The Pros and Cons of Breathing { Nesia }

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

UNTIL DEATH DO US PART  He was often called in o train new recruits when he wasn't off somewhere doing MI6's bidding. It was a simple task and the bonuses were fair enough. A great way to make extra money without endangering his life (unless the said novice was that horrible). He was normally asked to train others in the art of marksmanship, an art that he was practically MI6's Michelangelo in. He also did the occasional "special weapons" training, where he demonstrated the wonders of the Swiss Army Knife, though it was often other agents who specifically did that. Female agents were much better at teaching the art of how to use anything as a weapon (such as stilettos — though Vash personally did encounter an instance where that was exactly what he had to use as a weapon). It was a nice morning, and marksmanship really did relax the man. He arrived at the SIS Headquarters an hour and a half before the appointment. He grabbed a delicious (and free — though he swears free does not affect the flavour) breakfast from the Headquarter Canteen and set off to the place that made him happiest in this building — the shooting gallery. Set on the table already was a bottle of wine, two glasses, a cheese platter, and an envelope containing the details of today's trainee. MI6 knew how to please when it really wanted to. MI6 rarely showed its appreciation unless it really mattered. He put the orange he brought from breakfast on the table. He had bought it in case the said trainee dared to come in without the proper daily morning nourishment. More often than not, they came through the door hungry and in a rush. Perhaps they were really given a stern order about being on time. Not that he complains about punctuality. Vash was considered "überpunktlich," and so it was something he smiled upon. This meant his reputation really did preceed him. He sat himself on the brown leather chair and made himself comfortable. He then proceeded to open the envelope to gauge what he had to do today. After having scanned the document, he finally determined that this one was one who had no confidence in her aim. A shaker. One who hesitates. Unacceptable. But it was his job to make her acceptable. Just as long as she wasn't stupid with the gun and followed his instructions word-by-word, there really wasn't going to be any trouble. He poured himself a glass of wine and took a whiff of it. It smelled high quality, aged just the way he liked it. He sipped it in the silence of solitude. It was strange for him to hear such silence in the shooting gallery. A shooting gallery was meant to sound of bullets and broken targets, perhaps some camaraderie. He had such camaraderie once, in what seemed to be a long whiles ago, but whatever. What was past was past, and he enjoyed the solemn sound of silence, which was perhaps the most beautiful of sounds. After downing the glass, he went for the arsenal and pulled out a rifle. He wasn't going to train the new recruit with the rifle, of course, but a rifle was a great warm-up weapon. He frowned at what was scratched on the barrel a while ago, though it wasn't too noticeable. No one know it was there unless told or one inspected the gun closely. Or unless you were the one watched as someone carved it with you. He loaded the target and sent it to the other side of the room. He loaded the weapon and positioned himself accordingly. Drawing his breath, he picked up the weapon, with a firm hold on the trigger. He eyed the target, looking upon it as if it were the only thing left in the world. As if it were the only thing keeping him from happiness in the past, present, and future. He pulled the trigger without hesitation, only exhaling once the bullet was released to its destined path. He resisted the recoil and watched the bullet pass through the target after pirouetting multiple times in the air. He clicked the button to retrieve the target to see where the bullet had passed through. "(0.002, 0.1)," he said, naturally cursing himself for missing the double 0. He sighed, putting the target back on the track and sending it to the other side. Vash may have been knowing as "Trigger Happy" Zwingli, but one must note that real marksmanship meant waiting for the right moment and keeping oneself from trembling. One did not simply shoot a million shots and expect a million bulls' eyes. No, one did that when they were angry, but they shouldn't expect so many hits. Though Vash often came to the gallery in anger. And did have his days with the machine gun. He decided to have a few more rounds with the rifle before the newbie came in. His watched chimed at 9, but the door didn't open until half past. To express his distaste, he didn't look towards the door, concentrated on his marksmanship. She was late, but he was going to go easy on the girl... for now. He continued with aligning himself to the target. "You're late. If you've skipped breakfast, there's an orange on the table for you. Feel free to pour yourself some wine and have some of the cheese," he said, unflinching as he pulled the trigger and fired, the sound echoing on the walls. words; 919 ooc; you're late MADE BY VEL OF GS

