Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 32: Marksmanship Mayhem.

DNA observed me with a sly grin, "Don't play the novice; you'll get used to it." I continued smoking, tapping my chest slowly as the cough subsided. DNA smirked at my reaction as we moved forward. He asked, "Ever handled a gun?" Smoke curled from his nose, signaling the guards to stay back.

"No, not at all," I replied swiftly, my lips twitching. "He's incredibly inexperienced. Why did Lord Maximus recruit him?" DNA mused.

"Come with me," he commanded as we strode toward the end of the field. I clung to the railing, my gaze fixed on the breathtaking vantage point of the tower building. Anticipation marked my face, expecting something new, and the Shaque's tower came into view.

I admired the scenery, captivated by its allure. A few sparks fell from my cigarette, and I lost interest. "I'm done with this; I don't want to smoke anymore," I declared, showcasing the cigarette to him before discarding it on the floor.

He brought out another cigarette and a lighter from his pocket, handing them to me. "You know how to smoke now, so what's the difference?" he sneered. "Continue with it because you have no power to decline any rules. Follow me," he said, staring at me sarcastically.

Yes, the passage tends to lean towards telling rather than showing. Here's a revised version to make it more showing:

As we approached a particular target board, DNA stepped ahead, the cigarette clinging to his lips, exuding authority. He pulled out a card, swiping it over the locker. My eyebrows twitched involuntarily. The locker clicked open, revealing an arsenal of guns, the metallic sound echoing in my ears.

It showcased an exhibition of firearms in varying sizes and numerous bullets. I pondered, "What have I gotten myself into?" The question echoed in my mind as self-doubt crept in for finishing one cigarette and accepting another.

"What if all of this is in vain, and I end up getting killed?" I questioned, Lord Maximus' image haunting my thoughts. A shiver ran down my spine.

DNA's hand glided over the cool metal of the gun, each movement deliberate as he deftly loaded bullets into its chamber. The soft click of each round settling into place echoed in the room, accompanied by the faint scent of gun oil.

Yes, the passage leans towards telling. Here's a revised version to make it more showing:

With a smooth swipe of the card, the cabinet sealed shut, emitting a low beep that echoed in the air. DNA approached, seemingly oblivious to my bewilderment. His casual demeanor contrasted sharply with the air of authority in his explanation.

"This," he began, his voice commanding, "is a 22-caliber rifle, a Savage Arms Mark II F. It's known for its minimal noise and exceptional accuracy." With a casual inhale, he took a drag of his cigarette, his movements fluid as he adjusted the gun's trigger.

My heart quickened at the sight of the firearm. Its compact form exuded a sense of power and precision. As DNA passed the gun into my trembling hand, my fingers hesitated as they made contact with the cold, unforgiving metal. With a cigarette perched between my lips, I couldn't help but feel fear coursing through my veins.

He gently joined his fingers with mine, the weight of the gun nestled between our palms, as he guided our hands toward the target. In that moment, I realized the scale of my inexperience—I had only ever seen guns and targets in movies, never in real life.

Yet, a burst of determination flooded over me as I reasoned that the bullseye, situated in the center of the target, was the ultimate goal for any marksman. Despite its daunting appearance, I resolved to take aim and hit the mark.

DNA tilted his head in a steady motion, his finger inching towards the trigger with a sly smirk playing on his lips. As our fingers brushed against each other, he uttered the simple command: "Aim, target, shoot," before pulling the trigger with a decisive motion that echoed through the space.

The piercing report of the shotgun thundered, forcing the hairs on my body to stand on edge, sending shivers down my spine as I wrestled with trepidation.

"Your aim is to focus, target the bullseye, and shoot," DNA's voice cut through the tension, his words lingering in the air like wisps of smoke.

I persisted despite entering uncharted territory. With DNA's help and support, I calmed my anxieties and prepared to take fire once more.

He kept repeating the same commands, pressing me on with unflinching conviction. This time, I stopped worrying and focused solely on his every word. Taking deep breaths, I watched the bullet spring from his trigger and strike the bullseye with pinpoint accuracy.

DNA relinquished his hold on my hands, leaving the gun in my grasp. I felt a thrill of anticipation as he stepped away. His challenge echoed in my ears: "Aim, target, shoot."

Stepping back, I locked my eyes upon the elusive bullseye with a resolute grip on the rifle. I straightened my aim, a torrent of willpower pumping through me, leaving me to squeeze the trigger. As I waited for the result , my pulse pounded, prepared for whatever came next.

    YOUR VOTES MATTERS.