𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓
HERE'S THE BULK OF THE IRONY: for having a surname like Lovelace, Chantara had never understood the feeling of love. To care for another human without any strings attached. It was something she never seemed to grasp, becau...
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"YOU NEED TO DECREASE the spreading of your shots," Four stated, his eyes glazing over the orange figure in front of them, which a deep sigh leaving his lips. There were noticeable holes in three places on the figure. "They're too inconsistent."
Tara's eyebrows pinched together and she looked up at him. "I respectfully disagree," she hissed, clicking the safety on the weapon and resting it on her knee. Her right cheek had the shape of the rifle imprinted on it. "I hit them right where I wanted to; face, breast, balls."
The tall man fought the urge to let the air of laughter escape his lungs as her words settled in his mind. Instead, his head tilted back for a few seconds as he raised an eyebrow, pointing at the figure again. "I'm not gonna say it again — this doesn't cut it."
As he continued on down the line she scoffed, deciding to ignore his advice and continue firing at the three spots. One, two, three. The shots hit exactly where she wanted them to, a satisfying smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. The pain in her shoulder didn't seem to bother her as much as it did to the other Initiates, she drew power from the way it pushed her shoulder back a few inches every time she pressed the trigger. The smell of gunpowder contaminated the air, shivers of familiarity sending shivers down her spine every time she inhaled.
Tara tried to tell herself it meant nothing, but the images in her mind were hard to ignore.
By lunchtime, a soft hue of purple was painted on her right shoulder from the morning practice, her right upper body quite sore. She tried to no let it bother her, but Ben's (Benjamin's new name) constant shoulder bumping at the table said otherwise. The annoyance crept up on her features as she chewed her food sternly. She felt the need to pierce the back of his hand with her fork as it rested atop the table. But as her grip tightened around the metal cutlery, she felt someone tap on her foot beneath the table.
"What?" Tara's eyes left his flesh.
"Nothing," Lyra said, swallowing her food — she almost looked afraid. "You just looked like you were about to put that thing in his hand."
"And what if I were?"
"Well Max is about seven feet behind you," the short-haired girl continued. "But please, don't let it discourage you."
Tara turned her head slightly to the left, and in fact, the Dauntless leader became visible in her peripheral vision. A sigh of defeat left her lips and she let go of the fork, muttering whatever under her breath as she lowered her head.
As she closed her eyes, an old memory crept up on her from behind and she could not hold it back.
"—And that's why they didn't fuel it up completely," Father's voice cooed, his words registering around the dinner table.
