Day 1 - Bag 'Em and Tag'Em

[Corporal Light]

"Why did I even bother playing that rigged game? All of these damn things are rigged, so why did I even give a single THOUGHT to that one?" Ballad questioned to himself as he slowly trudged through the long line of people surrounding the stand. Half of him wanted to just run back, punch the owner of the stand for swindling everybody, then proceed to go on a rant about the debatable legality of carnival games. He really wasn't sure what the purpose of that would be other then to beat up somebody, though he wasn't afraid to admit it. He did feel like the game made him look worse at shooting than he really was. That's how he knew it was rigged. He couldn't have missed that skull. It simply wasn't possible, objectively impossible by every stretch of the imagination. That was when the other half of his mind took control. The other half, also known as 'talk a lot to try to figure some stupid bullshit out' half, was a hell of a lot more focused on trying to figure out exactly how the game was rigged.

Closing his eyes for a few moments, he parts his green winter coat, opening up one of the bags attached to his belt. Removing three bullets, he slides out the rotating cylinder of the revolver, lightly brushing, but not pressing, a red button underneath the trigger itself with his index finger. He did not intend to use THAT particular feature. Not unless he absolutely, positively had to use it. Gently pushing the three spent bullet cartridges out of the cylinder, he slides in the remaining three as the spent cartridges fall into the dirt road, dust kicking up into small clouds. He then parts his coat again, sliding his revolver back into his holster.

With his gun fully loaded, and his mind back into focus on what went down in that stand, He began to debate with himself, just like he always does whenever shit like this happens. The first time, it was over whether or not this place was an afterlife (he still hadn't finished that debate.) The second time, it was over how the he'll those goons managed to do so much damage, or to be more specific, how his fucking gun now requires the hammer to be pulled back before firing, which screws his fire rate (also no answer as of now.) The third time, it was about the purple swirling portal thing. The fourth, about the heat. Now, it's about the stand.

"Anyways, where was I? Oh right, the range game thing. I swear everything I have on me that the sights on my revolver were perfectly on that skull, and the bullet just landed like it was never on the skull to begin with. I can really only think of two reasons for this, and neither of which can be my fault. The first is that the game is rigged, which is the most likely. How it is rigged is pretty much a crapshoot in and of itself. The second is that me being here has affected my gun more than I realized. In which case I... might be screwed.. in some cases...." That second option slowly dawns onto Ballad, causing him to stop in his tracks. It is worth noting that he had been walking in the direction where Ururu and Desco were at, so they could see what he was doing, and hear more or less every word out of his mouth, even though it was muffled thanks to the scarf. They would easily notice the rather unnatural, unfit for the climate type of clothing on his person, as well as that it was mostly green to go with his face. Except of course for the scarf, which covered up his mouth and nose, as well as a green trapped hat on his head. They could easily see every action he made, assuming they cared enough TO see them.

Ballad goes silent as he looks back down his coat, parting it slightly as he reaches his right hand inside. Although he didn't want to admit it, and certainly won't, not to anyone, he had gotten a rather odd feeling that him being in this.... Omniverse had screwed his revolver in a few ways, but he wanted to be sure. He already knew that the revolver required the hammer to be pulled back, and the few tines he has fired, the recoil of it was noticeably higher than back home. So maybe THAT was what screwed me there. The recoil was a lot higher, and I underestimated it. Fuck...

Ballad was about to out his revolver away when something else came to his mind. He needed to know if the... other setting could still work. Raising the revolver again, he twisted it to his right, revealing a pair of multi-colored buttons, all with numbers on them that went from "1" to "5." Holding his left hand out, he summoned up a tool that appeared to look like a screwdriver in about three minutes. Moving the tip of the driver to a screw that was, well, screwed into the revolver, He slowly twists out the screen. He repeats this process to three other screws, taking about another minute.

After removing the screws, he gently, as if holding and infant and trying not to shake it, raises the panel with the numbers on it. Staring inside it, a long, stringy and white substance slowly follows out of the newly made hole, connected to the panel. Gently, Ballad pulls the panel backwards some more, suddenly stopping when he hears a kink noise from within the revolver. That was the explosive. The last resort. The true danger. Satisfied, he slowly places the panel back over the hole, careful not to tangle up the wick, as it was vitally important that the wick never brushed against another surface, including itself, prematurely. It could cause some... messy accidents if it did. After making sure the wick wasn't touching anything without the manual command, he sets to work screwing the panel back onto the revolver, his head down towards the ground. He hardly moved out of the way for anybody and barely acknowledged the fact he was in a crowded place full of food, rigged games, and possibly people who were going to be annoyed by this. He hardly cared, though, as he often managed to hear them before they bumped into him. Besides, if they did, he would probably flip out for basically damn near killing everyone, including himself. Mostly himself. But he didn't think anyone was going to be a dumbass and try that. Unless...

Just to be on the safe side, each time some person was getting close to him, he rudely reminded them not to bump into him, for fuck's sake. More often than not, he get an equally rude and annoyed response to boot, but the masters never got anywhere beyond those words. Did the trick, like always. Whenever you need to keep people from getting themselves killed, or you just want to be left alone, just be an asshole. Which wasn't hard. He had plenty of practice himself, especially back home. There was just something about close friendship that threw him for a loop. The one thing he just couldn't understand no matter how hard he tried. It pissed him off with each comment made about it. That was probably why he acted the way he did to people back home. Because the concept was as foreign as this Omniverse. Probably also explains why he never really got all that close to people. Hell, his own family wasn't even that close to him. He couldn't quite remember at the moment, but he was fairly certain that, for his entire lifespan, he hadn't really had more than around ten prolonged discussions with anyone that didn't get shot or get kicked out of his home y the end of it. The closest thing he got to a "relationship" with anyone was merely as,work acquaintances.

Ah, who the fuck cares. Most of those guys were clockwork minions without even knowing it. I should concentrate on this bomb setting. Don't want to get myself into more trouble than I already am.