Draw [R] [T]

[Belle Wagner]

Long echoing steps encompassed the hall around our dear Belle as he strode, lazily, down the emptied halls of the grand marine base known by the name Enies Lobby, a rather bland look stretched across his face, his eyes chided to a near resting point, and his lips merely playing stoic. His gaze set on the metal slabs at his feet, freshly polished and sleek with shine. This floor would not last long by any means. The sounds of feet clattering about, riding down the hall in a flash of sound, stampeding marines moving to their next station in grand sync. And while his own march was weak, it carried him fast enough out of the hall to avoid any gazes. He didn't have the luxury of listening to other's orders, the same with getting caught in crowds. Working a small silver hand watch from his pocket, he listened the the distinct click as the clasp came undone and the cover unwound, revealing the two long arms arching out and claiming their own number. Grimacing at the site he quickly snapped the fine clockwork back shut, sealing it back away in his pocket as he trudged off, lugging around that impression of having a duty.

He cut around several corners as he found himself in a lanky metallic room. Plumes of smoke wafting in the air along with the sweet nectar named gun powder. The scent curling about the room majestically, proudly, and then dying. Reborn quickly from the loud bangs of gunfire, the sounds ricocheting about the room comfortably. Allowing himself a low sigh as he strode by the many stations, most occupied by gruff men. He found his opening a third station from the end, comfortably standing before the target, ringed with red, as he majestically drew his gun. The fine piece of metal fitting snugly inside his palm as he brushed the cold metal with the tips of his fingers, a pleasurable grin plastered over his face. And then he adjusted his stance, grasped the gun, and opened fire. Within the next moment, his gun emptied, all the bullets finely placed in line through the head of the human shaped target. Nodding curtly to himself, he would not require any polishing as of yet.

He pulled away his gun as he slowed dropped bullet by bullet into the slots as he repeated a list of requirements he need meet before returning to his actual stationing. After the gun was freshly loaded, it was returned to it's resting place within a gun holster on his right leg. Settling his hand a little off from the gun as he made a stance he had seen once before in a play, a western strip, it would be his only reference for the time being. Drawing in a cool breathe as his hand quickly went to work, his hands wrapping around the gun as he drew his gun with the utmost speed, feeling the air curve around his hand as it motioned on. Snapping back the trigger once he felt the gun comfortably leveled, watching as the bullet traveled into the right shoulder of the target, his eyes remained quite level as he tucked the gun back into place. too slow. It was inevitable that this would require a little more than a lucky try, but it still unsettled him to be so unsuccessful with such a basic movement. Prepping his hand the same distance from the gun once more, flicking out the gun with incredible swiftness as he fired off another shot, engraving itself in the right hip of the poster.

That was no good either though, his draws lacked the speed it required. While he had been left with his own senses for judgement, he felt this inadequate. Sharpening his eyes as he fired off another shot, the bullet tearing through the target's right thigh. Imperfect. Well well, this would spend a little of his time. Guess i might as well get nice and comfy, redrawing his gun again, and again. This would be quite the repetitive process mmm.


Learning : Quick Draw

[Brand]

50% for being the first person to use the study system since revamp.
(no berries and dont expect 50% again)

[Belle Wagner]

Cliiiick, cliiiick, cliiiick....Such a repetitive cycle drummed in the mind of Belle as he consistently tried his hand at the draw he aspired to achieve, to no avail at that. Heaving out a sigh as he gazed absent-mindedly at his gun, his mind ruptured by curiosities. As to why his hand was failing, how many people could achieve this feet, or how many couldn't, how long it may take, why was he even bothering, what did others think of him and his odd idea of training, why wasn't it going fast, etcetera etcetera. For the most, trifling matters. He toyed with the hammer of his gun with his thumb. As his mind took it's momentary break while he made some attempts at simplifying this course of training. But the simplest of whims spoke for him to just go on the way he had, practice makes perfects, was that the phrase? But impatience tempered at his mood, he was never one for "hard work".

