You do realize, [ she echoes his wording, ] I haven't the foggiest notion of what a photonic device is. Or does. Or why one might miniaturize it.
[ thanks to the event, she rather avidly owns up to her own ignorance on the topic. something she might ordinarily have swept under the rug, or at least tried to immediately rectify with a half-dozen carefully posed questions.
but it doesn't stop her from leaving her cup of tea on the ground and sitting up taller before she takes his 'revolver' into hand. it's got a familiar feel to it despite the glow in its guts. a bit more unwieldy than her ppk, but isn't as though she hasn't handled a grip like this one before now. ]
But I take your meaning to be that the gun's power varies. [ and that his bold shot moments earlier was considerably less bold (maybe) than her muscle memory tried to convince her it was. it's tough not to see a gun leveled and feel a prickle along the back of her neck. had it been similarly adjusted the day she'd stepped out of his closet?
peggy raises the muzzle and sets her sight on the same scorch mark his earlier shot left behind. but old habits still slink into her posture, even as they stay seated, and when peggy squeezes the trigger she's still accounting for a force she knows intimately: recoil. it's a minute element of human compensation, maybe, and expressed only through those thousands of a second as a bullet normally travels down a barrel. but there's no bullet, no kickback, and peggy's hand dips low with the force of that compensation, force which doesn't meet any force from the gun in turn -- and it drives her shot beneath rip's original target. and not by an insignificant distance. ]
-- Shit.
[ earnest, raw, upset. she lifts the barrel with a cluck of her tongue, obviously disappointed in herself. she doesn't need to wonder what's gone wrong; she'd felt the recoil's absence in her very bones. it was eerie. uncomfortable. ]
no subject
[ thanks to the event, she rather avidly owns up to her own ignorance on the topic. something she might ordinarily have swept under the rug, or at least tried to immediately rectify with a half-dozen carefully posed questions.
but it doesn't stop her from leaving her cup of tea on the ground and sitting up taller before she takes his 'revolver' into hand. it's got a familiar feel to it despite the glow in its guts. a bit more unwieldy than her ppk, but isn't as though she hasn't handled a grip like this one before now. ]
But I take your meaning to be that the gun's power varies. [ and that his bold shot moments earlier was considerably less bold (maybe) than her muscle memory tried to convince her it was. it's tough not to see a gun leveled and feel a prickle along the back of her neck. had it been similarly adjusted the day she'd stepped out of his closet?
peggy raises the muzzle and sets her sight on the same scorch mark his earlier shot left behind. but old habits still slink into her posture, even as they stay seated, and when peggy squeezes the trigger she's still accounting for a force she knows intimately: recoil. it's a minute element of human compensation, maybe, and expressed only through those thousands of a second as a bullet normally travels down a barrel. but there's no bullet, no kickback, and peggy's hand dips low with the force of that compensation, force which doesn't meet any force from the gun in turn -- and it drives her shot beneath rip's original target. and not by an insignificant distance. ]
-- Shit.
[ earnest, raw, upset. she lifts the barrel with a cluck of her tongue, obviously disappointed in herself. she doesn't need to wonder what's gone wrong; she'd felt the recoil's absence in her very bones. it was eerie. uncomfortable. ]