The early bird catches the worm -- this was the motivation for Spook to get up every morning, instead of sleeping in. Those were the magic words, repeated by the toy that had been standing in the same spot since the evening. "The early bird--" Spook groaned midspeak, and extended his arm, pushing the toy away. "Yeah yeah, I got it. The early fucking bird." The standard and very ignorable morning procedure began it's way with Spook putting on his bathrobe. His white fluffy one. Of course, his morning routine looked different than a normal persons. Spook just got out of bed, stood up straight while his personal assistant toy puts on his bathrobe, rests a fat cigar between his lips and lights it. This same toy will then cleanup his room, from whatever ransacking last night, and then follow him and continue to do menial things. Things Spook considers himself to be too superior for. His ego had grown, no defeat was on his record. With his ego, certain parts of his personality had shapeshifted into something different. For example, before entering a room, one of his closeby toys are instructed to enter the room first, stand beside the door and proudly announce Spooks entrance into the room. Sometimes during non-covert operations, he'd have his toys carry a red carpet with them just to roll it out for whenever Spook wished to walk across a red carpet.

With self confidence, and testosterone at an all time high; Spook decided to take his new rifle out for a spin. Show her around the block, get acquainted with each other. He decided this over morning coffee; served by one of the Orchestra Musicians. Spook sipped away at it, at that delicious caramel roast. Men who drunk flat white, were certainly of high chance to become friends with the tall toy-maker. Since there were no spoons in immediate sight, Spook reached over to the Orchestra Musician. He'd grab onto her arm, while a concerned look grew over the toys face the toy-maker was already transforming her body--making it shorter, and then turning it into a spoon. Anything inorganic could be made with his hands, though at the cost of using a human soul. Screaming isn't an option when you're a spoon, Spook wondered if it felt agonizing, to stir through a cup of hot coffee.

His morning proved to be grand; the rest of the day remained as an open question mark. Today marked the fifth day since he got in possession of a high power sniper rifle; one that he still wanted to try-out. Since he got today off, he decided to take it out and use the sniper rifle. There wasn't a context as to how, so the tall toy-maker used his cup of coffee as inspiration. He recalled a shooting range in one of the outer parts of Baltigo. That was most likely the best place to take his sniper, and rent one of their shooting ranges. That way, he could try his sniper rifle in a somewhat realistic situation, as the rifle was intended for long-range fire. Spook decided to go on this trip alone, with his helmet on as usual. That meant that his toys were to stay at the home base. "I'll be back in a few hours,  go and help the rest of the crew until I return."

He directed his toys, before leaving. Spook headed to the navigational room, where Sinbad subsided in; asking him if he could raise the ship into the air and drop him off closer to the outer districts. "I'm not sure if I'm going to the shooting gallery, or go out hunting. Drop me at the gallery for now, please." Spook asked Sinbad, who stoically agreed to his request and began moving the ship in the mentioned direction. Spook strapped the sniper to his back, and moved to the lower parts of the deck. He threw out the ladder and followed it all the way down.

There couldn’t be a better landing spot, from where Spook got off there was around two hundred meters to cover before he could enter the glorified bonus room of some hotel. There was a standard range with moving bits, Spook wasn’t a large fan of the new method they adapt—so he will likely find other options. Upon arrival at the gun range, Spook made it a key to witness everything inside. These were insidious beings, for they carried firearms. A few vases with flowers in them were presented on the counter; the ebony counter carried a few other items, high-powered rifles with price tags that went well above Spooks head.

It made sense, for a gun range to have multiple commercial angles. The person behind the counter was a male, a few years older than the toymaker. His hair was of a dusty brown. Short and spiky. His posture turned Spooks opinion of him, he stood very confident like. Sadly, from where Spook walked in, he couldn’t see whether the fellow walked around with his safety pulled back—before he continued pandering, the toymaker scanned the rest of the room, while simultaneously talking. Spook begun explaining his intentions. “Do you have any long-ranged ranges?” He’d ask, turning his focus back to the shopkeeper. Spook divided his concentration, it was split between the gun range aficionado, and the man and young woman that were in a discussion. The slightly shorter man focused on Spook; since his goals were the same, the long-ranged gun range. The man behind the counter responded. “We had one, if you set up your own targets, you two can have it for a few hours. Not like anybody will disturb you there anyway…”

Spook nodded at his cryptic instructions to use it. “Very well, I shall—” Before the toy-maker could carry on with his sentence, the slightly shorter male interrupted him. “Wait! Please, one second” The male turned back to the woman, Spook couldn’t make-up what they were saying exactly. Spooks patience was quite thin—he activated his haki in order to properly scan the two enigmatic people also in the glorified bonus hotel room. The two were squabbling with each other and had no killing intent. This made Spook deactivate his haki; there was no reason to keep it up for the time being. The man quickly turned to Spook again.

“I may have a proposition for you.” He timidly pointed at the sniper rifle on the toy-makers back and gave the woman a glance before continuing. “My girlfriend, she doesn’t enjoy the silent hilltops, the endless vast of nature, as much as I do—and judging by that gun on your back, you may share these interests?” Spook scoffed a little bit and nodded, but without letting the man continue he intercepted. “Two men go into the hills with the intention of shooting at things. Do you see this being the start of an unfunny joke, the kind of joke only a particular kind of friend would laugh at?” Right as soon as Spook said that, the woman in the corner laughed and nodded at the insanity of his idea. “It sounds like the beginning of a fun afternoon, I have new spotting equipment I’d like to try out.” Spooks serious face quickly melted into something neutral. He gave the typical, ‘fuck it, sure’ gesture that only men can understand.

