The two Pokémon ran as far as they could back to the tree after leaving the Deerling to die. Strained painting was following closely as both of them stopped to catch their breaths and have a much-needed talk. The Sneasel was so tired that she fell flat on her bottom. However, she had a playful grin while pumping the glacial winds in and out of her body, complete with a madly beating heart of excitement.
She also felt light headed… in a good way. She felt a mere spark of something within, desperately trying to claw its way from the surface and explode. She never expected to be the decoy in a two- Pokémon hunt to be so…fascinating. To be so intoxicating especially for a young one like herself. That talk about potential seemed more legitimate with every passing second as she replayed the scene of seeing the Deerling get mortally wounded from the scout, only envisioning her dealing the blow all by herself, again and again and again…
(Wow… it could be THAT fun and awesome. No wonder the others make such a big deal out of it. Taunting that dumb deer and seeing the younger one get stabbed and trying to flee, only causing it to bleed and kill itself faster through its shock…
I gotta ask him when we can do it again!)
"So… what did you think?" spoke the scout, interrupting her daydreams. The Sneasel gave a delayed response, still relishing the moment.
"It was… it was…" she muttered through her breaths, and slowly making her grow a grin from ear to ear,
"AMAZING!"
The scout didn't expect her to sound so enthusiastic over their hunt.
"Wha—it was that fun to you?"
She dusted off snow from her coat and went on and on about how she loved every moment of it.
"Of course! Like, did you even see that Sawsbuck try to be so scary to me?" The scout couldn't help but reason against her, though not trying to rain on her parade.
"But… you jumped when he snorted at you. You were scared of him, like you thought things would not turn out as well as they did."
The Sneasel looked surprised for just a moment, but laughed it off.
"Pssshaw! I only pretended to be afraid of him so you would have a better time getting close to that stupid fawn! Boy, did you hear that Deerling cry so loudly when you hit it? Hah! Being able to recover it would have been nice, but it was so fun that I don't even care! When are we going to do this again!?"
Her enthusiasm started to wear on the scout. He didn't bother answering, though it did not have much of an impact on her mood. The first moment both of them were capable of getting back to walking, he took it in a flash. He did think that her enthusiasm over the hunt was a little…overboard. She was still young, naïve, and had a long way to go. At the same time, it was helpful for both of them finding out it was something she genuinely enjoyed doing, even as a small part. Doing a job gets a lot easier if it's a job you don't mind doing, let alone actively seeking to do it in your free time. Perhaps her potential could fully blossom later in her life to be the alpha hunter she always desired to become. It would just need to be fully unearthed by exposing her to more of the ugly side of nature, playing into her kind's favor of course.
Before the two Sharp Claw Pokémon hit the trail, the scout decided to carve another symbol on a nearby tree with his clean hand. He picked a thin one, thicker than an average birch tree, and went to work. This symbol took nearly half as long, for it was just a sloppy circle with lots of spikes jutting out of it. It was their way of telling others that an earlier group did hunting on these grounds nearby, and whatever prey Pokémon were involved probably weren't in the area anymore. Once the Weavile finished carving the symbol, he gave a quick streak of cool blood across the symbol and stepped aside and explained what it meant.
"Well… whatever you say. Do we have do this?" questioned the Sneasel, obviously not as enthusiastic over carving wood as carving up meat.
"It's so others don't waste their time trying to find prey, only to later realize its vacant because another party already tried this ground. With the blood, there should be no problem in others figuring it out. Also, it's always a good thing to know exactly how to find your way back, and these signs act as a guide for that. A little communication goes a long way."
She rolled her eyes and shrugged it off.
So off they went, back to their current home of the cave at the base of the mountain, with the Weavile leading the way as usual. The scout tried to stay focused on any landmarks he silently noted in addition to their footprints. It was doubtful something was stalking the stalkers, but when it came to him, he could never be too cautious. It only took a few minutes of backtracking before they came across the twin trail of footprints they made to get to where they were.
