Samael and Blisk stood exactly five meters apart in an artificial grass field.
The blades of grass swayed gently, like a bed of green flowers caught in a phantom breeze - and yet, up close, each was clearly fake, crafted from flexible plastic. Beneath their feet, soil that had been transported from a core world was spread thinly over a black tarp with its edges just barely visible if one cared to look closer.
Encircling them was a cavernous space, the walls lined with towering digital screens stretching from floor to ceiling. These displays projected the illusion of a serene countryside, complete with gently rolling hills and a pale sun suspended in a bright, cloudless sky. The ceiling too shimmered with this same technology and fooled the senses into believing it was all open air.
Despite its convincing appearance, the entire scene was manufactured - a carefully constructed simulation designed to test soldiers or titans without risking valuable terrain. Though Vinson Dynamics couldn't quite match Hammond Robotics in raw power, they excelled at crafting these artificial landscapes.
However, this was all still in the Gridiron facility, underground and far removed from any real outdoor plain.
Three testing dummies stood scattered across the field with each one being placed at a distinct distance. Designed to mimic human shape and size, the targets stood completely still while their pale surfaces caught the simulated sunlight.
Samael gripped a P2011 handgun, the same one he'd taken from a guard back on Earth after it was confiscated by Blisk. The weapon felt solid and familiar in his palm.
"Is this necessary? I'm already a good marksman - this test feels pointless," he said, his voice carrying a hint of boredom as his eyes drifted to the test dummies. The furthest target would be a challenge, but the other two should be simple enough.
Blisk heard him and hefted his own weapon: an R-97 SMG, compact and deadly.
The gun boasted one of the fastest fire rates in the IMC arsenal though at the cost of accuracy beyond a short range, due to the large amount of recoil it produced after milliseconds of firing. He held it up, gripping the barrel, squinting one sharp eye and closing the other.
"Don't get cocky," Blisk replied, his South African accent rough and unfiltered. "Just 'cause you're young don't mean the Militia won't drop you if you can't drop 'em first. You'll be a marksman when you reach my level - not before."
Without another word, three rapid muzzle flashes burst from Blisk's SMG. The mercanary didnt even stop to take aim, he fired them all in quick succession.
He didn't glance at the results, but Samael saw them clearly - each dummy now bore a perfect hole dead center in its forehead, tendrils of smoke curling from the fresh wounds in small whisps.
"Mercenary, you really need to take a break and find a woman. This level of dedication's just sad. Do you even have a life outside this?" Samael chuckled, but when he looked up, he found Blisk's face reddening like a cherry.
"I-I'm just kidding," he added quickly, though inwardly, this reaction was amusing to him. Very amusing.
Had he just stumbled across Kuben's kryptonite?
Regardless, Samael couldn't deny his respect for Blisk's marksmanship. Raw, natural talent like that was rare. Even mid-range rifles like the burst fire Hemlock or Flatline assult rifle would struggle to hit those dummies as cleanly as Blisk had, and those weapons were designed for precision. Blisk's ability was likely among the best in the galaxy without the aid of cybernetic augmentation.
Blisk calmed after a moment, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. "Enough. Just take the damn test."
"Mmhmm." Samael raised his pistol with one arm, steadying his breath, slowing it until his pulse no longer made his hand tremble. He focused, drawing the nearest dummy's head into his sights.
Bang.
The shot landed slightly below Blisk's original mark, just where a man's eyebrows might sit.
"Next one," Blisk ordered, watching without expression.
Bang.
This time, the bullet punched cleanly through the dummy's nose - a shot that could prove fatal to human, though Blisk's would've hit the brainstem instantly.
For the final target, Samael narrowed his focus even further. The pistol's iron sights weren't made for long-range accuracy, and the lack of a scope didn't help.
He fired nonetheless.
The round struck the dummy's neck. It was not quite an instant kill shot, but not bad either.
"Impressive, kid. You'll have the qualifications of an IMC janitor in no time." Blisk smirked. In truth, for a normal soldier or grunt, this was an exceptional display. But for a pilot, who had to fight midair with a jump kit while engaging opponents performing near-superhuman feats, this level of aim was… middling at best.
Still, for a child, it wasn't the worst.
Blisk placed a cigar between his teeth, lighting the tip with a small flicker from a worn lighter. He inhaled deeply, the sharp scent of burnt tobacco joining the sterile air of the simulation chamber.
"Oi - being a pilot don't mean hittin' every shot," Blisk said as smoke curled from his lips. "It means makin' sure you only need to hit one. If a pilot gets away, he'll call his Titan. Next time ya meet, you'll be mince meat. Got it?"
"That's… a nice way to put it." Samael imagined it - a Titan's towering weapon leveled at him. Oddly enough, he felt a mild thrill at the thought.
"Is this all we're doing today?"
"Aye," Blisk replied, "If ya can't aim like a proper soldier, there's no point showin' you how to use a jump kit. Remember - you don't have to master one gun. You gotta master all of 'em. A pilot can pick up any weapon on the field and use it like it's their own fuckin' arm."
"Well, they're not elite soldiers for nothing." Samael took aim once more, raising the pistol steadily. In a second, he squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The bullet struck the exact same spot Blisk had hit before, merging with the previous hole in the dummy's forehead.
"Huh?" Blisk tilted his head, one brow arching.
Then there was a second muzzle flash.
The next round landed almost perfectly where Blisk's second shot had struck. The hole was so close it joined with the first.
For the final, most distant target, Samael's shot hit the dummy's forehead - slightly off-center, but much better than his earlier attempt.
"Is this enough?" Samael wore a smug, self-satisfied grin.
"Uhh…" Blisk was momentarily at a loss. Was this sheer talent? Learning speed? It should've taken a week to close that gap, not minutes.
Still, he gathered himself quickly, "It's trash. Go again, twerp."
Bang.
Bang.
Shots rang out, rapid and sharp. The smell of gunpowder began to linger in the cool breeze. With each round, Samael's shots tightened to the point that by the last three bullets of the magazine, every shot struck perfectly, in line with Blisk's original hits down to the millimeter. Not a fraction off.
"Is this good enough?"
"Nope. Have you even learned anythin'? A Marvin's got better aim than this!"
By the end of the session, brass shell casings littered the fake grass. The pistol in Samael's grip had overheated, the muzzle glowing faintly red from overuse. And yet, Blisk only stopped because they'd run out of magazines for the P2011, forcing the session to a reluctant end.