The next few days were all about training with guns, and let's just say, she wasn't exactly a sharpshooter. At first, every target practice felt like she was trying to hit a fly with a tennis racket—blindfolded. But like everything else she had been through, she was determined. Sure, she had been thrown into a new life with the subtlety of a slap in the face, but a gun? That was something she could figure out. After all, how hard could it be? Point, shoot, boom. Easy, right?
Well, it turns out that shooting a target was a bit harder than it looked in the movies. Her first day was basically a montage of missed shots and embarrassing moments. If it were a movie, this is where the director would play that sad trombone sound over and over again.
But by the third day, things started to click. The gun felt less like a foreign object and more like an extension of her arm. Her bullets started landing closer to the center of the target, and she was getting used to the kickback. The instructors, including Darius, began to look less like they were watching a disaster unfold and more like they were witnessing... potential. That was the thing—potential. She had it in spades.
Yet, there was still that crowd. You know, the ones who always seemed to be there, watching her with narrowed eyes, like they were just waiting for her to screw up. She had started calling them "The Staring Crew" in her head, because that's all they seemed to do—stare. She couldn't figure out if they were sizing her up, judging her, or just bored out of their minds. Either way, their presence made every training session feel like an awkward school presentation where everyone's waiting for you to mess up.
Except now, it wasn't just staring. The Staring Crew had leveled up. Not only were they watching her every move, but they were practically blowing things up around her during practice sessions. Random explosions here, unexpected obstacles there—training was starting to feel more like a survival course on steroids. It was like they were testing her in ways that went beyond simply pulling a trigger. And honestly? It was exhausting.
She wasn't stupid. She knew the game. These weren't just training exercises; this was them pushing her, prodding her to see how far she could go, how much she could handle. It felt less like learning how to shoot and more like an elaborate game of "Let's Break Her Spirit." But what they didn't know was that her spirit was a lot harder to break than they thought.
At first, she thought all the added pressure was because of her abilities—the powers she was still trying to figure out. She had assumed that everyone here had some sort of special ability, but after a few days of observation, she realized something. The Staring Crew didn't have powers. No super speed, no weird telekinesis, no laser eyes—nothing. They were just incredibly, ridiculously well-trained. And that's when it hit her: these people didn't need powers. They were just that good.
That was both comforting and terrifying. Comforting, because it meant she wasn't as behind as she thought. Terrifying, because it meant she couldn't rely on her powers to catch up. She had to get better—fast—or she'd never be able to hold her own. This wasn't about being "special" anymore. This was about survival.
"Nice shot," Darius muttered one day after she finally managed to hit the center of the target for the first time.
"Don't sound so surprised," she shot back, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
"Not surprised," he replied, glancing at her sideways. "Impressed."
She blinked, not used to compliments from him. Darius wasn't exactly the type to hand out praise like candy. If anything, he was more likely to give you a grunt of approval and move on. So, when he said he was impressed, it actually meant something.
But the small victories didn't last long. As her training intensified, so did the physical toll. She was sore in places she didn't even know had muscles. Her hands were calloused, her body bruised, and she was pretty sure she had sprained something during a particularly nasty fall during a combat drill. But of course, as usual, the next day she was back in the gym, feeling as fresh as if none of it had happened. The doctors here had a way of patching you up so quickly it was almost unnatural. Hell, it probably was unnatural.
"Why am I not dead yet?" she muttered to herself one morning as she dragged herself to the training grounds. The same question had been running through her mind for weeks now. Every time she thought she couldn't take anymore, her body just kept going. It was starting to freak her out, but she didn't exactly have time to dwell on it.
She made her way to the shooting range, fully expecting another session of target practice. But instead of Darius, there was a new instructor waiting for her. A tall, lean man with dark sunglasses and an uncomfortably smug grin on his face. Great.
"You must be the new kid," he said, looking her up and down. "Heard you've been causing quite a stir."
She raised an eyebrow. "I prefer 'making an impression.'"
"Right," he said, smirking. "Let's see if you can back that up."
He tossed her a set of knives, which she barely caught in time. Her eyes widened as she looked at the weapons in her hands. She hadn't trained with knives before. What the hell was this guy playing at?
"Uh, I thought we were doing guns today?"
"Change of plans," he said, folding his arms. "Today, we're throwing things."
She groaned. Of course. Why did she expect anything else? This place was unpredictable at best, psychotic at worst.
And so began her crash course in knife-throwing, which went about as well as you'd expect. The first knife she threw missed the target entirely and clanged pathetically against the wall. The second one nearly hit her own foot. By the third, she was starting to think maybe guns weren't so bad after all.
"Concentrate," the instructor said, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. "You're not aiming for the target. You're aiming for control."
"Control," she muttered, tossing another knife. This time it actually hit the target—though nowhere near the center. It was something, at least.
"You're getting better," the instructor said with a nod. "But remember, it's not about hitting the target. It's about mastering yourself."
She snorted. "Mastering myself? I'm still trying to figure out where the hell I am."
"Funny," he said, walking over to the target and pulling the knives out. "But if you want to survive here, you'll need more than jokes. You'll need control."
Control. Right. She wasn't sure what that even meant anymore. All she knew was that each day here chipped away at the person she used to be. Each bruise, each cut, each humiliating failure was reshaping her into something different. Something... tougher. Something better.
But even as she trained, the glares and whispers from the Staring Crew didn't stop. They watched her like vultures, waiting for her to screw up, to prove she didn't belong. But she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. If anything, their judgment fueled her.
And that's when she started noticing it—she wasn't just surviving anymore. She was improving. Faster than she'd thought possible. Each fight, each challenge, made her stronger, sharper. And with each passing day, she was getting closer to understanding her powers.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that this was all leading somewhere. Somewhere big.