#itshighnoon-somewhere

[itshighnoon-somewhere]

No longer on Hiatus

Back from my birthday vacation, I’ll get around to replies here soon!

[itshighnoon-somewhere]

Awash with Anachronism

You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, as the adage goes.

Yet here, in the practice range. Hell, in Overwatch in general, you saw many examples of the contrary. You had people who swore by swords, two Oceanic men who utilized scrap-heap weaponry slapdash-made and covered with duct tape to keep the thing together. Here, though, it was the old fashioned Cowboys & Indians.

McCree spent a lot of time here, when he wasn’t in a mission or in the interrim, waiting in some foreign country for a pickup. There was something ever-cathartic about the smell of gunpowder, the feeling of a miniature explosion that you created, within a steel shell in your hands. The reverberation as it went down to the pearl-gripped handle, the power one projected. It was an art the man perfected in his deadlock days. The weight of his peacekeeper was second nature. The recoil, almost non-existent. And while he understood that this was his unique firearm, there was always a question about the man who was seldom next to him, plucking off target drones.

“Why arrows, anyways?”

A simple curiosity, he figured, speed-loading another wheel of six in to his revolver, snapping it shut and raising it to fire at the dead center of the severely perforated pre-fabrication in front of him. Once again, a brief cloud of gunpowder gusted out of the barrel, while a neon-traced bullet coalesced through the air, leaving that little throwback to a time before his life, where firearms were so crude as to leave a moderate trail.

“Not to say y’ aren’t good with ‘em, ‘course.”

He’d seen the man at work. Even next to him, the speed with which he could nock and fire one of those heavy-tipped, armor-penetrating projectiles would only bear the correlation to Odysseus, stringing a bow that none of the people of Ithaca would ever dare. The accuracy that the Shimada man demonstrated was equal to the Greek firing through all of the tight rings, to win his wife back from the clutches of suitors.

Was it the dragons that he could unleash, tied to the very energy of each shot he put forth? Perhaps it was just part of his birthright, a vestige of his clan and his people. It stood out; it stood out to the cowboy, to a lot of the young’ins in the age of plasma weaponry and superheated cells littering the battlefield; in the epoch of deaths being of wounds that would instantly cauterize, scorching every nerve ending and vein shut, leaving the body with no method of healing or coping.

“Jus’ seems inconvenient, sometimes. To carry roun’. A quiver full of ammunition...”

He didn’t expect an answer to any of this idle rambling. It was a an effort to break the ice, begin some sort of conversation that the two could relate to. He needed friends his age, anyhow, any way he could spark the interest would serve just fine.

“Fire one shot at a time, notch, fire again. S’why we brought the rifle to Japan in the first place.”

(@thedoubledragon)