Lt. Helga Sinclair (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notasuggestion) wrote2010-07-19 03:06 am
notasuggestion) wrote2010-07-19 03:06 am
- Marksman -
Helga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
680 words
Natural aptitude and a good teacher make a marksman.
Two people stood on the snow-covered shooting range of Missouri’s Fort Dix. Their thick, Army regulation boots kept their feet dry, and their uniforms and coats blocked out as much of the chill as was possible. The man towered over his student, and her slim frame looked absolutely delicate in comparison to his broad stature. The girl, seventeen to his forty-one, turned over the Colt revolver in her hands before she stared down the lane at the target.
Even she wasn’t sure whether her cheeks were flushed from the cold or how close behind her the man stood. She started when he touched her hand.
He chuckled. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Sinclair.”
“Oh—Of course not, Captain.” The girl cleared her throat when she felt a hand on her hip.
“First, there’s posture. Hips back. Shoulders back. And down.” With every command, he forced her body into compliance. When tensions made her shoulders rise, he firmly pressed them back down. “Back straight.” His hand rested briefly on her spine. “Feet apart, shoulder-width.” He hit the side of her boot with his foot until he was satisfied. “Don’t lock your knees.” His knee connected with the back of one of hers, almost sending her into the snow. “No faster way to faint.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
His laugh was warm. “A bit.”
She had to laugh as well. “What now?”
“Now for grip.” He took her hand and closed it around the gun.
“Like this?” After years of watching her father and brothers, Helga felt she could manage a basic grip.
“Close, but there’s too much tension.” He laid his hand over hers and moved her fingers just slightly. “The best way I can describe it is this—Handle your gun like a lover.” He touched her wrist, straightening it. “If your hold is too loose, there’s no control. It’s erratic. If you hold too tight, there’s no room to move. Everything is a fight.” She felt him move closer with every sentence, and his voice lowered. Her breath caught in her throat. “Now,” his words were almost whispered into her ear, “look at the target. Know what you want. And—fire.”
She squeezed the trigger and tensed at the sound of the shot.
Captain Rourke stared at the target. “I don’t believe it.” He’d moved up and back, and Helga relaxed.
“I’m sorry, sir. I—”
“Dead center.”
“What?”
“What in God’s good name—” Two men in full uniform hurried over. Rourke took the gun from Helga, and she saluted the major and the general.
“I was giving Miss Sinclair a lesson,” Rourke said.
“Most unusual,” Major Riley replied.
“And unallowed! She doesn’t have the authorization, Captain Rourke!”
“I know, General Lake, but I felt she was ready.”
“You!” Lake turned to Helga. “I told you. First sign of trouble, and you’re out. Get packing! Now!”
Rourke frowned. “She hit a target dead center at a hundred yards.”
“Impossible.”
Riley looked the girl over. “She’s my responsibility, General. I’m her drill sergeant.”
“What do you propose, Major?” the general asked.
“A test. If she can hit within the second inside ring, she stays.”
“Her second time shooting? No one can do that.”
“Then you’ll win, and she’ll pack.”
“Fine. Rourke, give her the gun.”
Rourke handed the Colt to Helga and leaned in to whisper, “You can do this. Just like you did before. Prove you belong here.”
Helga closed her eyes. She remembered the feel of hands on her, jerking her into position. She adjusted her feet, then her knees, then her ships, then her back, then her shoulders. She felt fingers on her wrist and hand, molding her. She gripped the gun. She opened her eyes and stared at the target.
A bullet ripped through the air and hit—right on the cusp of the first and second inside rings.
The girl laughed and looked to Rourke, who grinned back at her. Major Riley clapped his hand over her shoulder.
“That’s my girl!”
He wasn’t aware of the looks the young woman and captain gave him.
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
680 words
Natural aptitude and a good teacher make a marksman.
Two people stood on the snow-covered shooting range of Missouri’s Fort Dix. Their thick, Army regulation boots kept their feet dry, and their uniforms and coats blocked out as much of the chill as was possible. The man towered over his student, and her slim frame looked absolutely delicate in comparison to his broad stature. The girl, seventeen to his forty-one, turned over the Colt revolver in her hands before she stared down the lane at the target.
Even she wasn’t sure whether her cheeks were flushed from the cold or how close behind her the man stood. She started when he touched her hand.
He chuckled. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Sinclair.”
“Oh—Of course not, Captain.” The girl cleared her throat when she felt a hand on her hip.
“First, there’s posture. Hips back. Shoulders back. And down.” With every command, he forced her body into compliance. When tensions made her shoulders rise, he firmly pressed them back down. “Back straight.” His hand rested briefly on her spine. “Feet apart, shoulder-width.” He hit the side of her boot with his foot until he was satisfied. “Don’t lock your knees.” His knee connected with the back of one of hers, almost sending her into the snow. “No faster way to faint.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
His laugh was warm. “A bit.”
She had to laugh as well. “What now?”
“Now for grip.” He took her hand and closed it around the gun.
“Like this?” After years of watching her father and brothers, Helga felt she could manage a basic grip.
“Close, but there’s too much tension.” He laid his hand over hers and moved her fingers just slightly. “The best way I can describe it is this—Handle your gun like a lover.” He touched her wrist, straightening it. “If your hold is too loose, there’s no control. It’s erratic. If you hold too tight, there’s no room to move. Everything is a fight.” She felt him move closer with every sentence, and his voice lowered. Her breath caught in her throat. “Now,” his words were almost whispered into her ear, “look at the target. Know what you want. And—fire.”
She squeezed the trigger and tensed at the sound of the shot.
Captain Rourke stared at the target. “I don’t believe it.” He’d moved up and back, and Helga relaxed.
“I’m sorry, sir. I—”
“Dead center.”
“What?”
“What in God’s good name—” Two men in full uniform hurried over. Rourke took the gun from Helga, and she saluted the major and the general.
“I was giving Miss Sinclair a lesson,” Rourke said.
“Most unusual,” Major Riley replied.
“And unallowed! She doesn’t have the authorization, Captain Rourke!”
“I know, General Lake, but I felt she was ready.”
“You!” Lake turned to Helga. “I told you. First sign of trouble, and you’re out. Get packing! Now!”
Rourke frowned. “She hit a target dead center at a hundred yards.”
“Impossible.”
Riley looked the girl over. “She’s my responsibility, General. I’m her drill sergeant.”
“What do you propose, Major?” the general asked.
“A test. If she can hit within the second inside ring, she stays.”
“Her second time shooting? No one can do that.”
“Then you’ll win, and she’ll pack.”
“Fine. Rourke, give her the gun.”
Rourke handed the Colt to Helga and leaned in to whisper, “You can do this. Just like you did before. Prove you belong here.”
Helga closed her eyes. She remembered the feel of hands on her, jerking her into position. She adjusted her feet, then her knees, then her ships, then her back, then her shoulders. She felt fingers on her wrist and hand, molding her. She gripped the gun. She opened her eyes and stared at the target.
A bullet ripped through the air and hit—right on the cusp of the first and second inside rings.
The girl laughed and looked to Rourke, who grinned back at her. Major Riley clapped his hand over her shoulder.
“That’s my girl!”
He wasn’t aware of the looks the young woman and captain gave him.