But the choice of pacing this god-forbidden base for a near century as to cruising the blue made decisions quite clear. Though he still felt he could not be bothered to make actual attempts. Cocking the gun, and un-required gesture, and flicked out his hand once more, instantly pulling the trigger and listening to the cliiiick once more, and then the gun fell silent once more. And as to expectation, his speed fell below the standard needed, Perhaps his form was wrong, though after the cowboy stance he had been drawing blanks. Now just using a more relaxed and natural stance, hands just loosely place at the sides, it would only be logical, there was no point practicing something that you never did, at least if he was in danger he could draw more natural than any other moron. And plus, he looked much cooler like this.

He drew once more, now just amusing himself with these more frequent that should be, failures. While pondering how he knew he was failing. And then he drew hence more, watching quite intently until the final toll, unsatisfied still. He attempted to shift his way of drawing, beginning with drawing the gun diagonally, and shifting angles, to no avail. Even attempting to use the opposing hand at one time, within the next several minutes he felt he tried everything under the rainbow. And a longing for his captain slipped out, he would be more than helpful right now, plus he missed him, call it separation anxiety or whatever you will, but he wished to return to his captains side sooner than possible. A shame it was. But meager longings would take him little ways.

It was best for him to just do what he was here to do and quickly remove himself from this wretched scene. Which in conclusion meant learning how to draw within a mere fraction of a second. Re-holstering his gun as he focused on his drawing style, if nothing better it was time for him to study. Flicking out the gun once more, straight upwards, cutting through the air as the gun fixed forward, and the click unwound from the contraption. Repeating this pattern, with minor adjustments is angling and leveling. Waiting for some solution, or distraction...


Learning : Quick Draw

[Brand]

65

[Belle Wagner]

Ignoring the immediate in-discrepancies following each attempted draw, Belle worked his wrist every which-way, awaiting some succession in his tries. While his drawing capabilities were steadily increasing, it wasn't anything close to remarkable, but it could be called progress. Through his phases of drawing, he, in the end, arrived at the conclusion that drawing it however way made him comfortable would be the best fit. No more fancy shmancy cowboy poses to entertain the on lookers. Not that there were any, as anyone huddled into this room busied themselves with their own practices. Such a dastardly dead place, must be the results of being confided to such a droll land mass. Though, for himself, his brooding was simply bred from the thirst for conversation, something that he couldn't hold up to many, which was hypocritically by his own choosing. Otherwise, this hulking mass of metal wouldn't be so dreadful.

The closest to freedom he had attained was when tinkering with tiny gadgets he found here and there, some not particularly "his". But nothing one would really miss. Strange hobbies to say the least, but nobody truly expected the casual from a person of his stature. Maroon orbs, liken to pools of blood tucked behind burgundy locks, catching every second as it rolled by, frame by frame, as the plate of metal carried through the air once more.

Slipping through the currents as it snapped into formation, and unwound another childish click. Dissatisfaction fed into his expression as the gun returned to it's placing, securely settled into the holster, a hand falling limp beside it. Sagging there for a few moments as it's tire withered away, and suddenly snapping into action, shooting from it's placing, gun already steadily in hand and leveling itself at the poster a good few feet away, chiming once more. But the results were yet to differ, this attempt a no-go as well. Dropping the revolver into it's holster as the whole process repeated, once, twice, thrice, so dearly repetitive.

The hollow clicks tinged the air, so freshly molded of smoke and explosions, leaving it's own unique claim on the room. As it followed on, pull by pull, with no end in sight. The clicks pulsing one after another as it grew and grew, until it thudded so fast one would think it to burst. The trigger warm against his reddened index finger, the metal digging into his skin, almost to the point where he would no longer be surprised to see a steam of red trickle down from his finger. Nothing came though, his body was more than adept to enduring his strenuous trigger happy scenarios. It was friendly infact with this action, his blood flowing only more freely, his digits working even more efficiently. But he could not merit from this excitement, hammering the trigger would not provide just results. As he returned to routine, dropping his hand to the side, gun holstered, as he drew on and on again in this dull repetition.

Learning : Quick Draw

[Brand]

80

[Belle Wagner]

Minutes unfavorably strode by as his fingers worked around the steel gullet of his pistol. Fervently splicing the air apart with swift fluid motion. The barrel falling into alignment time and time again, a feat not to be regarded as truly impressive. Consistency was nothing difficult to manage.