[i]Tack, tack.
Tack tack tack.
Tack tack.
Tack.
Tack tack tack tack.[/i]

Every squeeze of her finger was responsible for a complex mechanical and chemical reaction that mankind had harnessed centuries ago. Her finger's squeeze ordered a small metal hammer to strike down onto a plate with enough force to ignite the low explosives contained within- nitrocellulose, cordite, she wasn't perfectly sure. Then, that explosion would send a metal slug out the front of the gun wuith several hundred meters per seconds worth of force behind it, the gasses and noises vented and contained through a specially constructed metal frame that absorbed as much of the supersonic noise as it could.

At the end of it all, this slug- this object capable of snuffing out a human life in but a second, would ping off a thick metal bar attached to an aiming machine, which would swing back and forth to register the many hits she was putting downrange. When she had finished with her current series of shots, she would unload the marksman rifle she was using and place it back on its rack, sighing. 

She was... Bored was not the right word, but perhaps it was the one she would use for now. She had little to do, her duties in electronics were taken care of, she had caught up on her shows, and, in a sense, she was itchy. Itchy for action, itchy for work. She hadn't earned her pay in too long by her books, she could do with something to occupy her time.

[hr]
[hr]

Pretty nice digs here, thought Jackson. He had never been to uni, but this was what he imagined it would be like if you were studying there. Nothing like the army barracks he was used to, and it was warm enough that he he could strip out of his CADAPT as quickly as possible, leaving himself in just a pair of boxers. Not like anyone else would be walking around here to see him half-naked anyway. His body was toned and muscled, but also ringed with scars. There were three, near-identical circle-shaped scars near his left side, and his fingers played across them. You could feel them all tough from the scar tissue, but one of them still had the bullet there. It had gone deep, and there was no reason to subject him to surgery just to pull it out and potentially risk a hell of a lot of complications, or so the docs had said.

Knife scar across his stomach. That had been a lucky break. The mass of scar tissue where he had had a clump of ice been kicked off a roof and tear up his shoulder. Worst of all his scars, and it didn't even have a good story behind it. The burn marks along his knuckles, where a fucker at his dumping ground for unwanted kids, orphanage had put a smoke flat against his skin and lit it whilst holding him down. A dozen and a half more across his body that he didn't want to dwell on much longer.

He walked into the bathroom and kicked off even his boxers, slamming the shower door to and turning it on full blast. The amount of sweat that had built up over the course of wearing that bloody uniform... Ugh, he didn't want to think about it. Soap, shampoo, get himself clean, if nothing else, and then he would blast himself with a liberal amount of antiperspirant. Normally he would do this in the morning, but he just wanted to get clean right now, truth be told.

Without much circumstance, he dug himself out another pair of boxers and crashed down onto the bed, drifting off fast. Long flights would really take that out of you.