"Ah, making progress!" rejoiced the Weavile as he went from a walk to more of a happy skip. Now all they had to do was follow their own footsteps. Easy enough, for the Sneasel, that was. The scout had to deal with constant badgering from her about hunting,
"When are we going to do this again? Are there others we can hunt? Can we bring more with us so we can take on something bigger? Well? Huh? Eh?"
The Weavile sighed and tried to get her to stay quiet.
"Listen, we got to focus on one thing at a time. We'll do this again soon enough, but we need to at least return to the others and tell what happened. And you're still young and inexperienced; there's a lot more to it than making noise and having your partner stab it in the back. If I decided not to join in, what would you have done alone?"
That made the Sneasel shut her mouth and reflect on the scenario.
(That Sawsbuck was kinda scary… and that fawn was pretty far away from where I was. I couldn't have fought it, could I?)
"You would've taken the fall instead or bailed empty-handed, wouldn't you?"
"…Er, yeah. You're right." The Sneasel's face flustered with embarrassment. Perhaps she would start taking things more serious from now on. She wouldn't always have a partner to rely on to feed herself and thin the ranks of other Pokémon. That brought her to another question, "How often do we hunt alone?"
"Not often," he answered with a much better mood, "we're a lot better working together than on our own. Five is the average, four maybe if we get desperate or if there's a lot of us. I'm not saying we're incapable of doing stuff by ourselves, just that we're way better as a coordinated team. You could still probably kill a young Buneary or Rattata if you got the jump on it. Anyway, we're not that far away, I think. Let's hurry up."
The runt scratched her ears and held onto this information for the rest of the way home.
(I always had to depend on others, so I should learn some ways on how to depend on myself. Couldn't hurt even if I stick with a team…)
The rest of the return trip went by quick, and the two Sharp Claw Pokémon returned to their home. By now, the snowflakes got heavier and started to come down faster from the slabs of clouds that hung over the landscape. She took this as a bad omen for she realized the terror that awaited her at the end of their return home.
(Those bullies! They're probably waiting to find out where I was to pummel me again! Oh… Oh no…!)
The beta Pokémon grabbed the scout's arm to try and stop the two of them from proceeding.
"Stop! What if they find me?"
"What do you mean, 'they'?"
The Sneasel's attitude took a hundred and eighty-degree turn and started to gnaw on her nails. All of her power fantasies evaporated, and what was left was a vacuum of despair.
"Those… bullies. The ones that always beat me up! What if they do it now? Will you protect me? Please!"
The scout found himself in yet another difficult situation with the beta Pokémon. This time, he truly had no advice or any response at all. He looked down at the snow on the ground, gave it a tempered kick, and continued. The Sneasel shrieked in defiance,
"We're not going to confront them, are we!?"
She had no choice but to follow the leader against her wishes. There was no way she could fend for herself alone. And there was no way she could find her way back once she got far enough away from her pack's residence. Mentally revisiting the scene of the Deerling getting attacked did little to comfort her. In fact, it served the opposite purpose; what if that Deerling was her, and her attacker was the gang of alphas that always pushed her around for the heck of it? The Sneasel continued to pout over the possibility of yet another punching bag session. The runt followed deathly close behind the scout, hoping to use him as cover.
It was just as she feared. The five of the fiercest Weavile in her pack formed a circle to figure out where she and her mentor went. One of them turned around and pointed to their arrival with an attentive call. The rest of the Sharp Claw Pokémon turned to face the Sneasel and one of their fellow scouts, silently scolding him for the crime of daring to help one of their kind.
"Heh, they're gonna get it big time!" whispered one to another as the alpha stepped forward, clearly unhappy with how things were going this morning.
"So!" barked the alpha to demand attention, "where have you two been, especially YOU!? Last I heard, you two were fighting? Then you disappear and come back later. I don't understand it. And why is there blood on your hand? Come on, say it out loud! I want an explanation!"
The scout stood up for the runt and did his best to convene with the alpha politely.
