(no subject)
24 Feb 2014 23:32Braig sighted down the range again, taking a long slow breath in and out again before pausing and caressing the trigger back. He didn't cuss, not now. Later he would, when he was off the range and in a place with no weaponry for his anger to spill all over.
It was a decent shot. By anyone else's, anyone else's, standards it was an excellent shot. By Braig's? It was completely unacceptable. He'd earned every millimetre of his ability to shoot, every single one. He'd poured blood, sweat, and tears into mastering it, and once he'd mastered it he'd learned how to do tricks, to make bullets dance like they were ballerinas and he was a fucking conductor. He'd spread it to other things, until people swore that it was magic, rather than skill.
It wasn't.
Then...the eye. He lost his fucking eye.
Yeah, Aya and Dilan knew to an extent just how much it hurt him, but not entirely. He'd had to work for his expertise, and then in a flash...gone. Just gone. He hadn't kept it light, that would have been too damn obvious, but he'd been less open than he could have until he could get here.
Silently he began pulling the gun apart so that he could clean it in the other room, and silently he went into it. It wasn't until he was safely alone that he set the pieces of weaponry down and rested his head against the table to weep quiet, bitter tears for his losses, for Dilan's pains, for Aya's fear.
Mostly, though, for his own losses.
Yes, he was vain. He knew it. It was still part of him, however. He was vain, and now he had a scar up one side of his face, and was missing the opposite eye. Vain, and now scarred to a degree that he couldn't face. He was ugly, and he didn't know if he could ever adjust to it.
Fifteen, twenty minutes of wallowing and then he felt a smack on the head. One he hadn't felt in years. Looking up he saw Nevada. Dead, yeah, but in death looking better than he had the last couple of years of life.
"Enough pity." the ghost informed him, "Lets get back to work, now."
Nothing, nothing, would have been a better thing to see.
It was a decent shot. By anyone else's, anyone else's, standards it was an excellent shot. By Braig's? It was completely unacceptable. He'd earned every millimetre of his ability to shoot, every single one. He'd poured blood, sweat, and tears into mastering it, and once he'd mastered it he'd learned how to do tricks, to make bullets dance like they were ballerinas and he was a fucking conductor. He'd spread it to other things, until people swore that it was magic, rather than skill.
It wasn't.
Then...the eye. He lost his fucking eye.
Yeah, Aya and Dilan knew to an extent just how much it hurt him, but not entirely. He'd had to work for his expertise, and then in a flash...gone. Just gone. He hadn't kept it light, that would have been too damn obvious, but he'd been less open than he could have until he could get here.
Silently he began pulling the gun apart so that he could clean it in the other room, and silently he went into it. It wasn't until he was safely alone that he set the pieces of weaponry down and rested his head against the table to weep quiet, bitter tears for his losses, for Dilan's pains, for Aya's fear.
Mostly, though, for his own losses.
Yes, he was vain. He knew it. It was still part of him, however. He was vain, and now he had a scar up one side of his face, and was missing the opposite eye. Vain, and now scarred to a degree that he couldn't face. He was ugly, and he didn't know if he could ever adjust to it.
Fifteen, twenty minutes of wallowing and then he felt a smack on the head. One he hadn't felt in years. Looking up he saw Nevada. Dead, yeah, but in death looking better than he had the last couple of years of life.
"Enough pity." the ghost informed him, "Lets get back to work, now."
Nothing, nothing, would have been a better thing to see.