After a long moments rummaging through her multitude of pockets, she found the access card and swiped it into the lock beside the doorway. The portal opened and she stalked inside, a grin on her face as she was pleased to notice that there was no one else within the massive room. Just herself, silence, and the familiar scent of guncleaner and metal.

Mik unzipped her jacket and tossed it onto a nearby table, cracking her neck and stretching lazily as she bounced on her toes. She couldn't expect Sasha to arrive for a little while, which would give her plenty of time to warm up. Not that she needed it, but solitude in here had a soothing effect upon her, and she might relax enough to give it to him for all she was worth. The time to duel would come.

Leaning down, she tugged up the ankle of her trousers and unholstered her fletchette pistol, fingers setting into the molded grooves that matched her shooting-side hand. Her black eyes twinkled as she smiled again, right hand searching her belt for the long packet of extra fletchette ammo, and she pulled that out and dropped it to the table before taking up her stance inside one of the booths.

Nice target. Even shaped like a man.

It took him a few seconds of careful study before he realized what it was he was looking at. A roman helm with a plume set in front of a sword. He knew that symbol. What was it? An insignia. His eyes widened slightly in recognition. A WestPoint insignia. She'd belonged to some branch of the Earthbound military academy before BattleSchool, unless one of her parents had simply had it done for fun. From the way she handled her weapon, he considered the former much more likely.

Ideal.

"Hmmm, and you're asking me?" His cocky attitude didn't fade, and she leaned closer, eyes twinkling playfully as she pointed the pistol back toward the target and locked her elbow. He grinned until she thumbed the slide along the side of her gun, and a loud and unmistakeable *click* made his eyes widen.

After all, the fletchette pistol had been custom-made. By her design. And Mik liked having a little extra backup... in the form of another hidden round locked in a separate chamber.

He looked over at the pistol and watched as she grinned and fired, her gaze still intent on his face. "Extra round. Separate chamber. Nice surprise, don't you think?" With a single motion, she brought the muzzle up and tilted his chin until he was looking at her again before giving him a sympathetic smile. "You're lucky I don't slip, sweetheart. Now get ready to get your ass whipped." Mik tapped his jaw with the gun and stepped away, one hand still wrapped around the butt, the other rubbing at the back of her neck. This pistol was heavier than most, and she was still getting used to the weight, the back of her neck and shoulders sore. But hell, she could still shoot, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of doing any less than perfectly.

Sasha was a perfectionist. He hated dealing with weakness, in other people or himself. He'd seen what happened to the weak the first month he was in BattleSchool. He made commander a year earlier than normal, and he drove his army as hard as he drove himself. It made them better, and it made them hate him, and he didn't care because - because it made them better. He had no patience for Raven's snivelling because it was the weak way out. It wasn't her sex that made her inferior; it was her inability to cope. If she'd made it as far as she had without that ability to cope, that meant that someone had been able to slip through without even trying to be what Sasha knew a soldier had to be, and it made him wonder how many of those sliders he'd be forced to depend on without knowing it when his life was on the line, and that really pissed him off.

He made a few small adjustments to site with the tweaking kit the rangemaster left out for such things, took aim and fired another set. Much better. He finished the clip, quickly squeezing off the rest of the shots to get a feel for the kick again. It had been nearly a week, after all. The last round left the barrel and he dumped the empty clip and replaced it with a full one before nodding to Mik to let her know he was ready.

Shit. He was just like her.

He reloaded and looked toward her to acknowledge that he was ready, and she gave him a slight smile before stepping from her stall over to the side table. Holding the long packet of ammo between her teeth, Mik stripped the razor fletchettes with one hand, and inserted them into the cartridge casing with the other, loading her gun quickly and efficiently. She'd have to swipe or trade for some more ammo soon, the supply hidden underneath her mattress nearly gone after using so much of her reserves today. Oh well. Wouldn't cost her much, and Rox's boys always gave her a good deal on stolen goods. If this challenging was going to become a frequent occurrence, she'd best be ready.

Done, finally, the fletchette pistol accepting the clip with a muted click and snap. Mik slid the extra single cartridge into the separate chamber, locked it, and flipped the safety off before returning to her stall and giving Sasha a broad grin. "Ready, baby?"

He nodded, and she bit her lip in appreciation of his nearly equal abilities before concentrating on the target before her and opening fire.

For a few minutes all that could be heard were the peculiar *thwapping* sounds of the guns being fired, a sound particular to only fletchette pistols. Mik heard that sound in her sleep sometimes. Music to her ears. The targets ripped open with the force of their attacks, and she grinned at the damage done. Damn. West Point had been all real firearms; shotguns and assault rifles and high-powered pistols. Fletchettes were a weapon she'd only discovered here at Command School; their firepower equal to some of the guns she'd used before, their razor ammo similiar to HydraClaw or SilverTalon. Not as deadly explosively, as there was no gunpowder involved... but these babies could rip a man to shreds.

Sometimes, Mik had to admit, she liked her guns a little too much.

Which is precisely why she grinned as she finished her round, black eyes sparkling. So much fun. She examined his own target with grudging admiration-- so maybe he wasn't as bad as she'd anticipated. Maybe he wasn't so far below her own abilities that she had to shun him. But damn. It also stung to see how adept he was. Mik didn't like feeling threatened. She hated the realization that there were other people just as, if not better, than she was. So what if Sasha hadn't beaten her. He'd gotten close enough to be unsettling.

Damnit. She didn't want to have to like him.

Oh, but didn't he realize that he was going to lose? There were no ifs about it. After all, Mik didn't lose to just anyone. She was ranked third in the school, and the only girl in the top fifty rankings. It took one hell of a marksman to beat her, and the two men above her had earned their rights, in more ways than one. The boys below her... well, those she left to the less artillery-inclined females of the school.

Perhaps it was time to find out whether Sasha qualified as a man.

"Mmmm, so we're betting now, eh?" Mik yawned in feigned boredom, stretching languidly and rubbing at the insignia tattooed upon her shoulder before planting her boot up on the wall and reholstering her fletchette pistol. They were done here. There was only so much entertainment to be derived from shooting stationary targets, and despite Sasha's potential for amusement, she wanted to really beat him this time. Teach him a lesson, and see if any of that arrogance in his demeanor would falter. She found herself hoping it wouldn't.

Mik nodded toward the door, tucking her ammo packets back into her belt as she slid into her jacket and zipped up the collar. "I take it. Double. When I win..." her voice trailed off as she gave him a raking once-over, features masked but undeniable tawdry laughter in her black eyes. "We'll see what you have to offer. Now let's go shoot some moving targets in the battleroom. See if you're a real man or not."

He grinned at her as she smiled almost indulgently at him. Boyo was going to get spanked. But it'd be fun to see him lose. And hell-- she might just get a nice prize in return. He looked like he was full of nice prizes.