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A Lazy Saturday; Feat. Ben Fields
Topic Started: Sep 18 2016, 02:44 PM (214 Views)
Cicada Days
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((Ben Fields continued from Is This It))
((Temporally continued from Be Still))

Saturday was a day for cleaning, and pestering Lana to get her ass away from the computer and clean. At least her damn computer space proper, drowning in typical teenager as it was. But there was some time left before season started, and some time left before school ended. Baseball, finals, graduation, recruitment, ship off. He'd probably never get another chance like this anytime ever. So when his old pal Will had called up and said the words Ben had been there. Was there now.

Might as well try to get some time with a gun in before he was packing his bags for basic. Pretty logical idea, that.

Ben shut the door behind him, breathing in a good fistful and faceful of desert air. Milder, crisper, dryer than the toxic shit back out in the city. Proximity from meth labs and teenage angst did good on the atmosphere, who'dve guessed?

He scanned about with broad sweeps of his chin and chest as he dutifully followed Will's orders. Apparently there were wildlife out here from time to time to test out bullets on, not like Ben would know from experience. No experience, and not by choice. Guns were cool. Shit, every dude worth his cajones above the age of six knew that one. But guns were expensive, cars were expensive, gas was expensive, and the state hated gunshots in backyards. Probably for very good reason, but Ben had thusly never shot much more than a friend's airsoft. Probably 4/5 cans last he'd tried. Put himself right in the grunts with those percentages.

And with his gait. He fucking two-footed it by Will's side.

"Shit, and here I was thinking we'd be busting out the Matrix moves." That one was Ben's freebie, he liked to think. He set the bag down like that shit was his firstborn, and proceeded to listen to the rundown. No running commentary, even as historical factoids and such casually raised their hands in the Kindergarten of Ben's brain. No calling on that shit. This was the time for utmost focus, and he memorized every single word like it would be his own last one. Hands at Ben's side slowly milled through a mock trial of Will's instructions. He could feel the cusp of the trigger guard, the safe orientation of the gun. Slow, quick, slow, quick. Ben probably looked like a righteous ass but he couldn't really help it, this shit was going to be his as of yet unannounced future.

He'd have to start thinking about how to break the news to Lana, at some point. That one was going to be a doozy's worth of Oscar bait. Whatever, he had weeks 'til Lana. And meanwhile, just minutes 'til gun.

"Hold up." He slid over to where the box of earmuffs had staked claim on the veneer of Will's bag and grabbed himself a pair. Bit loose around the dangle of the lobe. As if Ben needed even more reminder about how Will's physique was the statue to Ben's cardboard cutout. "Right." Shot a thumbs up for the non-verbal, already smartly dreaming of recoil grounding his muscles down.
The Dies Before First Rolls Squad

The Nights
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Felt that one in his chest, Ben did. Punched right through the earpieces as it put the first can down for a dirt nap. Ben was able to anticipate the second one, but even then he was left with a little adrenaline to spare after the fact. Heart pumped a couple extra times per minute, but he didn't look the part. Ben wore his excitement in something of a shit eating grin.

"Jeez that's some..." Shit. Earmuffs. Ben took the proffered water bottle, smartly not murmuring anything pointless this time around. Just a drink, the old waterfall technique. Not a single drop wasted, meaning middle school had actually taught him shit. He pulled the plug on the sound dampening and welcomed the stale sound of Kingman air back into his brainspace.

"Alright. Gotcha." Ben approached the gun on it's mount, grabbing an AR from the bag along the way. The casing was slick like oil in his hand. Uh, shit. The mount. Was he just supposed to pick it up with that thing still attached? Looked all kinds of awkward, hardly action movie material. But for now he could relay that particular confounding with just a quizzical eyebrow sent Will's way. Everything else came easy and logical. Notes in his head and fingers running dress rehearsal payed off. Gun pointed at the ground, eyes on the safety by the bolt. The little red flag was waving. He disengaged it with little difficulty, flexed the bolt back and forth some to get a feel for it.

He didn't have anything to ask, really.

"How's Rea, dude?" Nothing to ask related to guns anyways. "Haven't seen her much since coach started ramping up practice schedule. Or anyone, really."
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Ben hadn't even noticed he'd drained the bottle until it was all sitting pretty in his gullet. "Shit. Sorry dude. Drinks on me when we head back." He half considered not explaining himself. Guns needed more brainpower than words, for sure. But, "nah. Just forgot to grab a drink before I left the house. Had to rush morning cleaning, get out the door before you showed." Would have been disrespectful to leave a friend hanging out like a chump on his driveway.

Ben let the gun linger by his leg. Shit. Not over his foot. He swiveled it a bit to the side. One hand stayed secure on the gun butt, other followed Will's instructions. To the letter, got the mount off and on the ground.

"Nah. Don't recall her mentioning it." Ben vaguely saw Will in his peripherals, moving the hat around. Had to keep an eye on Will, 'case Ben fucked anything up he'd see the 'nope' in body language before the words came out. Light moved faster than sound, or however that worked. Ben moved on to the magazine. One hand on the clip as he lined it up, then pulled the bolt. Got himself a satisfying click. Whoa. Felt that one down his spine. "Nothing too serious on her end. I hope." Finger flipped, re-engaged the safety. Had to put the muffs back in before he could take a shot.

He had an armed gun. In his hand. A real honest to god Mossberg MVP. Whatever that specific model was considered to be in the realm of firearms. Trash or. Well. MVP.
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