Shibusen's Shooting Range (Sid/Training)

[Rick Fader]

The past couple of missions, along with the trip to the zoo got Rick thinking. Even though his abilities had improved, he needed more methods of combating his enemies. Close quarters wouldn't cut it in certain situations. Hell, it had gotten him thinking how lucky he had been that Pretty Boy Floyd's bullets didn't hit his vitals, or that he got to the hospital before he bled out. After examining that specific situation, especially how it played out, he came to one conclusion.

He needed to learn how to use a gun.

Thankfully, Shibusen had a couple of professors who were proficient in firearms. Two of the notable ones were Davian Boyle and Sid Barrett. And while Davian seemed like a logical choice, especially with using an actual firearm himself, Sid could probably teach him the ways of melee combat as well. Besides, Sid was normally the man to go to in terms of training. Meanwhile, Rick didn't know whether or not Davian was occupied with something important.

Not willing to bank on interrupting one of his favorite professor's work, Rick walked over to Sid's office. Thankfully, there weren't too many people around the zombie's office. Once he reached the wooden door, the blue-haired weapon knocked on the door three times, awaiting an answer from the professor.

((Fuck it))

[Sid Barret]

Five years. They have been some of the longest years of his life. After the Kishin Asura's disposal, life has been fairly peaceful. Nothing to truly make his undead muscles move like it once had in the heat of combat. Is this what it's like to be old...?

No.

That can't be, the zombie decided. He stopped the normal aging all humans possessed the moment death glared at him in the eyes. The immediate sensation of something piercing through his skull reverberated his brain. But... There's no way he's a human in this case... Right?

Perhaps.

His very existence is the perversion of life, itself. Yet, he didn't care. But did he really...? How many times has this meister benefited from this body? And how much did he lose? The constant eyes of fear was evidently lingering in his beloved students eyes, sans his closest ones previously in the Spartoi division. His peers didn't seem to care... Nor did Shinigami in this case.

How many years has it been he served him? Two decades?

The pencil he has been gripping with the standard grasp for writing has been scribbling on documents a couple of hours now. Smoothly, he grazed through the paper with sufficient movement of his three fingers and wrists across the page. Such tedious and fine movement would be so impossible for many mortals... Especially when the brain, the main organ that is the manipulator of the nervous system (the most complex system in the body), was dealt with a gaping wound; by no doubt would completely hinder any such capability deemed as normal by the majority.

It's a miracle... How many times has it taken biologists to discern the system to where it is now? And yet, how much left do they have to learn about it?

Sid slowly squinted his eyes in mere practiced concentration attained from the last five years in the office hours signing and reviewing the documents sent from God knows where, with careful precision.

Lord Death. Shinigami. The God of the World's Order and Death. The creature he has consigned himself into servitude, despite the usual jolly and childish (reckless) behavior. But, what has this brought him...? That was the question. Money? No, this zombie had no need for it.

Fame? Again, it has nothing to do with him. But, there was one thing that it brought him---

There was a knock.

Blinking, Sid looked up from the papers and turned around to look back at the door behind him.

"Come in."

The door opens and there reveals a male bluenette. The troublemaker.

"Good morning," Sid bid him a greeting, "What brings you here today? I'm sure you know it's an off day for you kids."

He would recognize the blue hair anywhere in his life after coming to encounter it many times when there was a specific troublesome incident associated with its owner. The teacher spun the chair, facing him openly with one hand still on the document he was working on. Whatever this student had in store for him, it usually bodes ill for all involved. Still, Sid kept a neutral stance in both body and emotions, maintaining the usual professionalism he always cherished ever since.

[Rick Fader]

The sentient zombie beckoned the teenager to come in. Without hesitation, the Demon Chair walked into the office. He had greeted the weapon, reminding him that it was an off day for the students. But then, Rick knew that, and decided to take advantage of it. With fewer students lingering around the school, requesting and possibly undergoing training would be easier for him.

"Mr. Barrett, I came to ask about some training. I'd like to increase my effectiveness as an agent, and hopefully be less of a fucking pussy on the field.", he started out in his usual foul-mouthed manner. "I'm particularly interested in some goddamn firearms training. . .", he told the blue-skinned man bluntly, his tone not insulting, even with the profanity thrown in there for no reason.

He knew that Sid might question his choice, even outright deny it. But then, Rick had to try to get that training out of the way. Hell, Rick had only once punched a civilian in the face during his first mission, and even then it was justified due to the fatass being belligerent after finding out the Kishin Egg had been killed before reaching the town. All the man got out of it was a bruise that healed quickly. And the one time he attempted to use a gun, he couldn't hit the broadside of a barn.

