apparently was prepared to deliver one without thinking about it. Kat was a fighter; not, perhaps, as much as I would have considered myself to be one, but she was no weakling. She may have been blessed with the power to heal, but I’d seen her put a hurting on a few people since we’d begun working together.
“Yeah, I think so too.” Scott’s shoulders slumped again, and the next bullet he tried to put into the magazine went easier. “Where do you think she took her? Your mom, I mean—”
“I don’t know. I mean, we’re talking about a woman who locked me in a box one day and disappeared, not to return for six months.” I felt a tightness in my chest, a burning near my eyes, and I hated myself for it. “She’s not exactly predictable, you know? I mean, I kinda thought she was dead until she showed up and kicked my Aunt Charlie’s ass.”
“You thought she was dead?” He turned away again. “And that didn’t bother you?” His head tilted sideways to look at me.
I felt irritation rising, but was detached enough to realize it had little to do with Scott. “See above, re: locking me in a box and disappearing without warning or a trace. Not exactly behavior designed to build a warm and fluffy relationship with your offspring. She left me, Scott. To die, or to manifest and break out; either way, she left me to be picked off by Wolfe, and lucky for me the Directorate came along or who knows what Omega would be doing to me right now—”
“Huh.” He picked up another silhouette target and hung it, his fingers exercising more care with the clips that held it in place than they had with loading the bullets. “If she just…left you to Wolfe and you’re her daughter, what do you think she’s doing to Kat right now?” He held the switch and the motor buzzed, sending the hangar zipping downrange, the target fluttering along with it. “Kat doesn’t have anybody else,” he said, and his eyes came up, and I caught the hint of violence within, the stir beneath the surface, threatening to boil out. “No one else to care if she were to disappear. Or die.”
He turned, pointing the gun downrange, and I slapped my muffs back on as he began to fire. I heard every shot, each one a declaration of intent, the target a silent, black and white standin for my mother, each blast of primer and powder a small explosion of his rage blooming forth from the barrel of the gun. I turned my face away, as though I couldn’t handle the spectacle of him shooting at the target that was my mother by proxy.
I could hear the click after the last of the bullets was spent, and I looked up at the target, still whole, not a single perforation in the silhouette. He stood there, unblinking, a sort of disbelief visible behind the clear plastic of his protective eyewear. He stared, his mouth slightly open for a moment before I saw the physical reaction break down his cold resolve. “Son of a…” he said, and I had to stifle the deep desire to laugh. “Dammit,” he said, the timbre of his voice rising, and he threw the gun downrange where it clipped the bottom of the target, ripping it on the corner with the force of the throw. The gun continued, his meta strength carrying it all the way to the wall.
His hand came up again, and he extended a single finger. The air rippled around him, and a blast of water came out, focused, small, the size of a roll of pennies, and shot downrange. It impacted in the center of the target’s blank-white face, ripping a hole through the middle of it as though one of his bullets had hit the target. The splash of the water against the concrete wall in the distance was audible. His other hand came up and a broader blast of water followed, one that tore the target from the hangar and left it a sopping mess on the floor.
Scott turned back to me, his face twisted, breathing heavy, as though he had exerted everything. Without saying anything else, he walked to the stairs and left. I looked back to the range,
“Yeah, I think so too.” Scott’s shoulders slumped again, and the next bullet he tried to put into the magazine went easier. “Where do you think she took her? Your mom, I mean—”
“I don’t know. I mean, we’re talking about a woman who locked me in a box one day and disappeared, not to return for six months.” I felt a tightness in my chest, a burning near my eyes, and I hated myself for it. “She’s not exactly predictable, you know? I mean, I kinda thought she was dead until she showed up and kicked my Aunt Charlie’s ass.”
“You thought she was dead?” He turned away again. “And that didn’t bother you?” His head tilted sideways to look at me.
I felt irritation rising, but was detached enough to realize it had little to do with Scott. “See above, re: locking me in a box and disappearing without warning or a trace. Not exactly behavior designed to build a warm and fluffy relationship with your offspring. She left me, Scott. To die, or to manifest and break out; either way, she left me to be picked off by Wolfe, and lucky for me the Directorate came along or who knows what Omega would be doing to me right now—”
“Huh.” He picked up another silhouette target and hung it, his fingers exercising more care with the clips that held it in place than they had with loading the bullets. “If she just…left you to Wolfe and you’re her daughter, what do you think she’s doing to Kat right now?” He held the switch and the motor buzzed, sending the hangar zipping downrange, the target fluttering along with it. “Kat doesn’t have anybody else,” he said, and his eyes came up, and I caught the hint of violence within, the stir beneath the surface, threatening to boil out. “No one else to care if she were to disappear. Or die.”
He turned, pointing the gun downrange, and I slapped my muffs back on as he began to fire. I heard every shot, each one a declaration of intent, the target a silent, black and white standin for my mother, each blast of primer and powder a small explosion of his rage blooming forth from the barrel of the gun. I turned my face away, as though I couldn’t handle the spectacle of him shooting at the target that was my mother by proxy.
I could hear the click after the last of the bullets was spent, and I looked up at the target, still whole, not a single perforation in the silhouette. He stood there, unblinking, a sort of disbelief visible behind the clear plastic of his protective eyewear. He stared, his mouth slightly open for a moment before I saw the physical reaction break down his cold resolve. “Son of a…” he said, and I had to stifle the deep desire to laugh. “Dammit,” he said, the timbre of his voice rising, and he threw the gun downrange where it clipped the bottom of the target, ripping it on the corner with the force of the throw. The gun continued, his meta strength carrying it all the way to the wall.
His hand came up again, and he extended a single finger. The air rippled around him, and a blast of water came out, focused, small, the size of a roll of pennies, and shot downrange. It impacted in the center of the target’s blank-white face, ripping a hole through the middle of it as though one of his bullets had hit the target. The splash of the water against the concrete wall in the distance was audible. His other hand came up and a broader blast of water followed, one that tore the target from the hangar and left it a sopping mess on the floor.
Scott turned back to me, his face twisted, breathing heavy, as though he had exerted everything. Without saying anything else, he walked to the stairs and left. I looked back to the range,
Similar Books
