I Did Not Give The Last One A Title, And I'm Sticking To The Motif Damn It

Chapter 5

You have learned three things today.

First, you are incredibly weak. You have been standing for about twenty minutes— which is not long at all— and you are already feeling it. Your arms are tired, your head aches and you are almost worried that your knees are going to give out under you. You doubt that, if you sat down, you would be able to get up for a while.

Second, you look older than you are. Nobody batted an eye at a sixteen-year-old waltzing into the building alone, or, if they did, they felt the urge to hide that they did, and in your experience, people made very little effort to hide their disdain when it was felt.

Third, and most importantly, you are a terrible shot.

You glare at the hanging poster at the end of the room, taunting you with its unscathed vitals. Bullet holes litter every side of the silhouette, and a couple had managed to sneak their way to its shoulders, but not a single shot hit any of the intended targets. Not for lack of trying; your stance is as good as you could get it with YouTube as your guide and while the sound of gunfire makes you want to vomit up your eggs you had forced down your throat that morning, you could not commit to the shot any more than you already have. No, this is an experience thing, and you hate that it is.
Your hand drops to your side as you try to regain feeling in your fingers. You have been here for about two hours, now, too long for any reasonable person to be shooting a poster. Your license has finally been approved; you are legally allowed to handle and use a firearm. Thanks to the power of the TIS website you have, for some reason, never exploited, as far as the government is concerned, as much is totally legal despite your age and history and lack of experience and mental state and everything else.

You need to be able to use it. The piece of metal dangling by your side is your key to having a chance against half the people you interact with; this has to work.

You put the safety back on the weapon, sliding it into the waistband of your jeans. It is not the safest place to store a gun, you know, but there's something empowering about the whole thing. It's certainly better than a kitchen knife in your pocket. You laugh at the thought, fixing your shirt; you have certainly changed a bit since you first got here.

The walk home— to the sewer— what a life you live— is not nearly as stressful as it usually is. You would not go so far as saying that you feel safe with a pistol at your side, but there is a certain power that comes with it, you think. At least you do not have to worry about being stuck up.

You are unsure if your boyfriend knows about this recent development. You make an effort to spend time out of the house, and you have never explicitly told him about your intentions to learn marksmanship. It's not something you have ever offered up information for, either. Probably not.

You hear a splash of water behind you.

Your gun is out of your waistband immediately.

Karai rolls her eyes, putting her hands up. "I don't remember you having a gun last time," she grumbles. "You think you know someone."
"What do you want?" You act as if your hands aren't shaking around the handle.

"You aren't going to hit me if you fire." She gives you a once-over. "Your form is wrong."
You repeat the question.

"For you to put your toy away, first of all. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done that before."

You do not budge.

She sighs. "Fine." In a flash, she is behind you, taking the gun from your hand. "You're slow."

You spin around, grabbing for it. She sidesteps you, gently pushing you into a wall.

"Who are you planning on fighting, anyway?" She grins. "Me? Xever? Even he'd kill you in a fight. Ah," she raised on her toes, holding the gun over your head, "go on, try to grab it."