[Sid Barret]

And then, there was silence. It ruled the world enclosed between the two individuals. Young and old. Living and dead. Immature and mature...

As usual, the potty mouth still spat out its industrial processed chlorine water in which is called "dialogue". But this time was no joke... Sid's eyes only dilated, creating dual white saucers of both dread and fear evident in them.

Firearms. Firearms equal guns. Guns equal firearms.

A cold sweat slowly formed and dropped down the back of his neck, leaving a trail of water in the path behind. Interesting to a scientist, his excretory system shouldn't be working to this extent. It's as if it just worked to accomodate Sid's uneasiness of the request of his trouble-mongering student.

"...Oh God, no..." his thoughts corresponded with his emotions in perfect tandem.

Every fiber of his being wanted to scream out a resounding and condemning NO to shoot down the simple and somewhat innocent request like a fighter jet dropping off a nuclear bomb. To teach such a rowdy kid how to shoot is very similar to teaching a homicidal killer to aim. And even similar to sending off a time bomb to a naturally peaceful agrarian district.

The probabilities, the parameters, and the conditions of a tragedy that may scar Shibusen's image dictates that Rick can easily make things go wrong out of any situation. ANY SITUATION. His blatant immaturity tipped from his profane diction and the history of his conduct from the previous missions gave Sid every valid and good reason to turn him down. It wouldn't be all too surprising if a massacre happened in the middle of some heavily populated urban city out of wherever the hell the student would be sent to.

Sid could already imagine the boy recklessly shooting off round after round into whatever idiot decided to tick him off. Leaving behind piles upon piles of corpses in the midst of a iron-smelling red sea on the streets. The newspapers could already write the Academy off in headlines as: "School of Insane Murderers" or even "School For Kishins In Disguise". The results are no doubt horrendous.

Exaggerations aside, he still wanted to teach him. Perhaps it's from the fact that this zombie wanted to escape from the usual boring lifestyle buried under documentation after documentation after such long five years. However, duty still weighs against what his own desires nag against his soul.

Thinking to himself a bit as he was pondering what to do with him, he sighed breaking the silence between them. His pupil-less eyes stared into Rick's yellow ones, trying to discern anything else from his troublesome student. But then again... This exact appearance and behavior heavily reminded him of someone...

Of Black Star.

He remembered how the same arrogant idiot grew to someone surpassing him. Surpassing Stein, even. The memories assailed him, giving him a tidbit of heartbreak at the least... Yet, he brushed it off...

Yes. He had to, after all, they are both men and knew what is expected of them.

Finally, "Give me one reason why I should."

Sid finally turned completely, facing the student completely, giving his full attention. Not because out of professionalism this time... But out of---

"Your behavior has been rather worrying from the past, Rick. I'm not the type of man to judge somebody like you by the past, but... I can't risk people's lives. You know what I mean?"

[Rick Fader]

After Rick submitted his request to the zombie, silence filled the air. As Rick waited for his response, he could feel the tension in the air. Tension thick enough to slice through with a hot butter knife. He knew what he was asking for, and with his behavior and track record taken into account, Rick had about a snowball's chance in hell of getting the Knife Meister's approval.

After a moment of looking into those milky, disturbing eyes, he finally spoke up. Instead of denying his request and telling him to fuck off like he expected, Sid asked for a good reason why he should. He cited Rick's less than desirable track record. Yelling at civilians, being a dick to children, traumatizing a child by accident, and punching someone in the face. But the last two weren't quite his fault. How was he to know some brat followed him into the vault and managed to spot Rick giving Pretty Boy Lloyd a makeshift curb stomp with the vault door? And the man attacked him first, and would've throttled or sat on the weapon.

But not even such details changed the realities of it all. While justified, a weapon assaulted a civilian. The child was still seeing a shrink about nightmares over seeing brain and skull fragments splattered on him before they were reduced to ribbon. And all those people he had managed to piss off. Especially failing to save the good officer in Detroit, something he truly regretted, even though the man would probably be pissed with him for not letting him fade out of his misery. Perhaps he should've set up a better track record of future events before approaching Sid, or anyone for that matter, about handling guns.

"You're right, Barrett. . .", he started out, a sigh of defeat escaping his lips. "Sorry to have wasted your time. Perhaps I could try again when I've gotten my shit together and have a decent fucking track record going. . .", he told him before he would head towards the door.