bang bang, he shot me down
lucky number slevin fic
doitillegally ficathon
prompt: growing up with Goodkat
gen/pg
High Caliber Weapons
one
Henry keeps count with his father's watch. Four minutes since his father went inside to make his future. Five more cars pulled into the lot and parked. Three blue, one black. One cherry red. There are six bullets in the gun of the man next to him. The man keeps the engine running, with the radio on low. He checks his watch, and Henry checks his watch. He looks out the window, and Henry looks at him. He doesn't look like the Shadow, or the Joker, or Al Capone. Henry sits quiet in the car. His dad still has eleven minutes left to come get him.
two
Mr Goodkat makes him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and pours him a glass of milk. Henry's never been in a hotel room before. There aren't chocolates on the pillows, but there's a big TV.
"Henry," Mr Goodkat says. Henry whips around. Mr Goodkat's right behind him. He hadn't made a noise. "Eat your sandwich," he says.
Henry takes a bite and chews slowly. He can almost feel his mother's hand smoothing down his hair.
"You won't be going home, Henry," Mr Goodkat says.
"I know," says Henry.
Mr Goodkat stares right at him, then nods. "Where next, kid?"
twenty-two
The rifle is so heavy his arms tremble trying to hold it steady. It has a wooden stock. Mr Goodkat explains what each part is. He shows Henry how to load it, and then he fires it at the target. It hardly sounds like anything through the ear protectors. 100 yards away, the target flaps in the wind, one neat hole through the bull's-eye. Mr Goodkat opens the chamber and ejects the cartridge. He hands it to Henry. It's already cool. Henry hands it back and Mr Goodkat pockets it. Then he holds out the rifle and a bullet, one in each hand. Henry struggles putting the bullet in, clumsy on the action.
The sun is hot. Henry's sweating, and his bangs are in his eyes. They're so far away from everything, no one can hear the gunshots. Henry raises the rifle and turns to face Mr Goodkat. Mr Goodkat stares back at him. There's no fear in him. Henry lets his breath gush out of him. He turns back to the target and steadies his breath, just like Mr Goodkat taught him. He hardly jerks at all when he pulls the trigger. He empties the chamber, picks up the casing, and pockets it. His wrists are shaking, but he gives the gun back the right way, barrel turned away from both of them.
"Good," Mr Goodkat says. "That was a good first try. And Henry," he says, "a .22 is a small cartridge, even as close as we are right now. If you've only got one bullet, you have to be sure it counts. At this range, it's got to be the head. Even this close you might miss the heart, and a slug this small wouldn't do enough damage to take someone down fast. It's got to be the head. Okay?"
Henry nods. He won't forget.
two twenty-three
The two twenty-three leaves a bruise on his ribs. The bullets are bigger-faster, Mr Goodkat says, more powerful-the gun is heavier, the recoil is stronger. Henry is getting stronger, too. Nine times out of ten he can put a bullet in the black. Mr Goodkat says that when he's older, he can track down the men who killed his parents. Mr Goodkat won't tell him who they are. He says Henry will find out when he's ready-when he's learned enough to be fully prepared for the task. An assassin researches until he's covered all possible angles, Mr Goodkat says. Henry rubs at the bruise on his ribs and bides his time.
three
Henry puts a poster of The Day of the Jackal in his room. He doesn't like baseball anymore.
thirty aught six
Mr Goodkat is making ammunition in the basement. He likes hot loading surplus .30-06 brass, measuring out grains of gunpowder in complete silence. He says he finds it meditative. Henry gets bored watching him and goes outside to shoot hoops until Mr Goodkat calls him in to dinner.
three fifty-seven SIG
"Feds use those, Henry," Mr Goodkat says. "We're not feds; we don't use them."
thirty-eight special
"This cartridge," Mr Goodkat says, "was invented to fight in the Philippines in 1902." Mr Goodkat likes to keep teaching even after Henry's come home from school. Henry's a good student. His teachers like him, and when Mr Goodkat goes into school for parent/teacher conferences, he acts like he's Henry's father. It's a good act.
