The sun hung low and mean over the scrubland as the dry wind kicked dust across the cracked ground. Beyond the village's outer ridge, where rusted car husks and half-collapsed fences served as impromptu shooting markers, Wang stood awkwardly with a bolt-action rifle in his left hand and a shitload of doubt in his eyes.
The synthetic fingers on his new right arm twitched uselessly—he still hadn't figured out how to coordinate the grip properly.
Aiyana stood beside him, arms crossed, chewing a strip of dried emu jerky. She wore a sleeveless top today, a faded camouflage wrap slung around her waist, and her leather shorts dusty from the walk. Her brown hair was damp with sweat, tied back with a strip of cloth. Her rifle, a sleek, long-barreled antique with a polished wooden stock, hung effortlessly from her shoulder like it was part of her body.
Wang squinted downrange, wiping his brow with the back of his left hand.
"I feel like an idiot."
"You look like an idiot," Aiyana said, not unkindly.
"Glad we're establishing trust here."
She tilted her head toward the busted refrigerator door propped up on a boulder 200 meters away. "You're aiming low. You're flinching. You're breathing wrong. And your stance is about as stable as a three-legged dingo with the shits."
Wang sighed. "This would be easier with two real arms."
"That's why I'm teaching you now—before you form shit habits."
He adjusted the rifle against his shoulder, aimed again, grit his teeth, and fired.
CRACK.
The shot kicked up dust ten feet to the left of the target.
Aiyana winced. "You just shot an imaginary child."
"Goddammit," Wang muttered. "I was trying to aim straight."
"You're jerking the trigger like it owes you money," she said, stepping in. "Watch me."
She slung her rifle forward in one fluid motion and took a wide stance—feet firmly planted, knees slightly bent, breathing steady.
Then she dropped to one knee, chambered a round with a satisfying clack, and exhaled.
She didn't even look tense.
Her finger brushed the trigger.
CRACK.
The bullet punched clean through the center of the refrigerator door—dead on.
Wang's jaw tightened. "You're showing off."
"No shit." She chambered another round without looking. "Want to see the three-hundred-meter shot?"
"Is that even possible?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she pointed toward a narrow pole of rusted rebar sticking out from a mound of dirt way in the distance.
"I put that in last year. Nobody else in the village's ever hit it. Not even once."
She dropped flat to the ground, rifle resting steady on her pack.
"Watch this."
She took a deep breath. The world seemed to go silent around her—just wind and focus. Her body melted into the earth. Her eyes locked in like a predator scenting prey.
CRACK.
CLANG.
Wang blinked. The rebar pole quivered.
She'd fucking hit it.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
Aiyana stood, brushing herself off. "You don't need to be me. But you do need to be good enough not to shoot your own foot."
Wang shook his head, still impressed. "How the hell did you learn that?"
She shrugged. "When you're born here, you're handed a rifle before you're handed a spoon."
"Seriously?"
"My first kill was a wild boar trying to trample our tent. I was seven. Missed the first shot. Hit him square between the eyes with the second."
He stared at her. "That explains... a lot."
She handed her rifle to him. "Try with mine."
Wang hesitated. "It's not gonna burst into flames if I touch it?"
"It might if you keep missing."
He laid down in the same spot she had, trying to mimic her posture. The wood of the stock was warm. The scope was old but clean.
He steadied his breathing.
Lined up the sight.
"Now exhale, hold just before the bottom of the breath, and squeeze," she said softly, crouching beside him.
Wang squeezed.
CRACK.
The bullet went wide—again.
Aiyana didn't even react.
He groaned. "Fuck me."
"No thanks."
"Come on, you can't just be naturally this good."
"I was trained. And I practiced. Every day. Dozens of rounds. Rain, heat, wind. Doesn't matter. You shoot until the rifle feels like an extension of your bones."
She pulled her rifle back and stood. "You'll get there. You've got patience and you don't whine too much. Just stop shooting like you're scared of the gun."
Wang stood too, brushing dust off his pants.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
She grinned. "That was the vote."
He looked out at the range again. The target mocked him.
"Tomorrow again?" he asked.
"Every morning until you can hit center mass from two hundred."
"And if I can't?"
She slung her rifle onto her back and walked off, calling over her shoulder:
"Then your dingo meat."
Wang exhaled, shaking his head.
"Fuckin' sniper queen…"
But he was smiling.
Q: Have you ever shot a gun before?