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Violet’s demonstration made her wonder if the girl had had the chance to use Atlesian weaponry before, or if she was simply that comfortable around firearms. Still, Sand nodded, satisfied by the answer, and produced a magazine from under her vest. 

“These hold thirty rounds each,” she said as she passed it on to her teammate. “With luck, we won’t even need to reload, but...” she trailed off, shrugging.

The lighthearted exchange between the rest of the team made it clear that no questions would be forthcoming, and when even the shrinking Violet joined in the conversation, Sand knew there was no point in delaying matters further. She pressed the button to close the elevator, and the platform shuddered under them as it began to rise. Looking up, she could see the hatch leading to open air begin to scrape open. 

“You’ll have other chances, Trad,” Sand said, before taking a steadying breath. “The day’s just getting started after all.” 

In the intervening moments before the elevator brought them to their destination, Sand felt there was time to say one more thing as leader. A last instruction, or a warning. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but a jumble of half-finished thoughts tugged at her. She could give a cautionary warning not to waste ammo until the birds were close enough to shoot. She could share her fear that shooting the flock too early may make them spread out while the Grimm were still too far too shoot accurately, and that it might be best to wait for the cannons to open fire. She could impress upon them that should the Grimm get too close for the cannons, they would become the last line of defense for the airship.

It felt like so much clutter. Everything that needed to be said had been said, and anything else felt like it would simply get in the way of what they needed to do. She hesitated, then closed her mouth again just as they reached the opening.

Sand squinted against the rushing wind, moving a few heavy steps forward and away from the platform. Motes of light at her feet revealed the use of her semblance. She raised her weapon and scanned the skies for the incoming Grimm, ponytail whipping wildly behind her as she turned. 

Earlier she had said that this would just be target practice, but she had largely said this to ease any nerves. Both in the others and in her. 

She could handle a rifle as well as your average Atlas-trained fighter, but she had always preferred close-quarters. Combined with the cold wind making it difficult to keep her eyes open and the occasional trembling of the aircraft below her throwing off her sights, she feared that she might have been too optimistic.

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