[Nesia Notonegoro]

926 words

S he didn't like guns. Nesia stared at the opened drawer, where she put her gun under old notes and papers from her college days. Last time she checked, the drawer only had her gun inside it. Maybe she had forgotten about her mandatory weapon when she was tidying up her room yesterday, burying it under those papers. Her job didn't require her to carry one, and it would seem suspicious for her to own one. After shoving the papers into one side of the drawer, Nesia took out the gun. She held it awkwardly in her left hand, keeping her fingers away from the trigger. The feeling of its weight slowly evoked familiarity within her. Marksmanship training was mandatory for all agents. The memory of her training days about a year ago were still fresh in her mind, as if it only happened a week ago. She was barely able to hold her footing when she fired her gun and the recoil hit her. In one occasion, she even shot at the ceiling because she was surprised. Long story short, marksmanship was a subject with a big C- written neatly by the end of her training session. Her mentors had implied to her that she might have to take regular practice with one of them after she finished her training. It wasn't her fault that her first encounter with a real gun was somewhat traumatic. No one died that night - the wound was not fatal enough, but seeing blood splattered on the ground before her was shocking. Nesia was also plagued with thoughts that she would miss her target, or if she shot her gun somewhere public, she'd kill an innocent bystander - or worse, someone she knew. Maybe her bullet would hit a car, making it explode and kill more people nearby. Maybe her bullet would kill a fellow agent-- A loud ring stole her attention away. It came from under the pile of clean clothes on her bed. Nesia was sure it wasn't a call - she had set a different tone for calls. It was an alarm. Why would she need another alarm? She had woken up hours ago to type the reports for her superior, Mathias Andersen. And they were not even halfway done. Thorough report means that she has to compile all the data she gathered: phone calls, coded messages, pictures, et cetera. Lately she had been included during mafia meetings and dealings, disguised as one of the girls they hired for entertainment. Nesia got more info than she usually had that way. But it made her reports even longer. Finally Nesia found her phone under her jeans. God, this thing was too damn loud. The woman turned it over, and what she saw on the screen made her body froze on the spot. She had an appointment at the SIS Building. A marksmanship practice with Mr. Vash Zwingli. According to the alarm, Nesia only had thirty minutes to reach the shooting gallery. She ran to the bathroom, trying her best to make herself presentable as fast as possible. And why it would have to be Mr. Vash Zwingli? That man was the best sniper MI6 had, yes, but it had to be him whom they instructed to train her? Fellow trainees back then had complained about him to her. He's too punctual, too harsh and too uptight. One even described him as merciless and spending an hour training with him would make you feel like in a battlefield. Of course Nesia hadn't had any personal training with him, so she didn't know how much true those descriptions were. As for the person himself, he actually didn't look intimidating at all. Not outside the shooting gallery. She settled on casual clothes - she knew she'd have to run from the underground station. Then she grabbed her gun, making sure it was unloaded and the safety was on before throwing it into her bag. Her feet were undeniably sore by the time she reached the MI6 Headquarters. Panting, Nesia walked slower inside the building as her mind raced to come up with an excuse. But wait, did Mr. Vash Zwingli a type of mentor who was okay with excuses? According to those stories, the answer was no. Thirty two minutes had passed since nine o'clock when Nesia pushed the shooting gallery door open. She was greeted by loud bangs coming from a rifle wielded by the Swiss man. Looks like he had been entertaining himself while he waited for her. "You're late. If you've skipped breakfast, there's an orange on the table for you. Feel free to pour yourself some wine and have some of the cheese." Her stomach growled. Nesia did skip breakfast, thanks to the damn reports, but she did not think he would let her eat something when she was already late like this. Embarrassment pushed her to step inside and put her bag on the chair. "I've had breakfast, sir, thank you." Yet she glanced at the cheese - that must be tasty. But since she was late, they better not waste any minute now. She reached for her gun inside the bag and looked for the magazines. A chill ran down her spine when she realized she had left it at home. In the drawer. Sighing, she returned it into the bag and went to use one of the handguns provided in the gallery. "We can start now," Nesia nodded to his direction, then she turned to face her target. She took several deep breaths before she fired her first shot.