Henry joins the track team, and even though Mr Goodkat buys him a stopwatch, he keeps his father's watch with him as a good luck charm. He wears his father's watch as he tries the .38 revolver. He's getting better at this one, too. He's a good student.
four
Mr Goodkat takes Henry on a job when he turns 15. Mr Goodkat sets up on a roof across the street from the target's residence. They wait for five hours. The sun comes up, the paper gets delivered, and the postman stops by. Henry's hips are starting to ache from lying on the concrete roof. His elbows have been hurting since an hour in. He's hungry and thirsty, but he won't say anything. He's too old to complain.
When the target finally shows his face, Henry bangs his forehead bringing his gaze back to his scope. Mr Goodkat fires once. "Hit," Henry says. Twice. "Miss." He can see the shot ricochet from the metal door frame, striking the slate steps with a spark. A third shot. "Hit."
The target's slumped across his door, bleeding out. Through the scope, Henry can see his lips moving. A prayer, maybe, or a plea for help. It won't be any use. He has blood in his lungs, now, bubbling from his mouth as he breathes.
"Come on," Mr Goodkat says, disassembling his weapon in quick, sure motions. He gestures for Henry to pack his scope into the case. "Let's buy you some ice cream."
forty-four
Mr Goodkat fires off a round before Henry can put his ear protectors on. It's loud, so close to his ear. It hurts. He forces his shoulders to relax, and tries for an ordinary speaking tone. His right ear rings hollowly. His voice sounds muffled. "Why," he says. It's not an accusation-it's an interrogation.
Mr Goodkat treats it as such. "Now you know."
"So, even though silencers sacrifice accuracy-"
"Yes, even though. You want to be shooting people into a ripe old age, Henry, and you need your ears for that."
"Thank you," says Henry.
Mr Goodkat smiles-a faint quirk of his lips and the slightest creasing at the corners of his eyes. There's a minor but appreciable degree of tension wrinkling his forehead. Henry has three hypotheses. One, Mr Goodkat regretted injuring Henry, however minor the wound. Possible, but probably attributing more coddling than is plausible. Two, the advent of the low pressure front is contributing to Mr Goodkat's tension headache. Probable, but unverifiable in the context of the NSAIDs Mr Goodkat had self-dispensed one hour prior. Three, some as-yet unguessed factor that prevents anticipating future behaviors.
Or, the sun's in his eyes.
Or, Henry's taken too long loading a round and taking his first shot.
Or-
"Henry," Mr Goodkat says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You don't need to shoot today if you don't want to."
Henry keeps his eyes on the gun, on the pleasurable weight of it, smooth and familiar in his hand. Like the best of worry stones. "Today more than ever," he says. "It's-"
"Ten years. Ten years to the day."
"Yeah." Henry raises the gun and sights. "You know," he says, "Jamie Lee Curtis used a .44 Magnum in Blue Steel."
"Jamie Lee Curtis is pretty hot," Mr Goodkat says.
"Yeah," Henry says, and fires.
forty-five
Henry's gun jams. It's impossible-he disassembled and cleaned this weapon yesterday. Molly rolls over in bed, snuffling quietly and reaching for him. He tucks his arm behind him, smoothing her hair off her forehead with his other hand. He lies back down, sliding the gun under the mattress while stroking her hair. She settles back into sleep.
He scans the room for an alternate method. There are always options handy, from toxic compounds to convenient falls in the shower. He'll find something. He'll figure something out, find his pants, clean up a little, and then he'll kick Goodkat's ass.
five
"Oh, would you look at that," Henry says. "Why do they always add a sound effect to make it seem like they're cocking a Glock?"
Mr Goodkat snorts when he sees a Desert Eagle on screen. "That's not nearly loud enough for the .50 AEs." He clicks off the TV and turns to Henry. "It's about that time, kid. You wearing your dancing shoes?"
"I'm all packed."
"But are you packing?"
"Oof," Henry says, falling back on the bed with his hands over his heart. "Hit the target with that one."
Mr Goodkat grins, but it fades fast. "You're ready."
"Yeah," says Henry. He picks up his father's watch and puts it in his pocket. "Let's go."