"I was teaching her things. We were sparring earlier this morning. Then we decided to go as a two Pokémon team for a short hunt. We found a herd of Deerling and Sawsbuck and decided to attack them. She formed a perfectplan; she distracted them and I snuck in and attacked one of them. That's why we were gone, and why my hand is dirty."
He tensed up his eyebrows and pointed directly at the scout, hissing at him again,
"So you took her with you? Do you even know what could've happened out there!?"
"I'm a scout. I'm always aware of what's going on. We knew the risks and did it anyway, and we turned out fine."
The Sneasel parted herself from the Weavile speaking for her and spoke courageously,
"We're still in one piece and I learned something from my first hunt, so what is your problem?"
The alpha looked gravely offended at being challenged. He opened his mouth just a little to try and scream out a rebuttal, but fully believe what the scouting Pokémon told him. He couldn't erupt into screaming and lash out like he and his followers always did. A low, cruel hiss emanated from the back of his throat, "You…"
He pushed the runt for speaking up for herself. The Sneasel swatted away the alpha's hand, making him furious. He monstrously growled, balled his fist, and raised it to punch her right in the face. The scout took action and wedged himself in-between the two quarreling Pokémon with one palm on her chest and the other stopping the Weavile's fist to desperately try to calm the situation despite losing his own cool.
"She's just a child! She learned a lot of crucial skills today! What's wrong with her learning how to hunt and fend for herself?!"
The alpha's followers were taken aback. As much as they would love to let loose and pummel their two fellow Pokémon, they couldn't. They partially agreed with the scout's story, reluctantly. There would be plenty of hell to pay if any more fists were flying, and that would obviously not be good for the rest of the pack. The alpha scowled at the scout with an evil visage before ultimately withdrawing his arm. Now unrestrained, he pulled the scout closer to his face by the collar and whispered,
"Don't –ever- do this again."
The alpha pushed the scout off and turned away. His cronies followed, some with faces of fear, others with faces of reconsideration. The Sneasel was shaking and whimpering by the end of it. She may have staved off another pummeling, but it was not pleasant at all.
"Thu—Th-T…Thanks for standing up for me," the shaken runt mewled. The scout told her to not worry about it and massaged her right shoulder with his clean arm. It made her feel a tiny bit better.
"I hate him. I hate him so much…no wonder my parents left me…"
"No no no," interjected the Weavile to snap her out of her guilt trip, "you'll get over this. You'll be the better leader one day, I promise. You have the most potential here out of all of us, and you'll definitely be the strongest one."
She sat down and rested her chin on her knuckles. Guilt started to wash over her.
"I'm sorry for putting you through this…"
The scout humbly shook his head and answered, "There's nothing to feel ashamed over. You're not the only one who has to put up with them." He tried to concoct a plan to cheer her up again. That's when something wily formed in his head.
"Would you be interested in tagging with me again? I think I know of something that'll we'll both like."
The Sneasel's ears twitched in curiosity. She gave him his full attention, wanting to hear more about what he had to say.
"Well, a few days ago I found a Pidgeot making a nest in a tree not far from here. It either looked like a well-fed male or a pregnant female from how its stomach looked, most likely female. In that case, that means there will be eggs in that nest soon. How about we team up tonight and pay that Pidgeot a visit, especially its eggs? You can put those climbing skills to good use and give your tongue a treat."
The runt grew ecstatic at hearing such a delightful proposition. The Sneasel remembered the first time she ate a Pidgey egg that her parents scavenged. It was heavenly, probably the best thing she ever ate! It tasted so good, and she was so happy back then from snacking on it! It made her want to live off Pidgey eggs, and curious about trying different Pokémon eggs to see how they compared, but alas. That opportunity never came… until now.
She beamed with joy and refilled confidence. It almost sounded too good to be true, and hopefully he wasn't pulling her leg.
"I would love to! I love eggs! I haven't had any in too long! Mmm, so rich and gooey."
