Chapter Text
~CT-9904’s P.O.V.~
“Keep your breathing steady, Eleven-Oh-Six. Never fire when you’re gasping for breath.” The training sergeant says, her tone firm.
The reg’s reply is hasty, compulsive, and breathless. “Sorry, Sergeant.”
“Don’t give me ‘sorry’, give me results or get off the range.” Sergeant Amari replies, her words clipped yet they hold no anger or disappointment.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
The sound of her boots on the metal floor has a dull metallic ring to it, each step taken with measured purpose so the troopers lined up know just where she is without her disturbing their focus - or, in RC-1106’s case, aggravate their lack thereof.
Not like it has, or ever would distract me, though.
“Again.”
I finish loading the new ammo cartridge and set the stock against my shoulder again, the familiar clap of the materials colliding not nearly as sharp as the Sergeant’s boots. My eye lines up with the scope as I make a few small adjustments before taking my shot.
The sound of the rifles firing doesn’t travel in a line, nor one after the other. Instead, the pop and whine of the blasters firing echoes and ricochets off the walls like the crackle of comm static magnified about ten times over.
Once each individual has fired they make adjustments and fire again, and again, until their clip is empty.
I don’t wait for everyone else to shoot though. Once my first shot has landed I adjust as needed and make another. There is something immensely satisfying about the way the rifle kicks back against my muscles. The sheer power of each blast is too great for even the rifle to contain.
When finished, they put their rifles off to the side.
“Leave the rifles and wait in the hall, cadets. I’ll talk with each of you privately about your scores.”
Everyone complies without a second thought, filing out of the shooting range and meeting up with their designated squads out in the hall to brag, complain, or speculate as they see fit.
“How did it go, Oh-Four?” Three-Five asks as I join him and the others.
I shrug, a non-committal hum escaping my throat as I scan the hallway packed with cadets. “Won’t know till the Sergeant calls me, now will I?” I ask, my tone flat with intentional disinterest and my face void of fear or pride. Fear, confidence, excitement..all of these can be used against you by those who hate you, but they can ’ t be used against you if you never show them.
“RC-1143.” the Sergeant calls, her voice raised to be heard over the other voices and through the door.
“Oh,” the sound is obviously involuntary as the trooper quickly straightens up, “Coming, Sergeant.” he calls, speed-walking back into the room.
Conversations start up slowly and quietly as the more nosey troopers try - and fail - to eavesdrop on the Sergeant’s comments.
I stay quiet as Five-Eight rambles on about some test he took earlier. My brother gets a few disgruntled glares from other groups as his voice drowns out theirs, but no one makes a move to silence him. Why would they? He stands over a head taller than them. Though it probably doesn’t hurt when I give them a long, blank stare that lasts long enough - and gives so little away - that they grow uncomfortable and look away.
When RC-1143 returns, his drooping shoulders and slow walk back to his group advertises to everyone just how poorly he did. This prompts some consolatory comments and pats on RC-1143’s back and shoulders from his squad.
I don’t stop the small grin from forming though. He wasn’t good and I never complain when a reg gets what’s coming to him. A poor score always has one or two results. They either give up, or they work harder. If they give up, it ’ s no real loss. But if they work harder..well, that can lead to its own problems. Especially if they actually manage to improve.
“RC-1207, fall in.” Sergeant Amari calls.
Twelve-Oh-Seven . I turn my head to watch as he steps away from his squad.
“Yes, Sergeant.” Twelve-Oh-Seven replies, making his way back inside.
“Something on your mind, Oh-Four?” One-Two asks, noticing his brother’s wavering attention.
Competition. Twelve-Oh-Seven is a good shot - for a reg. He seems to really enjoy the thrill of the chase, of the hunt, and especially of the kill. This makes him dangerous. It makes him a threat.
RC-1207 has his head held high and his shoulders squared when he exits the shooting range again. He and his squad mates high five and words of encouragement and congratulations float over the room from other units close enough to hear how he’d done.
Great. That ’ s the last thing I need. Praise, like criticism, can also have two results. They either relax - thinking they ’ re in a comfortable spot where they can stop working - or they keep up their efforts and only continue to improve.
“RC-1074, fall in.” the Sergeant calls again, the trooper rushing to reenter the room.
An average shot. Nothing to keep an eye on. My eyes are still on RC-1207. If Twelve-Oh-Seven doesn ’ t relax, he will only continue to improve and given how much he enjoys the hunt…yeah, he’s definitely a threat.
* * *
“CT-9904, fall in.”
As with RC-1143, the hallway quiets, everyone curious to know how the other troopers measure up to the RC troopers.
One-Two, Three-Five, and Five-Eight keep their eyes on me as I head back into the room where the training Sergeant is waiting. Once inside the shooting range, I don’t stop until I’m standing by Sergeant Amari who is currently looking over my target. “Good shooting, cadet.”
I only have to look at a few other targets to know she is making an understatement. My accuracy and precision are well above average - for normal humans and for regs. My jaw tenses, jutting out to the side ever so slightly, before relaxing again - an old habit only noticeable when I’m idle.
The training Sergeant faces me properly, both our faces obscured by helmets and visors. “So good, in fact, that I’ve put you up for the Advanced Marksmanship Examination.”
My heart jumps at the magical words. The AME is used to weed through the masses. Those who pass go on to get titles like Sharpshooter and Assassin. Only top shooters are even considered for the AME, let alone the specialties themselves. I knew, theoretically, that I could qualify. My aim has always been more than enough to get me a shot at the AME. What made me pause though was the flood of confusion, anticipation, and excitement the Sergeant’s words triggered in me all at once. I knew - eventually - I would get to take the AME, pass, and be put into the specialized training program for snipers..but that was something to look forward to, something I had to work to get, something that was not today. Today was supposed to be a normal round of testing. Today was supposed to be a chance for the Sergeant to see who had been practicing, and to catch problem areas - like RC-1143 - early.
“You’ll report to this room at fourteen hundred tomorrow for the test.”
Right. I am not in yet, but I am close. So close to getting that sharpshooting specialty. But first, I need to pass the AME.
“Understood, cadet?”
I should reply. I should probably be polite about it too. But I’m not one for words or formalities. Honestly, both are a waste of time. But if I ’ ve learned anything from the regs, it ’ s that when you drop formalities, kindness drops with it. So, in all my social aptitude , I nod “Understood.” I reply, my tone as dry and flat as always. I half expect Sergeant Amari to demand I stand at attention, salute, and address her using her rank - as many of the RC troopers probably give her without prompting.
I catch the tail end of what might have been a huff of frustration, or one of humor. I can’t really say for sure. “See you tomorrow, cadet.”
I nod and leave the room. Twelve-Oh-Seven will have to be put lower on my priorities for a while. I’ve got the AME tomorrow, and there’s no way I’m failing it.