Dream ► 01

Jun 25, 2009 12:04

[Spoilers to Chapter 13: A Lost Raven]

Bang.

The gun clatters to the ground as he yelps, clutching both hands to his chest. They hurt, aching where the handle bucked against them, and the tips of his fingers tingle from the sharp vibration. He can still hear the echo of the gunshot ringing in his ears.

Someone sighs loudly behind him, and he ducks his head as he feels his cheeks flame.

“S-Sorry, I just, I-I didn’t…” The heat begins to prickle his eyes, a feeling all too familiar, and he squeezes them shut because he has to be stronger than this. “It was loud.”

“Guns usually are,” the voice responds flatly, before adding as almost an afterthought, “Master Gilbert.” Footsteps mark their passage as they walk around him, and he can’t help but flinch as they brush past to bend over and pluck the gun off the ground. He doesn’t need to look up to see the disapproving look on their face, just as he doesn’t need to look to know he was nowhere near the target. Not good enough. Not good enough at all.

The cold metal presses into his hands, and after a beat of hesitation he curls his fingers around it.

“Again.”

Bang.

A miss, and it costs him, a swipe sending the gun flying from his hand to skid along the ground, well out of immediate reach. He barely has time to note where it lands, busy ducking an attempted blow to the head, and steps back, allowing the retreat to take him closer to his fallen weapon. But they know what he's doing before he's more than a few paces closer, their tactics changing to cut him off, and he doesn't get his gun back soon he won't be getting it back at all.

He wheels and dives-it’s an ungraceful, desperate lunge, but his fingers close around the familiar handle, and he pivots sharply on his knees, swinging up and around. There is no real time to aim, only to let reflex pull him into position, and fire-

The blank sounds sharp and loud, and they halt, scrutizing the barrel pointed undeniably at their chest.

The thin lips twitch almost imperceptibly upwards, and he nearly drops the gun from the shock of the smile alone. “Better, Gilbert.” And then it fades, customary coldness creeping back in. “But not good enough. Again.”

Bang.

They jerk back with a choked cry, disbelieving eyes fixed upon his own as their knees strike the ground, and there's blood everywhere but they're still moving and the barrel is shaking all over the place when he pulls the trigger twice more and finally they're still and not moving and dead and why didn't anyone tell him there would be so much blood?

He turns away and the gun falls and he falls with it, curling around the nausea as he throws up, fingers hooking hard into the cushioned seat in front of him. He's killed them, he's a killer, and even now he knows it wasn't good enough. Three shots, not good enough. He can't...he can't falter. He can't hesitate.

If you become their adopted child, you will definitely stain your hands in blood.

He knows. He knew.

A rough swipe with his hand wipes his mouth clean, and there are no tears in his eyes when he opens them. He would do this, will do this again, and again, as many times as it takes. He will wash his hands in darkness if it will bring back the light.

He stretches out his hand and picks up the gun.

[The glow of the Dreamberry in the dim room wakes him, and he plucks it up to glare at it blearily...before deciding it's clearly just being strange again and placing it face-down on the bedside table to hide the light, treating all watchers to thirty seconds of close-up woodgrain until the feed cuts out.]

!dream, i'm not the same, nightray years, !ic, practise makes perfect

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