(thanks to moonlash_cc for the lightning-quick beta)
doitillegally ficathon
prompt: growing up with Goodkat
gen/pg
High Caliber Weapons
one
Henry keeps count with his father's watch. Four minutes since his father went inside to make his future. Five more cars pulled into the lot and parked. Three blue, one black. One cherry red. There are six bullets in the gun of the man next to him. The man keeps the engine running, with the radio on low. He checks his watch, and Henry checks his watch. He looks out the window, and Henry looks at him. He doesn't look like the Shadow, or the Joker, or Al Capone. Henry sits quiet in the car. His dad still has eleven minutes left to come get him.
two
Mr Goodkat makes him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and pours him a glass of milk. Henry's never been in a hotel room before. There aren't chocolates on the pillows, but there's a big TV.
"Henry," Mr Goodkat says. Henry whips around. Mr Goodkat's right behind him. He hadn't made a noise. "Eat your sandwich," he says.
Henry takes a bite and chews slowly. He can almost feel his mother's hand smoothing down his hair.
"You won't be going home, Henry," Mr Goodkat says.
"I know," says Henry.
Mr Goodkat stares right at him, then nods. "Where next, kid?"
twenty-two
The rifle is so heavy his arms tremble trying to hold it steady. It has a wooden stock. Mr Goodkat explains what each part is. He shows Henry how to load it, and then he fires it at the target. It hardly sounds like anything through the ear protectors. 100 yards away, the target flaps in the wind, one neat hole through the bull's-eye. Mr Goodkat opens the chamber and ejects the cartridge. He hands it to Henry. It's already cool. Henry hands it back and Mr Goodkat pockets it. Then he holds out the rifle and a bullet, one in each hand. Henry struggles putting the bullet in, clumsy on the action.
The sun is hot. Henry's sweating, and his bangs are in his eyes. They're so far away from everything, no one can hear the gunshots. Henry raises the rifle and turns to face Mr Goodkat. Mr Goodkat stares back at him. There's no fear in him. Henry lets his breath gush out of him. He turns back to the target and steadies his breath, just like Mr Goodkat taught him. He hardly jerks at all when he pulls the trigger. He empties the chamber, picks up the casing, and pockets it. His wrists are shaking, but he gives the gun back the right way, barrel turned away from both of them.
"Good," Mr Goodkat says. "That was a good first try. And Henry," he says, "a .22 is a small cartridge, even as close as we are right now. If you've only got one bullet, you have to be sure it counts. At this range, it's got to be the head. Even this close you might miss the heart, and a slug this small wouldn't do enough damage to take someone down fast. It's got to be the head. Okay?"
Henry nods. He won't forget.
two twenty-three
The two twenty-three leaves a bruise on his ribs. The bullets are bigger-faster, Mr Goodkat says, more powerful-the gun is heavier, the recoil is stronger. Henry is getting stronger, too. Nine times out of ten he can put a bullet in the black. Mr Goodkat says that when he's older, he can track down the men who killed his parents. Mr Goodkat won't tell him who they are. He says Henry will find out when he's ready-when he's learned enough to be fully prepared for the task. An assassin researches until he's covered all possible angles, Mr Goodkat says. Henry rubs at the bruise on his ribs and bides his time.
three
Henry puts a poster of The Day of the Jackal in his room. He doesn't like baseball anymore.
thirty aught six
Mr Goodkat is making ammunition in the basement. He likes hot loading surplus .30-06 brass, measuring out grains of gunpowder in complete silence. He says he finds it meditative. Henry gets bored watching him and goes outside to shoot hoops until Mr Goodkat calls him in to dinner.
three fifty-seven SIG
"Feds use those, Henry," Mr Goodkat says. "We're not feds; we don't use them."
thirty-eight special
"This cartridge," Mr Goodkat says, "was invented to fight in the Philippines in 1902." Mr Goodkat likes to keep teaching even after Henry's come home from school. Henry's a good student. His teachers like him, and when Mr Goodkat goes into school for parent/teacher conferences, he acts like he's Henry's father. It's a good act.
