How [blank] are you lance?

How [sharp] are you lance?

A week after....

Pidge pov:
We'd just returned from a tense mission retrieving some valuable tech components from the Galra. As the team boarded the Green Lion, I couldn't help feeling relieved it went off without a hitch. No random Galra soldiers stumbling in on our operation, no booby traps, no near misses with laser fire. A straightforward smash and grab.

"Nice work, team!" Shiro's voice crackled over the comms. "Let's get back to the Castle and we'll debrief."

There were a few weary cheers from the others as we fired up the engines and charted the course back home. Keith and Hunk had taken a couple of minor hits, but nothing a pass through a cryo-replenisher couldn't fix.

Once we were safely back in the Castle of Lions, I was unbuckling myself from the pilot's chair when Lance's voice rang out. "Hey Pidge, feel like a little friendly competition?"

I smirked, intrigued. Lance and I were constantly trying to one-up each other. "You know I never back down from a challenge. What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, just a little shooter's duel in the training room after we de-brief. You know, to keep our skills sharp."

Hunk groaned. "Aw man, again with the sharp-shooting contest? Don't you two ever get tired of that?"

"Please, like I need target practice," I scoffed. "But if you want me to show you how it's done, Lance..."

"Oooh, fighting words!" Lance crowed. "You're on, Pidge-ling! Prepare to eat my laser dust."

After the debrief, where Shiro congratulated us on a job well done, the team filtered down to the training deck, Coran pulling up the shooting range sequence on the castle computer.

"Alright, sharpshooters," he announced. "Who's going to kick this classic off?"

"I will!" Lance said eagerly, grabbing up one of the blaster rifles and twirling it with a flourish.

I rolled my eyes. Such a showoff. "Guess I'll take you down a peg, sharpshooter."

"Ohoho, we'll see about that!" Lance shot back with a wink.

Allura leaned over to Keith. "How much GAC you want to bet Pidge takes him?"

Keith smirked. "You're on, Princess."

The first few rounds were pretty even, with Lance and I tying at 4 bull's-eyes each. The tension was palpable as I struggled to pull ahead, sweat beading on my brow from the strain and exertion.

But then Lance seemed to find a whole other level, landing bull's-eye after bull's-eye in rapid succession with terrifying, robotic precision. The spectators' jaws dropped as my lance's aim became increasingly inhuman - adjusting for microscopic breezes, calculating trajectories for flechette rebound patterns, lining up triple-tapped centers with each metal slug burrowing through the previous hole's impact crater.

My own arms grew sore and leaden from the blaster's recoil, while Lance's shots just kept drilling perfect bullies in the target circles over and over with what seemed like eerie, muscle-memory automation. He didn't even seem to be looking at where he was shooting half the time.

When the score was 9-5 Lance, I finally conceded with a groan, shaking my head in disbelief. The rest of the team was utterly slack-jawed. "Okay...okay, I surrender! You're a dead-eye, loverboy. I'll give you that."

Lance lowered his rifle with a flourish, flashing his trademark cocky grin. I braced myself for the incoming torrent of smug boasting.

But then, before he could get a word out, Keith spoke up. "Holy crows, Lance...where did you learn to shoot like that?" The others murmured in awed agreement.