𝐿𝐼𝑀𝐼𝑇𝐿𝐸𝑆𝑆 | 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐍

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

—𝐵𝑜𝑏𝑏𝑦—

𝐈

𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 shoot a gun was proving to be much harder than Bobby thought it would be.

Granted, it was only his second time even using the gun. The first time had gone terribly; he could hardly get the bullets to go anywhere near the targets. It was much harder than the movies made it out to be (though he expected that).

He had found the perfect place where no one could see or hear him—a junkyard, just about three blocks away from Kings. The tall piles of worn wheels and broken rickshaws hid him from the view of the street. The junkyard was fenced off, and beyond the metal fence was an abandoned building. Despite the total darkness of the night, the area was well-lit, and he still wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

He stood at the foot of the fence, staring at the back wall of the building. Peeling movie posters were plastered all over the cement. He had already found the perfect target from the biggest poster at the centre of the wall—the large head of the lead actor, whose crazy eyes and furious expression reminded him of his true target.

Having the gun tucked into his pocket was an uncomfortable feeling that he'd have to get used to. He drew the gun, glancing around to make sure no one was there. He spun the chamber before locking his finger around the trigger.

His heart began to beat a little faster. He wasn't all that sure why he was so nervous—this wasn't the real thing, after all. And if he got this anxious standing in front of a 2D man, he had some work to do.

He raised the gun, sticking the barrel through the chain links of the fence. He tried his best to aim it right at the forehead, slightly squinting his eyes to try and hone in.

A dog's barking drew his attention, and his heart dropped. Quickly, he lowered his hand and looked to the side, where he was sure the noise came from. He held his breath, his grip around the gun tightening, but when no more barking—or any other noise—came, he breathed a sigh of relief.

His attention returned to the poster, and he aimed his gun once more.

Bang!

The recoil was enough to almost make him lose his balance. He had to get used to that.

He grit his teeth when he saw the bullet had pierced about ten inches to the left of where he was aiming. He needed to get better at this, and quickly, too. He had to make sure his aim was perfect, that the recoil wouldn't affect him, and that he would get the job done.

There would be no second chances.

He adjusted his grip on the gun and raised it once more.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Somehow, he had managed to create a halo of smoking holes. He sighed, lowering the gun to his side. This would take a lot of practice—and patience. The latter was no big deal; his patience had lasted him over a decade, and if he needed to wait a little longer for this, so be it.

He readjusted his grip on the handle of the gun. The metal had quickly warmed against his skin.

He nearly jumped when the dog began to bark again, and when the porch lights of a house across the street flicked on, he figured it was time to leave. With one last glance toward the missed shots, he tucked his gun back into the waistline of his jeans and left.

𝐈𝐈

Like most shifts, the first job he was given was dish duty. He was getting quite good at it, too—at least, he would hope so, given that he'd been doing it for the past few weeks. He wasn't sure whether or not he preferred these menial tasks to serving—dealing with all the cleaning was gross, yes, but at least the dishes couldn't be condescending.