[i][b]The Cowboy And The Targets. [/b][/i] [i][b]Silence rang through the Dojo in the wee hours of of the day, as each of the regulars were either asleep, or just starting their journey to the building. Deep inside rests a single person. Maybe person is too strong a word, he's more a machine than a man in truth, but that did not define who he was. What did, was his skill solely. [/b][/i] [i][b]The onyx grip to a revolver rests in the man's right hand, while the left hand holds no weapon, for it is one. His hand was folded back and eventually bent around his arm, the sleeve of his dirtied brown duster resting over his arm, giving him a sickening appearance as a blade protrudes from the hole. The black steel of his hand matches the revolver that he clasps onto with his other arm, as the gun is raised to a target. A loud bang was sent echoing through the room, bouncing off the walls of the Dojo and trickling outside the building he rests in, and the loud noise was swiftly followed up by a crack, the sound of a .44 round soaring through the air, and slamming into the forehead of a dummy. [/b][/i] [i][b]The cowboy smiled a wide smile from beneath his brown hat, the same one that casts a shadow down over his old and slightly wrinkled face. Both his eyes shined a bright, luminescent blue colour, which stood out amongst the black of the darkness that shrouded his face, and hid his identity from all. The only thing that managed to extend from the hats shadow was the red tip of his cigar, which sent a light trail of smoke to the skies above him, eventually fading into nothingness like all trails of smoke do, no matter the size. The final thing that managed to free itself from the blackness of the hat was his beard. It was fairly long but well maintained, as it was cut regularly. Some even thought this a wig, or at least the simple minded ones that thought that had only thought it once, because when he scratched the border of his face, he would prove that it was a real beard. [/b][/i] [i][b]The head of the dummy had felt the pressure of a magnum shot burrowing itself deep inside the head of it, and it had nearly fallen over. It would have, if it weren't for the long pole that courses through it, that managed to bury itself into the ground and keep the target stable. The cowboy fired another shot, and another, and another. He kept firing until the last shot in the cylinder was loaded, and he looked at the art that he had made. This was not the first set of six shots he had fired, as there was certainly more before it. He glared at his target from down the barrel, staring past the sleek silver that indicated where exactly his shot would hit, and into the face of his target. And without another thought, he fired the shot, and the bullet would cut through the sky like a hot knife cuts through water. He lowered the weapon he held tightly and looked at his masterpiece: the name Lena was shot into the head of his target, each bullet used to finish the word made. Lena was his wife so, so long ago, until she met her tragic fate of death, which quickly came over her one day, at the hands of someone that the cowboy would never know. [/b][/i] [i][b]And so he stood there. The wind drifted aimlessly into the room, creeping through the sky, until it would blow past him with full force. It made the bottom part of his jacket blow back, and slam partially into his knees on the way, before the jacket opened fully. And so he stood there, a monument to his old life. The cyborg cowboy has been everywhere. He started his life in a test tube, living in a Cyberpunk realm, before he moved on. He joined Fireteam November and quickly brought his PMC to a larger number, recruiting seven billion people to his cause. He went to the Chozodia Station and joined on as a guard, and now he was here, aimlessly standing deep inside the Dojo. [/b][/i] [i][b]He just hoped that he would find something entertaining to do. [/b][/i] ((Open))