Black powder. [ It's good for more than just guns, thank you very much. Not that he's entirely sure what guns are good for, yet. That's taken care of when Clarke picks up the assault rifle, aims, and fires.
Mat flinches and takes a quick step back, because it's loud and abrupt and he's not a bloody idiot. But his focus doesn't scatter when he startles, staying sharp on the way the bullets spray into the target and tear through the surface. The recoil's there in a way that's more awareness than real feeling, and his gaze draws back to the gun, to her shoulder — putting together what he sees and the knowledge that's transferred across the link.
It's a little bit like fireworks, actually, if you've ever used a controlled firework to blow a hole through something. Which he has, and the memory's at the surface of his thoughts (a stone tower, thick walls blown to pieces, desperate fighting in narrow corridors). He'd had brief thoughts about what you could do with fireworks on a battlefield while working through strategies. Then he'd had thoughts about what that sort of force would do to a body, and he'd scrapped the idea — and hoped, irresponsibly, that nobody on the other side would have the same one.
Whoever Clarke's people were and whoever these people were, they apparently hadn't had the same restraint. The comparison doesn't come with judgment, exactly. Grim curiosity, a hint of resignation. ] You've aimed one of those at a person?
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Mat flinches and takes a quick step back, because it's loud and abrupt and he's not a bloody idiot. But his focus doesn't scatter when he startles, staying sharp on the way the bullets spray into the target and tear through the surface. The recoil's there in a way that's more awareness than real feeling, and his gaze draws back to the gun, to her shoulder — putting together what he sees and the knowledge that's transferred across the link.
It's a little bit like fireworks, actually, if you've ever used a controlled firework to blow a hole through something. Which he has, and the memory's at the surface of his thoughts (a stone tower, thick walls blown to pieces, desperate fighting in narrow corridors). He'd had brief thoughts about what you could do with fireworks on a battlefield while working through strategies. Then he'd had thoughts about what that sort of force would do to a body, and he'd scrapped the idea — and hoped, irresponsibly, that nobody on the other side would have the same one.
Whoever Clarke's people were and whoever these people were, they apparently hadn't had the same restraint. The comparison doesn't come with judgment, exactly. Grim curiosity, a hint of resignation. ] You've aimed one of those at a person?