LAIKA OF GS!

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

forever fields

Weak. One wasn't supposed to show any hesitation with a gun. A gun is said to be a weapon, a game changer, an extension. A gun is unnatural. If a larger guy and a smaller guy were to get in a bar fight, one would assume the larger guy would win. But if the smaller one were to pull out a gun— now that would be a different story. To be able to wield a gun in the United Kingdom was a privilege, not a right. It is even public policy for police officers not to be able to wield firearms unless the circumstance truly called for it. And so, he would not let her falter with that privilege. To be able to hold the difference between life and death and to be able to control it properly was a gift given to the agents at MI6. And to squander that privilege was simply unfortunate.

"Miss. You're wrist is shaking. Even your knees are shaking," he said, watching as the bullet grazed the edge of the target. "Weak form. And you're breathing too much."

He got up from the chair, posture as stiff and staunch as the strict soldier he was said to be. He put on an air of being much taller, despite the fact that this agent was just a bit shorter than him. Most of the agents were taller than him, the females even surpassing him in height easily with high heels. Heck, even Aoife is taller than him. But he made up for it, definitely. And with this agent actually being shorter than him, he only felt a mile higher.

"You're holding it like it's going to shoot you. The gun you're holding isn't even too bad on the recoil. It comes from Q's lab, and since it's the first gun model you'd get from Q, it's designed to absorb recoil for you. You shouldn't even feel any recoil," he said, looking at her hands and scowling. She definitely did have one of the easier guns to use. Unlike the usual rifle he wielded, though he had to admit that half the difficulty of wielding that rifle came from the engraving. 

He picked up his rifle again, reloaded, and took a firm stance at the adjacent target. With an almost machine-like dexterity, he inhaled and pulled the trigger.

Scheisse. (0.7, 0.04). 

He put down the rifle and turned towards his trainee again. 

"It's the same for all weapons you wield. Rifles. Pistols. Revolvers. Long guns. Shot guns. Carbines. Machine guns. Snipers. Artillery guns. Hunting guns. BB guns. Water guns. Ray guns for all I care. You need to wield it with dignity, and you need to hold yourself with dignity. You need strength to be able to wield the difference between life and death," he said, holding his firearm with such reverence. "When you wield the difference between life and death, you carry power. Unnatural power. And nature is going to work against you. So you have to stand up to it. You fear power, it'll eat you alive."

He put the rifle down, engraved side up. He went to the back, opening his briefcase and pulling out a single gun. His own first gun from Q. Lieder.

He went about loading Lieder. She, as he referred to most of his prized, named firearms, looked good as new with the way he maintained her shine and finish. Lieder probably looked even better in comparison to the trainee's new-issue first gun. Q had constructed a better barrel between the time she issued Lieder to Vash and the gun to the trainee. But Lieder was definitely cared for. And he treasured his first MI6-issued firearm just as much as he treasured his first rifle... which was unfortunately somewhere down the Alps at this point.

As he continued polishing and readying his gun, he couldn't help but notice the incessant sounds of growling coming from his trainee. Vash was one who honored honesty, and actually did take some mercy when it came to making sure his trainees were fed. He quickly learned that hungry trainees were unproductive trainees. And unproductive trainees were much harder to teach. With her stomach growling like a bear and her tardiness, he was pretty sure she didn't go to the Canteen and eat herself a deliciously free breakfast. And besides, as an agent, he had a sense of being able to sense lies— even if he was known to be a bit dull when it came to indirectness.

"Operative Notonegoro, I am going to have to ask you to sit down at the table and eat the orange and help yourself to the food at the table. You're shaking, and this isn't going to be acceptable. You will need to eat breakfast before coming to training," Vash said with an almost doctorly voice. He couldn't rant enough about the virtues of good nutrition and a fair enough amount of exercise.

"Pour some wine if that's what you'd like. If you're not a wine drinker, I can ask one of the desk assistants to fetch some beer or water," he said, clicking Lieder shut. And what a satisfying sound that was, every time.

