Snow raised the air rifle and looked down the sights -- which seemed to be a little skewed, as far as he could tell. When he pulled the trigger the first time, his shot missed the target completely, flying far too high and to the right. He actually hit his target on the second try, but only barely -- not nearly enough to rack up the points he needed. He frowned and lowered the weapon momentarily, inspecting the iron sights as though they were the top culprit for his poor performance, even though he knew that the obvious solution was to just try to compensate for their off-center aim.

"Well, from the looks of it," he said, "nothing I could stand to lose. I must be rustier than I thought."

He leveled the rifle again and fired off another two shots. This time, both of them managed to hit the target, but his speed was severely lacking, and neither of the hits resembled anything close to a bullseye. It was frustrating to see that his accuracy had slipped so much, and it was a good thing that Snow wasn't really much of a competitive personality. Otherwise, tantrums might have been thrown.

"How about the satisfaction of knowing how badly you beat me?" he said. He took another shot; it was his first bullseye. "... Or maybe..."