The Natural {Divergent | Eric Coulter}

Part I: Chapter 13

a/n originally chapter 15

This is the first chapter written more recently, so I'm really really nervous. Hope it's decent. 

We're back to guns the next morning. After a late night and none of Eric's magic hangover cure, my morning was a little slower than usual. For the first time yet, Four beat me to the training room.

"Hold it close to you, let it set into your shoulder," Four instructs. "Hold your breath, squeeze the trigger."

He brought us to the roof- less liability, I guess. There are dozens of targets spread out across the skyline at varying distances and Eric hasn't graced us with his presence yet.

We're on rifles today, the only weapon we will use at a distance far away from any action. That means we have time to get propped up and comfortable. I take my time, leaning on the table in front of me before shouldering the rifle. There's a target, no more than 50 yards away from me- that's my point. Breathing in, out, flicking the safety off.

I'm the first initiate to fire. My first shot is high, barely nicking the target. But it hits it nonetheless and that gives the others the confidence to shoot.

As I unload the empty cartridge, I watch the other transfers. One of the girls-Sophie? Sophia?- fell square on her ass from the kickback and Greyson and Colton snicker. But their shots aren't much better- both boys miss their targets entirely. In fact, I'm the only one that hit the target first try.

I reload and pick out the same target. Settle, breathe in, safety off. Breathe out, Weston, then gently squeeze. Receive the blow, hold firm. Unload. Slow, methodical. Controlled.

I use the scope to check my shot- Holy fuck.

Bullseye. My second shot, bullseye.

The others seem to notice and Kyle is visibly aggravated. He rushes to reload and his second shot misses, yet again. He glances up, trying to subtly see if I saw. My smirk is all he needs to be shaking with anger again. The boy doesn't like to lose, does he? That anger can so easily be turned against him, but he can't get his head out of his own ass long enough to recognize it.

Most everyone has hit something by the third round and we slowly make our way further and further out. The initial adrenaline has worn off but I continue to make shot after shot. I keep missing low on the ones further out but it's in line with the target at least. Last night is catching up with me- my damn head is throbbing.

Four yells to get our attention and we gather around him. "Alright, that's enough of that. We're starting something new- this is a shotgun. Similar, but designed for movement. On either side of the roof there is a machine." He gestures for me to help him. "When I say 'pull,' Lauren's going to step on that pedal, yeah?" I nod.

"Pull!"

The machine spits a orange shell into the sky and Four tracks it. A quick shot and it burst into a thousand shards, temporarily illuminated against the barren city.

"Plant your feet wide and swing from your right to your left, with the clay. Stay ahead of it and follow through after. You're going to split into two groups, on either side of the roof. Each take, let's say, 10 a round, then switch out. If you wait too long, let it drop. We're not risking damn lives because you didn't pull the trigger quick enough."

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I'm absolutely fucking shit at this.

The sun is in my eyes and my head is throbbing and I'm too early or too late, too high or too low. It's not until my third round that I make contact, but even then is just a stroke of luck. After twenty or so misses, simple odds say I have to hit something.