Finesse

      Roan watches the thin ribbon of smoke curl from her pistol like the breath from her own lungs. Whenever she had a free moment, she liked to come out to this firing range they’d put together outside this base of operations. The idea was that any of the Blue Devils could use it if they felt so inclined to sharpen their skills, but in Roan’s experience they were far less likely to waste their time firing into sand bags than they were to get drunk at the distillery. Fine by her. This was one of the few places she could get some peace and quiet.

      She pulls the trigger again.

      CRACK

      Well. Peace, anyway. 

      “Maybe my eyes are failing me, but I think you’re pulling to the left, Roan!”

      Spoke too soon, Roan thinks, lowering her gun to look at the man stepping up beside her. 

      Old Man squints at the hastily painted targets on the mannequins. She’s surprised he can see anything at all through all the folds and wrinkles around his eyes.

      “Nope, I take it back. That’s a bull’s eye,” he corrects himself.

      “Glad to hear it,” Roan says dryly.

      “Mind if I share the range?”

      “Think you can see the targets, Old Man?”

      He gives her a gap-toothed smile.

      “Thankfully, not all magic relies on sight!”

      Roan shrugs, then tips her hat to the man, granting permission. While this range was typically used for firearms, there was nothing wrong with their demigods training their magic here too. As long as they didn’t destroy the range, it was fair game. 

      Old Man shakes out his wiry arms and huffs out a breath. Green light sparks in his pale blue eyes.

      “How many bullets you put in them already?” he asks.

      “Eight.”

      “Standard casings?”

      “Mhm.”

      Old Man cracks a grin as he raises his hands above his head.

      “Perfect.”

      Roan watches the man with passive curiosity, pacing a little farther back to give him space. She feels the humidity in the air thicken, tastes the moisture on her tongue. It feels like fresh rain, fresher than they typically get in the Moon Level. Then the hairs on her arms stand on end.

      There’s a flash of light at the end of the range, followed by an enormous crack of thunder that puts her gunshots to shame. One of the sandbag mannequins is left smoldering, the chest blown open completely. 

      “I think you got him,” Roan comments.

      The glimmer of light in Old Man’s eyes flickers out as he lowers his hands and squints at his results.

      “I’m having trouble with ‘finesse,’” he says.

      “I noticed.”

      “It’s easier for someone like Wire, he can control the electricity directly, make it act against its nature. Me? It’s all about conduction.”

      “You can only strike a target if it’s already conductive.”

      “Yep. The more metal or water, the better. Otherwise, I risk hitting one of our own. Storm magic is fickle like that.”

      Roan tilts her head, watching the smoldering target thoughtfully.

      “Does it always take you so long to summon lightning?”

      “If I’m already powered up, it’s faster. What did you have in mind?”

      “You ever try to hit a bullet while it’s in the air?”

      Old Man raises his eyebrows in surprise. Then he strokes his short, silver beard contemplatively.

      “I like the way you think, Roan. Let’s try it.”

      Roan readies herself before the target as Old Man stands beside her, his eyes already flashing with green light. Small, dark clouds start to form over the center of the range.

      “Tell me when you’re ready,” Roan says.

      Old Man nods as he manipulates his hands in the air, the clouds swirling in response.

      “Now.”

      Roan pulls the trigger, and she’s momentarily blinded by another flash of light. The subsequent crack of thunder is compounded by the sound of her pistol. Roan blinks away spots from her vision as she lowers her gun. Before them, the mannequin’s head is completely blown away, smoke rising from the wooden post that was once supporting it. 

      Old Man blinks as the light in his eyes vanishes again. 

      “Well, that was… Spectacular.”

      Roan holsters her pistol.

      “Let’s check it out,” she says, already striding across the range. 

      The closer they get to the end of the range, the more Roan can feel the crunch of small glass beads under her boots. Flash-fired sand. Old Man stops at the mannequin, picking at the deflated burlap sack that used to be its head. Roan continues past it to find her bullet buried in the sandbags behind.

      “I don’t think I’ve ever managed a head shot with my magic before!” Old Man says cheerfully.

      Roan carefully picks the bullet out of the sandbags and lifts it up to the light to examine it. It had melted into an amorphous blob, hardly even recognizable as a bullet anymore. Roan huffs out a laugh.

      “You know what we call this in the Blue Devils, Old Man?”

      “What?”

      Roan steps up to him and pats him on the shoulder, dropping the melted bullet into his hand.

      “Finesse.”