"All right, we'll leave right around dusk. Hang tight until then, okay? Maybe we can practice climbing in the meantime. Those eggs aren't going to fall in our hands by themselves, but they may as well! Hah!" The Weavile chuckled with pride, feeling some of the Sneasel's jubilance rub on to him. Both of them really wanted to do it anyway, but more so her. Both could hardly wait until nightfall came around.
Elsewhere, similar training was occurring far off from the two scheming Pokémon's location. It was much more sophisticated with several targets of the common game Pokémon in the area showing details of their internal anatomy, some already ridden with holes. Each target was spaced out about ten yards from each other, and all were staring down a robust, reinforced shooting bench about twenty yards away. On the bench was a simple gun rest, looking a bit like a grotesque vice grip, which could be adjusted to fit many guns of similar size for the best possible accuracy. Next to it was a large tray used to conveniently grab cartridges after they spilled out from their boxes. It was Wilson's personal shooting range. He and Jack would spend some time sharpening their marksmanship before going on an official hunt, for Pokémon put up a much better fight than still cutouts.
The two men walked to the firing range, accompanied by the crisp crunches of compacted snow and empty cartridges under their feet. Jack carried the guns while Wilson brought the ammunition and some hearing protection for them. Jack was surprised at how heavy firearms could get, even more so by the number of casings he stepped over, only further cementing how much of a gun nut Wilson was…
(Damn, he does a lot of shooting. How does he pay for this?)
He set both of the firearms down on the table, followed by Wilson setting aside the ammo they were going to use with and the ear protection.
"Firearms get pretty heavy, eh? It is a great way to build character and muscle for you." Wilson joked setting up to go shooting out in the frozen countryside while his son put on his ear protection. Jack shrugged and did his best not to shake terribly, for he was still not used to being out in such extreme temperatures. Wilson cracked open the box of .308 rounds and tested Jack about his gun.
"I'll be honest, I got one of these because I think they're slick, you can customize them well, and really, not much can go wrong with it. Still, I think the caliber I have will do me just fine. Can I take a few shots with it?"
Wilson asked if Jack wanted to use the gun rest, to which he declined. He then gave him approval for Jack to put a few rounds through his Encore. Additionally, he gave his grandson some pointers when shooting in the cold, whose words were barely slipping past the plugs.
"You'll want to hit the vitals, preferably their hearts or lungs. Aim right at the top joint of its forelegs, for that's where they keep most of their organs. Do not go for headshots unless it's a female, even if we are the only two guys out here. If it's on a male, you'll ruin the trophy and probably cause it more pain than you otherwise would've. They have thick skulls for a reason, and it's not uncommon for one to run around days after it took a bullet or arrow to its head."
Jack kept silent and scarcely adjusted his scope, still unable to see what or where the heart was. He grabbed a round, shoved it in the chamber, and then snapped it shut. His thumb went down on the hammer, making a series of soft clicking noises, and took aim through his scope. He could see a much more detailed image of the Stantler target and moved the reticles around to see the surrounding organs. He saw a small splotch of magenta stick out against the rest and thought if that was the heart. There was only one way to find out as the novice pressed the rim of the scope against his eyebrow and took aim. It wasn't easy to line up a straight shot in the cold, especially as the anxiety grew as Jack slipped a digit over the trigger to give it the nudge it needed to trip the trigger and fire the round. In his mind, it was a real, breathing Pokémon that would collapse once the bullet made its mark. The novice took his finger off the trigger to flex it, held a deep breath from a passing, chilly wind, and pulled the trigger.
-BANG-
A nanosecond-lived flash of light, tempered recoil throwing the rifle back into his shoulder, and a sudden, lingering crack of sound ushered forth. The bullet already went down range and embedded itself in the target before Jack even started to process what just happened. With the shot made, Jack pressed down on the topside of the barrel to break open the action and manually extracted the casing to throw on the ground, emanating traces of smoke.
"Looks like it went high wide to the left," commented Wilson. Jack turned his head to Wilson and asked where the shot went.
