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GunsMatt didn't like guns. Never had, never would. There was just something about the certifiable weapon that threw him off; feeling the cold metal against his skin, tasting gunpower in the air. He didn't like it. It was too much power in his hands. Power he didn't want, never would. Fuck, he hated even having the skill to wield it. Sucked, since a Wammy brat, of course Matt knew how to fire a gun. He understood all the technical how-to's, could list off each part as if it were the back of his hand, and had extensive knowledge of every piece of weaponry fired in WWII. But even though he got all the tech talk and could shoot one, if the urge ever hit him, didn't mean he had to like it. Nope. He was perfectly fine using his sarcasm and quick thinking to get out of a jam, thanks. Guns were just.....not his thing.
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Oh sure, fake guns were alright. He'd played enough shooting games at enough arcades to know that it was a totally different thing, and therefore felt A-ok doing it. Target practice