Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 8 > Adventures of the Dirty SkirtLecher

Chapter Three - Marks of a Marksman

by sumthinlikhuman 0 reviews

Irvine's life through a looking glass. ~A Series of Shorts for Fated_Children on LiveJournal~ (Rating for future chapters; warnings include sex, alcohol/drugs, language)

Category: Final Fantasy 8 - Rating: R - Genres: Angst, Drama, Humor, Romance - Characters: Irvine - Warnings: [!] - Published: 2006-07-24 - Updated: 2006-07-25 - 805 words

Detention. Again.

This time, at least, it was a little bit different than the last . . . hell, I'd stopped counting after six. This time, it wasn't writing lines or running laps or scraping the gum out from under every desk and chair on an entire floor. There was no holding books or buckets in the hallway for two whole class periods-including passing periods-and no push-ups with my feet plastered to the wall.

Really, it wasn't detention without the labor or orders. I'm not sure if this was any better, though.

Martine told me he was disappointed in me. Like that's supposed to change anything. I wasn't about to turn around because he was disappointed/. All his disappointment did was make me wish I was back at the orphanage, that he and Mom had never picked me up, or at least not kept me long enough that I got attached and he thought he had a /right to be disappointed in anything I did in his Garden.

His Garden. He loved the damn thing better than his own wife, who had all but wasted away in Deling City. He loved the damn thing that her kid-/me/, and I suppose that made me his kid but Martine was a bastard who had left Mom for the damn Garden, so I wasn't about to think of myself as /his kid/.

And now what did I have? I had his Garden and that was it, because losing him and losing me had all but killed Mom, so there was nothing to run away to in Deling City. I didn't have any money, didn't have anywhere to go. I was too young for the military, but they wanted to train me anyway, and that's all I had: military training at Martine's Garden.

And all I wanted was my Mom, and Matron, and Sefie. But it had been six years since I had seen Sefie, and she probably didn't even remember me. Or, if she did, she remembered me being a boy and doing dumb-ass stuff to try and impress her.

Anyway. Detention, this time, was getting sent to the armory. Not to clean any of the weapons, not to check stock and inventory. Nothing like that. I was supposed to watch the marksmen.

That's not detention. But somehow, in Martine's stupid head, he had it figured that all my screw-ups-coming in after curfew; getting caught in the seedy parts of Deling City and Timber during breaks; drinking and carousing-they were all normal signs of on-coming teenage aggression, and I just needed to find a way to channel that aggression into a conductive force.

Yeah right. 'Channel'. What was I, a white mage or something? Galbadia didn't even use Guardian Forces, except in certain brigades, so I don't see how I was going to 'channel' very well.

But skipping out on a detention meant a week's suspension of meal cards. And, call me a loser, but I love me some food. So I trucked my sorry butt over to the armory, and out back to the shooting range where the marksmen were all practicing.

The professor/drill instructor handed me a rifle, and told me to start shooting.

So I did.

Three hours later, when my hands were numb and shaking, the DI made me disassemble, clean and reassemble the rifle. When that was done, he gave me a new one, and told me to start shooting. I couldn't feel my fingers, but I did what I was told to do.

And three hours after that, when the tip of my finger was a bloody mess because twenty pounds of pressure for six hours will make a really cool blood blister, the DI made me disassemble, clean and reassemble the rifle. And when that was done, he gave me a new one, and told me to use my other hand.

Six hours after that, I had two bloody fingers and the sun was down and the lights were up on the firing range. My hands were black with gunpowder and oil, and I couldn't even hold the rifles he kept trying to make me shoot with.

A shot went way off mark, and clattered around in a couple of ricochet with a tinny clatter. The DI took the rifle before I could try and aim again, and said, "Don't fuck up my gun, son. Get outta here."

A week later, when I was in detention again, Martine sent me to the armory. And for twelve hours-from ten in the morning, when I was pulled out of class for being disruptive, until ten at night, when my hands were shaking so bad that I couldn't hold the gun up-the DI made me shoot, and clean my rifle.

After a month, I had callouses.

And after two months, I came of my own freewill.
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