#BUT HONESTLY; I ACTUALLY HC HE CAN MAKE MAGMA BULLETS ONE DAY TO HIS POWERS TO SHIFT THE GUN

[stormcried]

❝ you know the first rule of combat? shoot them before they shoot you. ❞

Cowboy Bebop Starters

A snort. As if insulted by Striker's comment. Drake's not new to combat. Sure, he's gotten into petty brawls before and he's KILLED people before to survive. Drake's not a weak baby like he used to be when he was nine and ten. He wasn't holding back anymore. Especially now that he's in Hell. His rock hard digits trace the rim of the revolver that Striker had given him. It's shooting practice. More like to give Drake a IDEA as to actually how to shoot something. It's loaded of course, so, it's now or never. Shit, he may have to use it one day.

"Pfft. Please, M'nah stupid. I know how t'fight people." Drake retorted back. Drake isn't sure how to use a gun at all. He's never HELD one much less SHOOT one. This is a real, actual gun that he's holding in his grip. Drake's orange hues glanced up to Striker. "So, wha's the plan? M'gonna shoot bottles or somethin'?" Half jokingly he asked. Drake figured Striker would start him off small. Or, at the least get used to shooting a real gun. Because if Striker is going to actually waste his time on Drake, then he better prove useful.

His eyes glance to a barrel. He kind of hoped it was filled with gasoline or something. In the Wrath ring, everything is essentially could explode. Drake would furrows his brows, gripping tight to the handle of the gun. Drake angled himself to mirror Striker. Both hands on the handle. His eyes furrow on the 'target' of their practice. It seemed that it were a few simple beer bottles that Striker either finished off or dumped for the simple purpose of getting Drake used to the revolver. A six shooter. It's gonna pack a serious punch. Finger on the trigger.

Drake's heart racing in his chest. Call it a small strand of nervousness in his system. Drake's survived the worst, yet, he's nervous of a GUN? Pitiful. Drake would shake the feelings off as best as he could. Striker is 'nice' enough to let him do this. Drake took a best aim as he could. Squeezing the trigger. No hesitation now.

'B A N G'

The shot itself had Drake stumble backwards slightly from the ricochet of the power of the gun. He's still not strong enough. Drake gritted his teeth. Miss. "FUCK!" Drake exclaimed in irritation. A exhaled growl follows. "Lemme try again. I ain' acceptin' tha'." Drake didn't wait for a response, taking back his position of the original mirror of Striker. Drake aimed back at the bottle of what he tried to originally aim at. This time, his grip tightens. If he wasn't careful, he might accidentally melt the gun itself. Focusing. His aim to be the bottle itself. The only sounds being his breathing... (also the internal furnace inside of his chest).

Take aim. Drake's getting used to it. Only for him to imagine his worst enemies. The bad people from before. Everything that was taken away from him. His happiness. His life. His family. Those memories burned strong in his head. Drake's anger growing again at this point. Picturing a vision of putting a bullet into every last one of them. Drake's teeth gritting and clenching his jaw. Slight orange wisps forming from his eyes. Eyes burning brighter until the same shot came forth, and sending him back a little bit, only for him to stand his ground again... although instead of a regular golden bullet, a lob of magma shot from the barrel and ending in the center of the bottle, creating it a shattered mess AND a messy after effect. Drake tilted his head. "How... did I do that?"