"Well, we better go and find out, shouldn't we?"
The two of them got up and walked over to the Stantler target to find out where the bullet went. Jack squatted down and ran a finger over the heart and felt no dips or creases until he ran it on the outside area of the organs and felt a small depression. There was a small hole about a third of an inch in diameter a foot to the right of the heart drawn on the target.
"Huh, that's odd," inquired Jack as he stood up and looked at Wilson.
"Well, you were noticeably shaking back there, and you haven't shot it much to begin with," followed Wilson.
(Well yeah, it's not like I can control the wind and how cold it gets…)
"Trigger's pretty smooth," said Jack trying to change the topic subtly, "damn good trigger pull at that. But that's not everything to making good shots." Wilson came closer to inspect the bullet hole, turned his attention to the heart Jack was aiming at, and then ultimately turned his attention to him to speak.
"But this is obviously not a kill shot. I don't know what happened, but somehow the bullet went far to the right. You'd take a chip out of its shoulder blade at best. Are you sure it's zeroed in at this distance? We're at thirty yards."
Jack looked at Wilson like he had no idea what he meant, then understood a big reason why he might've missed.
"Oh, whoops. I'd better do that now. It's easy to forget some things like that."
Jack jogged back to the firing table with his rifle deep in his clutches to adjust the scope. He figured that the scope might not have been set up correctly, for there was a big difference between shooting it at an indoor range with proper heating compared to long stretches of land in the snow. At the shooting table, he sat down and tried to line up the same shot, instead with his right-hand fiddling with the knobs on the scope instead of fiddling around the trigger. It was difficult to tell any difference, and maybe it was time to use that weird gun rest for optimal accuracy checks.
Wilson noted Jack's constant readjusting of the dial and breaking his face away from the scope to stare downrange. He gave a pitiful sigh and offered to help his grandson.
The grizzled veteran took his apprentice's rifle and laid it down on its side for now. Instead of zeroing in the scope, Wilson toyed with the gun rest until it was at the perfect size for containing the Encore. The weapon was propped up straight and Wilson tightened the rest for an exact fit.
"Now you can do it," spoke Wilson, "try a few more shots then we can try my shotgun."
Jack sat down and finished zeroing his scope, realizing what a difference having a good place to rest it made. He grabbed a handful of rounds to keep close to the gun and loaded one up. Jack took aim at the heart with much more confidence and gave the trigger a quick squeeze. The same sound, flash of light, and recoil happened, though it wasn't as bad as the first time, now he was prepared for it. Jack kicked out the empty casing and loaded a new one in its place. As he looked downrange yet again, he saw a mere, discolored speck on the heart. He had a smirk on his face as he pulled his face away and told his grandfather about it.
"I hit it! I actually hit it! Went a teeny bit higher than I thought, but it's a kill right?"
Jack got up and let Wilson look through the scope. Wilson saw the same flared tear on the target that Jack did and traded places with him once more.
"Yep, that's a kill shot. Took off the top of the heart, but it'd bring down a Pokémon like that nine times out of ten."
Jack took a few more shots at the heart; some hitting the surrounding lungs in what would be a double hit, others went a bit low and would've missed entirely, and at least one made the original mark. Jack stopped after the seventh shot to conserve his ammo. Not counting the first shot that went hilariously off-target, it was an acceptable spread of bullets for the shooter.
"Not bad," complimented Wilson, "there may be a hunter in you yet."
Jack took the Encore off the stand and asked if he could try out Wilson's shotgun. Wilson shot a quick glance at his most beloved weapon and pondered on the issue of Jack being ready for it yet.
"Are you sure you wanna handle this?" Wilson said a bit playfully, though still concerned if it will be too much for the novice shootist. Jack had a grand smile and assured his grandfather that he would be able to handle his gun.
"I have to know what it feels like anyway up here, so it'd be only natural that we would do it here, right? Besides, it won't be that bad! I promise! I GOTTA know what it's like!"