Henry joins the track team, and even though Mr Goodkat buys him a stopwatch, he keeps his father's watch with him as a good luck charm. He wears his father's watch as he tries the .38 revolver. He's getting better at this one, too. He's a good student.
four
Mr Goodkat takes Henry on a job when he turns 15. Mr Goodkat sets up on a roof across the street from the target's residence. They wait for five hours. The sun comes up, the paper gets delivered, and the postman stops by. Henry's hips are starting to ache from lying on the concrete roof. His elbows have been hurting since an hour in. He's hungry and thirsty, but he won't say anything. He's too old to complain.
When the target finally shows his face, Henry bangs his forehead bringing his gaze back to his scope. Mr Goodkat fires once. "Hit," Henry says. Twice. "Miss." He can see the shot ricochet from the metal door frame, striking the slate steps with a spark. A third shot. "Hit."
The target's slumped across his door, bleeding out. Through the scope, Henry can see his lips moving. A prayer, maybe, or a plea for help. It won't be any use. He has blood in his lungs, now, bubbling from his mouth as he breathes.
"Come on," Mr Goodkat says, disassembling his weapon in quick, sure motions. He gestures for Henry to pack his scope into the case. "Let's buy you some ice cream."
forty-four
Mr Goodkat fires off a round before Henry can put his ear protectors on. It's loud, so close to his ear. It hurts. He forces his shoulders to relax, and tries for an ordinary speaking tone. His right ear rings hollowly. His voice sounds muffled. "Why," he says. It's not an accusation-it's an interrogation.
Mr Goodkat treats it as such. "Now you know."
"So, even though silencers sacrifice accuracy-"
"Yes, even though. You want to be shooting people into a ripe old age, Henry, and you need your ears for that."
"Thank you," says Henry.
Mr Goodkat smiles-a faint quirk of his lips and the slightest creasing at the corners of his eyes. There's a minor but appreciable degree of tension wrinkling his forehead. Henry has three hypotheses. One, Mr Goodkat regretted injuring Henry, however minor the wound. Possible, but probably attributing more coddling than is plausible. Two, the advent of the low pressure front is contributing to Mr Goodkat's tension headache. Probable, but unverifiable in the context of the NSAIDs Mr Goodkat had self-dispensed one hour prior. Three, some as-yet unguessed factor that prevents anticipating future behaviors.
Or, the sun's in his eyes.
Or, Henry's taken too long loading a round and taking his first shot.
Or-
"Henry," Mr Goodkat says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You don't need to shoot today if you don't want to."
Henry keeps his eyes on the gun, on the pleasurable weight of it, smooth and familiar in his hand. Like the best of worry stones. "Today more than ever," he says. "It's-"
"Ten years. Ten years to the day."
"Yeah." Henry raises the gun and sights. "You know," he says, "Jamie Lee Curtis used a .44 Magnum in Blue Steel."
"Jamie Lee Curtis is pretty hot," Mr Goodkat says.
"Yeah," Henry says, and fires.
forty-five
Henry's gun jams. It's impossible-he disassembled and cleaned this weapon yesterday. Molly rolls over in bed, snuffling quietly and reaching for him. He tucks his arm behind him, smoothing her hair off her forehead with his other hand. He lies back down, sliding the gun under the mattress while stroking her hair. She settles back into sleep.
He scans the room for an alternate method. There are always options handy, from toxic compounds to convenient falls in the shower. He'll find something. He'll figure something out, find his pants, clean up a little, and then he'll kick Goodkat's ass.
five
"Oh, would you look at that," Henry says. "Why do they always add a sound effect to make it seem like they're cocking a Glock?"
Mr Goodkat snorts when he sees a Desert Eagle on screen. "That's not nearly loud enough for the .50 AEs." He clicks off the TV and turns to Henry. "It's about that time, kid. You wearing your dancing shoes?"
"I'm all packed."
"But are you packing?"
"Oof," Henry says, falling back on the bed with his hands over his heart. "Hit the target with that one."
Mr Goodkat grins, but it fades fast. "You're ready."
"Yeah," says Henry. He picks up his father's watch and puts it in his pocket. "Let's go."
(thanks to moonlash_cc for the lightning-quick beta)