“Excellent! My name is Withermund, yours?” Withermunds face became more visible as he stepped closer to Spook. “I am Gojira.” Spook was using his moniker to introduce himself to this male. Despite not wearing his helmet, he still opted for caution. Withermund extended his hand to Spook, they both shook. The handshake made Spook notice that he could turn Withermund into a toy; there was no reason to do so—but knowing that this was an option could come in handy. “I can see you two being best friends with each other.” The response of the adult-torn male was typical, chuckling at his girlfriends attempt at trying to embarrass him, obviously not bothered.  Spook didn’t react to her quip. “I’m Wulfwyn, nice to meet you Gojira.” A respectful head nod from across the room finalized the introduction between the two. Her backstory wasn’t important, for now.

Spook quickly conversed with Withermund to discuss the details of what Spook had in mind exactly. “So, I want to shoot at least five shots, each shot has to be further from the previous.” Withermund attentively listened. The girlfriend, Wulfwyn, carried on reading a pamphlet about the shortest gun ever produced. The shopkeeper was sort of paying attention, his primary focus lied on the barrel of a 223 rifle, as he was cleaning it. Some other attendees of the gun range returned to the lobby after their session was over.

“For the target, I was thinking of using a black marker with a white sheet of paper. Maybe make a cross and—”

Before Spook could finish his sentence, Withermund quickly interrupted him. With his finger raised, he explained what was on his mind. “Shouldn’t do a cross, a circle is better—depending on the type of real-life target you want to practice against, you may want to opt for a more personalized target.” This brought Spooks hand to the back of his head. A target? Humans? No—this gun was meant for inhuman humans. How to describe such a target though, much less depict it visually. “Circle is fine.” Withermund nodded and headed to the counter, there was a pen holder cup on the counter with a black marker. Withermund had come down this range enough times to know where the stack of paper was being kept. He pulled a few useless scribbles out and started drawing circles.

“Why are you helping me out with this?” Spook asked while walking up to the counter, leaning against it while talking to Withermund. While drawing, Withermund smiled a little. “I used to be a marine, a long time ago—while there they employed me as a marksman. It wasn’t all bad, there were things I truly enjoyed. Working with professionals; the comradery. This is something I miss from time to time.” Spook respectfully let the man carry on with his sentimental story. “And now, you’re on Baltigo… ?” There were some details to this story that were being left out. “Now, I’m not a marine.” A silent nod from Spook was all that it took for Withermund not to have explain further.

Withermund finished up and made ten targets—only rookies would take the required number of targets with them, as they sometimes get lost, and this way Withermund might be able to convince Spook to let him shoot the rifle a few times. “All ready, chief.” Spook nodded and turned to the shop keeper who was still in progress of helping a customer with a jammed gun. “We’ll be back in an hour or two.” The shopkeeper responded quickly, “Sure.” Half an hour had passed since Spook and Withermunds departure, a strange man entered the hotel lobby. Most of him was cloaked, his eyes were unseen through his red round glasses. It was obvious that this man was the villain.

The trail outside towards the long-ranged range was met with a sharp left into an unpaved path into the woods. “The range is up ahead two-clicks. I’ll put warning-signs around the area once we get closer.” His leather boots protected the toy-maker from the mud. The terrain was quite bad. Up from hundred meters you could still see the lobby, beyond that, no sight. It was rough for Spook to ask Withermund more about his time in the marksman division, but it was something he was interested in. Obviously, this man has had experiences in a professional military task force. The way he carried himself and planned further than was required without being asked for it—these were the traits of an experienced person; which gave his story more power. “Is this your first time?”

“Ha.” Withermunds question caught Spook off guard. “That rifle, I don’t smell an emanating odor of gunpowder. It’s either the first time you’re shooting with it, or it hasn’t been used in a long, long time.” The trail became quite steep, Withermund outmatched Spook in endurance—most of the air in Spooks lungs weren’t available for a response now, as he was panting his way up. Withermund, without reply, carried on with his theory. “So, it’s a revenge story, a person killed someone close to you, and you seek revenge by using your old family heirloom.” Spook stopped for a second. “Tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine.” Withermund stopped too. “I’ll set up the first target around here, we’ll climb up to…” He pointed at the small hill south of him, roughly fifty meters away from the target. “there.” Spook nodded and began marching towards the hill. Withermund stuck the target to the hill and followed Spook.  

“Lost my best friend four years ago. Mission gone bad, there were some whispers, rumors that the mission was meant to go wrong.” Now it was Spooks turn. “Christmas gift from the gods. It was collecting dust until today; gun-fighting isn’t my style, bringing me here—to introduce myself to it.” Withermund belly laughed. He had anticipated a much more complex situation; although the origin of the gun raised more attention than it had previously. It was a matter he simply couldn’t implore further in. Spook laid down on a soft spot, Withermund gave him a few instructions about how he should hold his gun—and that the way to hold the gun varied on the distance, and the time that the shooter will need to land an accurate shot. A range card was one of the more important details of long-range shooting. With a distance of fifty meters, they weren’t relevant, yet.