Wilson puffed out frosty air and motioned to Jack on how to operate the 1897. He ran the pump slide back a few times to confirm that it was unloaded, and then Wilson ran it all the way back. The bolt poked out of the back while the carrier assembly hung off the bottom set to elegantly machined clicking sounds. To Jack, it somewhat resembled a comical open mouth trying to speak.
His grandfather ran the pump all the way forward again and demonstrated how to load it up.
"We'll use buckshot to get you started, and we might do a slug if you're on your best behavior." Wilson grabbed a red shell and pushed it into the cutout on the bottom of the gun, a perfect fit for the projectile. Then he rammed it into the magazine tube with his thumb and racked the slide to load it into the chamber to be fired.
"This one's been through some stuff, but it still runs as reliably as ever with an extra shell."
"Do you always do this?" questioned Jack.
"Usually not," replied Wilson, "but it doesn't hurt to show you what it can do." Wilson fed the gun five more shells and brought it up to his shoulders. He gently handed it off to Jack and further coached him on how to use the Model 1897.
"Once you pull the trigger, pull the slide all the way back and push it forward. Use your muscles. Also, don't get your hand or face too close the rear of it. Otherwise, it will poke you in the eye. Let me see you fire three, and do it on a new target." Wilson pointed to the target to the left of the one that was already shot up. Jack cracked his neck and stared down the sights of the old-fashioned boomstick. The puny, shrunken front sight post right on the muzzle. His index finger slinked inside the trigger guard and gave the trigger a firm pull…
*BOOOOOM*
And Jack was suddenly aiming for the tree tops. He gasped at the sheer power it had and brought the gun down to its proper elevation. Jack kept his mouth ajar and gave the slide a pullback, coaxing out that melodious, metallic klick-klack sound. Wilson couldn't help but laugh heartily at Jack's first impressions of his favorite gun to take out to the field. Both of them didn't even care about where the pellets went, as long as they did not go in their direction.
"How'd it feel?"
"It'll wake you up, that's all I'm saying." Jack deadpanned and fired off two more rounds, though the results were identical. The fourth round was ready to be fired.
"Now, I want you to try to hold down the trigger the entire time. Just move the slide this time, and you'll see why some people even tried to get this thing banned, heheh."
Jack did as he was told and held down the trigger with all his might. He racked the slide back, then pushed it forward to it's original position-
klickklackBOOM
And suddenly Jack was aiming for the clouds above the treetops. It caught him completely off guard with how fast it operated. Tufts of smoke blew into Jack's face, allowing him to taste a smidgen of gunpowder as it completely disappeared amongst the gray dome above.
(This thing doesn't fuck around. And people had these a hundred years ago!?)
Jack turned to his admiring grandfather and commented "I can see why you like this!" before slam-firing the machine again. Then again, with repetition of klickklackBOOM- klickklackBOOM to finish off the ammo in the gun.
"So," asked Wilson, "how'd it feel slam firing that beauty?"
"Felt a bit like a rollercoaster," answered the shook shooter, "You expect it, but you can't time it, and that is what throws you off like with me. Did you actually do that against a Pokémon once?"
Wilson took back his Model 1897 and answered the question, "Fortunately, not out in the wild. The only time I did it was against those damned Weavile. They sure as hell got the point, 'cause I don't see 'em around anymore. 'Least they're smart enough to understand I don't fuck around."
Jack let off a quiet, drawn-out "right…" and realized Wilson was digging his fingers around in a yellow box of ammo he brought. He pulled one of those exotic slugs. Jack shuddered at the idea of one of those expanding while inside of him and cutting up his internals.
"If you don't want to fire it, I won't hold it against you. These are known for packing one hell of a recoil. At the same time, you can be much more accurate with them compared to buckshot. What do you say?"
Jack eyeballed his grandfather with a dumbly open mouth. He knew it would be pretty bad, but morbid curiosity was getting the better of him. He got to play around with a century-old shotgun design that bordered on being full auto, so what was one more round through it to him?
An anxious smirk grew from Jack's lips as he made up his mind.