❖ nox ❖

[Nesia Notonegoro]

696 WORDS

❝ Wonderful. (4, 6) If there was one thing Nesia could not help doing during shooting, it was closing her eyes a mere microsecond before she pulled the trigger. She could count several instances where her eyes stayed open with one hand - those happened during the last days of her training. But after months passed without skill polishing, Nesia's ability and courage had declined. Her grip was loose, as if the thing in her hand could explode at any moment. Focus, focus. "Miss. Your wrist is shaking. Even your knees are shaking, Weak form. And you're breathing too much." Nesia prevented herself from turning her head and looked at her mentor in the eye. What's wrong with breathing? There's no such thing as breathing too much, she protested. But all she did on the surface was inhaling more oxygen and steadying her stance. In the training room, the mentor is always right. "You're holding it like it's going to shoot you. The gun you're holding isn't even too bad on the recoil. It comes from Q's lab, and since it's the first gun model you'd get from Q, it's designed to absorb recoil for you. You shouldn't even feel any recoil." "I didn't..." She felt no recoil, yes, but the Swiss man's attention already turned to his own rifle and the sound of its shot drowned the rest of her words. His reputations certainly did not lie. He was a professional and now that Nesia witnessed it herself, she understood. It was a bit frightening, making her shiver. "You need to wield it with dignity, and you need to hold yourself with dignity. You need strength to be able to wield the difference between life and death. When you wield the difference between life and death, you carry power. Unnatural power. And nature is going to work against you. So you have to stand up to it. You fear power, it'll eat you alive." "Yes, sir." But Nesia placed her borrowed weapon on the table and rubbed her sweaty palms together. His words were spot on. Guns were unnatural and Nesia feared them. They went against all laws of nature, save for the gravity and mechanics of motions. But how does one made of flesh and blood stand up against a bullet, if they were not standing behind the trigger? Strong was not a word she would use to define herself. She was weak and her weaknesses had thrown her into many places untouched by sunlight. (Like the mouth of the wolf) Nesia shook her head, pushing the thoughts away; away for at least during the training. Her gaze caught a sight of a mark on Zwingli's rifle. Like a scratch, a deliberate one that is. She tried to read it, but the distance and its upside-down placement hindered her reading. Zwingli's back was facing her, but certainly he would not like her craning her neck to see his rifle. That would be prying. Maybe she could ask him later. Embarrassment warmed up her cheeks as Zwingli told - commanded her to sit and eat. Muttered her yes, sir for a second time, Nesia made her way to the table, peeling the orange almost in lightning speed. She was absorbed in eating until the fruit was none but seeds and the cheese was crumbles. Of course, the agent did not touch the wine, preferring to let the water from the fruit washed her throat instead. She even forgot to apologize, but as long as Zwingli didn't mention it, she would let it slip unnoticed. With stomach filled - not full, but not empty either - Nesia walked to the shooting range again and picked up her gun. It was not hers, but she would have to be content with it. In battles, sometimes it was not the weapon you equipped yourself with that ended up in your grasp. Opening her feet shoulder-wide, Nesia straightened her arms, aimed, then pulled the trigger. (0.4, 3) (1, 0.7) (0.2, 0.8) Satisfied, Nesia turned to her mentor. "How was that?" she asked, a smile spreading on her lips. Sure it was not spot on, but it was an improvement nonetheless.

LAIKA OF GS!

[Vash Alois Zwingli]

forever fields

It's a natural reaction to gasp for breath, to hold onto it possessively the moment one can take one. That is the body's natural reaction to rising to higher altitudes. However, to survive at higher elevations, one must take deeper, slower breaths. That was one of the few things Tante Bettina had told him as she took him to St. Goar's School for the Bright, which lay atop a mountain overlooking Bern. Upon his first day at St. Goar's, he panted unlike before.

Inefficient. Utterly inefficient.

"How was that?"

The difference between eating and not eating. The trainee had some potential, definitely. A huge improvement. But that wasn't going to suffice. He wasn't going to approve sending her into the field with the slight chance that the last shot was luck. He crossed his arms and nodded, without any sign of approval.

