide piece of knowledge that you can find him at the Inn, but what other people want known about their lives is (he feels) their business. Honestly, the only reason he says it at all is because Peter's paper trail from the University would already say as much.

"Income's a little harder - I don't have a standing job, but I do work for the owner here for board." Sam shrugs - it's worked for him so far.

Shepard has no real idea how the Horizon works, how it might translate; certainly it seems very solid and real. But how real is it? She knows the Normandy's shape very well, from the angle of the hull to the exact vibrato of the artificial gravity's pulse-cycle. But she isn't an engineer, and if she were to pry up a panel and have a look, would the works underneath make sense? In the battery, certainly, that was and had always been Garrus' Domain, but what about the rest of it?

Shepard doesn't know. But she does know the use and effectiveness of every gun on the table, most of them quite intimately. So in this, at least, the realism is assured.

She hopes.

"Don't lock you elbow," She reminds him, when she sees him forget, watching him as he works. It's a long, slow road to competency, but there's really only one way up. Climb it.

"You're telling me... to tell you... what to look like?"

She is, to put it mildly, skeptical of this concept. She has no idea who you are, pal, what species, sex, gender, or persuasion. For all she knows, this is what you look like, though she doubts it. There's enough stupid on the network that someone would have asked who the monstrous spook was, had there been one walking the streets.

"In the Horizon, everybody has power. Normandy's mobile; I don't own the ground here any more than anyone else," Shepard gestures at the patchwork around them, a middle ground, with its edges all melted together like wax, with the colors not fully blended, "Fix yourself, or get out. That's an order."

"I'm told that 'advanced' is relative," Shepard replies, warming to the perception of compliment, despite herself, "But it's a bit farther along than a crossbow, I'll give you that."

If Shepard is concerned about him touching her things, she doesn't show it; the sign had invited people to do so, after all. It was what the setup was for. And besides, Sephiroth had been invited more specifically, all above-board and legitimate.

He presses the release and the Mattock springs eagerly into his hands, a blocky, unmistakably military piece of hardware that nevertheless possesses the same basics of any firearm. Stock, trigger, muzzle, sights; even if everything else is different, there's a framework to its operation that is not so easily abandoned.

"Give it a shot, then. You know what say curiosity, right?"

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