"Give it here," requested Jack with a beckoning motion from his hands. Every second that passed made him want to feel how it was to shoot it like his grandfather did all these years. Wilson laid down the shotgun and the shell in front of Jack, allowing him to carry out the procedure: start to finish. In the round went with a smooth, metallic slipping sound.
"Shoot it any target you'd like," ordered Wilson as he took a step back and crossed his arms.
Jack opted for the one he already tried to riddle with buckshot. His right fingers danced on the trigger guard's rim. He shook his head, held onto more cold air, and readied himself. A cautious digit lightly tapped on the trigger, spaced itself away, then yanked it back as hard as he could.
-BOOOMPERLUUUNG-
And now Jack was aiming at the moon above the clouds. An audible "damn" slipped from his lips as he threw out the empty shell. Wilson started to guffaw had his son feeling the power of turning a shotgun into a slug gun. Its recoil matched the killing power the projectile offered.
"Gosh," murmured Jack, "remind me to stick with rifles from now on."
"Some are worse," quipped Wilson as the firearm traded hands. Jack was rubbing his right shoulder and looking pretty embarrassed about what happened. As jarring as it was… it was actually a lot of fun for the young man. The stupid, simple "never in my house or with my wallet" type of entertainment of playing with such machines.
"It was like getting head-butted by a Slowking, or something. Sheesh, how do you put up with it?"
"A lot of discipline and practice," countered Wilson. He could afford to spend a slug just to get a kick out of his gun kicking his grandson in the shoulder blade. Wilson walked towards the target to see how well Jack did this time. The novice followed suit, wondering if the slug even expanded like he was told against the slightest contact after shot out. The two came to the target, noting numerous, miniscule holes put in it from the buckshot Jack fired earlier. Right in front of the Stantler's shoulder blade was a sizable hole, the one from the slug. There were no tears on the edges of it, meaning it was a perfectly clean hit through the target.
"Hey, aren't there supposed to be petals?" asked Jack as he examined the hole. Wilson shrugged and explained with a pointed finger,
"Well, if it was a live Stantler, yes. Or a block of gelatin. These aren't quite strong enough to make the spread effect happen. Even if they did, there's no way to find the petals or the actual projectile. But, you can still imagine what they can do against a proper Pokémon."
Jack shrugged in return and scratched the back of his neck. He had enough shooting for now, and would be happy to call it a day.
"I think this is a good stopping point. I don't want to burn out myself and the ammo, is that okay with you?"
Wilson humbly nodded. "Get your stuff and let's get back in. I'll make us something to eat. Did you feel better about yourself during the practice?"
Jack did not know how to respond. He strung together the thoughts he had right now as an attempt to answer his grandfather. "Well, after you set me up with that stand, yeah. Felt nice knowing I could hit something I aimed at. Then came your eighteen ninety-seven. Boy that was a little rough. I'll just stick with my Encore, thank you very much."
Wilson gave him more words of wisdom as they got their guns and the leftover ammunition to head back into the warm sanctuary of civilization.
"Out here, it does not matter how you do it. Be it with a pistol, a bow, a spear, or even a hand-made trap. As long as you can do it, and it can reliably work, I consider it a success. Of course, there are still ethical factors. You don't want the Pokémon to suffer any more than you need it to. But for a novice shooter out here, you are not half-bad. You'll be a good hunter one day."
Jack's faced was flush with taking Wilson's words truthfully. Realistically being able to live up to his dreams of being a prominent outdoorsman, like he daydreamed earlier? All envisioned from the first session of serious target practice?
That definitely took some stress off the grandson's shoulders. But not so much his hunger.
"So, what are you going to cook up?"
Wilson turned and smiled at Jack to answer his question.
"Steaks made from the backstraps and shoulders. The choicest cuts of any Sawsbuck or Stantler in these parts, coupled with some red wine. Who says a man can't have class, eh? You think I only drink whiskey? There's plenty of alcohol to go around, even the classy stuff."