"Again."

That was all he had to say. He learned from a cruel woman that you should never give your approval to anyone unless they grovel for it. And even then, you have to kick them to the curb until they beg for forgiveness for ever asking you for your approval.

He put Lieder down and grabbed his rifle again, feeling for the etching on the barrel. It was simply very uncharacteristic of him to allow a single scratch upon any of his firearms. If he were to accidentally drop any of his firearms, he would immediately take the weapon to MI6's weaponry maintenance department for repair, or he would repair it himself immediately. It bothered him to have left the etching on the barrel. To him, it marred the beauty of the weapon every time he examined it closely and polished it. 

But he couldn't bring himself to repair the barrel of this rifle.

He knew it.

She knew it.

It was a stupid attachment. He should have had her begging at his feet for forgiveness or an explanation. He should have had her on her knees, saddened by her wrongs.

But she never liked begging for forgiveness or backing down, now did she? 

He poured himself a glass of wine, swished the wine glass for good measure, took in the scent of Château Mouton Rothschild, and gave it a sip. She wasn't a big fan of wine. In fact, she laughed at his choice of Gerard Bertrand Grenache Rose that night at the Irish Lady...

He touched the etching on the barrel, feeling it like a scar on his body. She had started it, he reasoned. She, giddy as a school girl, started to scratch it in like lovers scratching their initials on a tree trunk.

And he wasn't going to throw away a perfectly good rifle, now was he?

He was knocked out of that line of thought with another resounding shot, barely hitting the edge of the target. He shook his head at this point.

"Your form, Notonegoro. Take a break."

❖ nox ❖

[Nesia Notonegoro]

505 WORDS

A gain. Her hands twitched. So cold, so dismissive, so unimportant, oh so insignificant! Not even a slightest nod of approval was shown. Not even a word of advice or two. Zwingli was not just a highly skilled sniper, but he was also the trainer who's hard to please. As if she was accepting the fact that the rest of the day might went just as sour as the orange he prepared, Nesia clenched her jaw and released three more bullets. Her determination was back, this time fueled by her desire to make the Swiss acknowledged her marksmanship. Nesia stole a glance to her side, ensuring herself that the blond was still watching. Yet he didn't seem to care, didn't seem to be concerned that his student need to be watched. That rifle was back in his hands, the one with strange inscription on its well-cared body was laid down. Was he giving her an example? Nesia paused her activity to observe him better. Vash Zwingli was different. Not just from her (heck, who was she compared to him anyway?), but he's different from the man who just offered her to eat the orange and cheese few minutes ago. And then his world just reduced to his fingers, his sight, his rifle and the target practice hung few meters ahead. Like a real soldier (but he was, agents were soldiers in suit and tie). Formidable. Unyielding. With that precision and speed, if their targets were animate objects they would be lying motionless on the floor now. Cold crept on her spine. Was he able to shoot better than Vash Zwingli? Now's not a good time to think about it, agent. She took her borrowed gun, fired another couple of bullets, but her mind had gone wandering. Daydreaming like it always do when she didn't watch. It went to the ceiling, to the wine poured by her mentor, then back at the gun left beside Nesia. Since it's still upside down from her point of view, she couldn't guess what was written on it. The etching was deliberate, seeing that the weapon was maintained regularly. The female agent scolded herself; she should have done the same to her own weapon. The fact that she did not need it in her missions was not an excuse. Vash Zwingli was back on his spot right when Nesia ran out of bullets. Like he knew what was in her mind, he spent an unusual amount of time observing the etching, his expression remained unreadable. What's in his mind? The Indonesian finished replacing the magazine and shot once to test it out. (1. 0.8). But in her joy, the second shot missed so far from her target. Her heart sank, almost, because her mentor told her to take a break. Nesia was more than happy to comply. This was a good opportunity too. "Mr. Zwingli, sir, why your gun has an engraving?" she asked, deliberately placing hers beside his own. She figured he wasn't the type who loved small talks.

LAIKA OF GS!