Flower Child

Chapter Eight

"The first thing you will learn today is how to shoot a gun. The second is how to win a fight," Four says, handing out guns to all of us, "thankfully, if you are here, you already know how to get on and off a moving train, so I don't need to teach you that."
After yesterday's shock, and last nights grief, I was surprised by how ready for this I was. While comforting Al, I figured some things out for myself too, and the excitement of Dauntless was again running through my veins.
"Initiation is divided into three stages. We will measure your progress and rank you according to your performance in each stage. The stages are not weighed equally in determining your final rank, so it is possible, though difficult, to drastically improve your rank over time."
The weapon in my hand is cold against my skin, heavy in my arms. I'd never held a gun before, and the only times I've ever seen them was when they were in the arms of Dauntless guards on the edges of the farms.
"We believe that preparation eradicates cowerdice, which we define as the failure to act in the midst of fear," Four explains, "therefore, each stage of initiation is meant to prepare you in a different way. The first stage is primarily physical; the second, primarily emotional; the third, primarily mental."
"But what," Peter yawns, "what does firing a gun have to do with...bravery."
One second Peter's gun is in his hand, the next it's pointed at his temple in Four's. Four pulls the hammer back and now the weapon is live. Peter's eyes are wide, his mouth open from his yawn, that is long gone, he's wide awake now.
"Wake up," Four snaps at him, "you are holding a loaded gun, you idiot, act like it."
Four lowers the gun and instantly Peter's eyes become hard, his cheeks red in anger and embarrassment. He holds his Candor tongue, but I know he's just dying to speak his mind.
"And to answer your question. You are far less likely to soil your pants and cry for your mother if you are prepared to defend yourself," Four reaches the end of the line, and turns on his heel, "this is information that you might need later on in stage one. So watch me."
His stops walking and faces the range ahead of us. He stands with his feet apart, steady as a tree, the gun held out in front of him in both hands. He shoots, the noise hurts my ears, but I don't flinch like everyone else. I feel as if I watched the bullet fly in slow motion, all the way into the center of the target.
We all turn towards our own targets as Four steps back. I picture Four in my mind and copy his movements. My feet are separated in the same strong stance, and the gun is resting in my hands just like his.
It feels awkward, and not because I've never held one before, something just wasn't right.
I ignore it and raise the heavy weapon in front of me, looking down the sights. I train my eye on the middle target, breathe, and shoot. The recoil is stronger than I thought it would be, and I stumble back a little bit.
My bullet hits just to the left of the target, into the wall behind it. Four is stronger than me, a lot stronger, so I needed to alter his stance to fit me better, my right foot back a little more to steady me.
I aim and shoot again, but the bullet still hits to the left of the target. I keep trying over and over again, but it still happens.
"Statistically you should have hit the target by now," Four's voice comes from behind me, "even if by accident."
"Well, I guess I'm a statistic anomaly then," I say, sarcasm dripping off my tongue.
I turn to look at him, keeping my gun pointed at the ground, switching on the safety that I found on the side.
The corner of Four's mouth twitches a little, "are you left handed?"
I give him a confused look, "yeah, how'd you know?"
"Left handed people, their sight is centered to their left eye," he explains, "trying to shoot right handed means you're using your right eye to look down the sights, which in your case isn't centered."
I nod, it makes sense, and that would explain why my shots continue to go left even if I think my gun is pointed right.
"Face the target and hold your gun in your left hand," he orders.
I do, taking up my stance and holding the gun in my left hand.
"This stance was for the right," he says, resting one hand on my shoulder, the other on my waist, "alter it to better fit the left."
He turns my body, my left foot now back to support me, "try it now."
His hands leave me and I let out a breath I don't remember holding. I try to clear my head as I look down the sights of the gun, it feels more comfortable like this. I take a deep steadying breath and squeeze the trigger. The recoil doesn't sway me, and to my excitement, there is a hole in the center of the board.
I smile over my shoulder at Four but he is already moving down the line again. My smile falls, I don't know why but it does. Though when I see the small lift in the corner of his lips, my own twitch as well.