"On the twelfth hour of the first day of October 1989, 43 women around the world have birth. This was unusual by the fact that, when the day first started, these women weren't pregnant. Sir Reginald Hargreeves, eccentric billionaire and adventurer...
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"NUMBER EIGHT.. How do you feel holding a weapon now?" Hargreeves asked. It had been a few months, now. Reginald Hargreeves had been training June in many ways. From how to use her powers to how to use a different assortment of weapons. She was getting better with healing - she had stopped crying every time Hargreeves would lead in one of his children who had a wound, or a wounded animal. She still wasn't sure if Hargreeves had caused these injuries purposefully for her to train her powers, or if they had happened on their own.
She still hated it. But she had now been taught to push her emotions down. Even when Ben came in with bruises from his own abilities going badly and coming back to hit him instead, she didn't cry. No. Not anymore. She couldn't.
Now, there was an emotionless look on her face as well. Only 15, nearing 16, and yet, she seemed so used to the weight she held in her hands. Literally. She didn't think that guns would be this heavy, but as she had it raised and aimed at the man shaped target in front of her.
"It's.. It's not as heavy anymore, Sir." She told him. From their first day of training, June hadn't known what to call him. She had settled on calling him Sir, to be polite. It had stuck.
"Good." He nodded once, writing a note in his little leather bound book in his hands, "Try shooting, now, Number Eight."
Over time, her aim had gotten better. Today, her arms were aching and bruised. Punching bags and fighting with Diego and Luther for hours had exhausted her. But she knew this training session wouldn't end until she hit the target at least a few times. So she didn't waste any time in pulling the trigger.
"Try again."
She released a breath, closing her eyes for a second. Upon opening them again, she adjusted her stance to something more comfortable and what she had learned in training days ago. She shot again.
"Again."
She grew to hate that word. Again. She heard it so often that it had gotten annoying. She shot again. And again, until she ran out of bullets and until the target was riddled with holes - most nearing the centre but only one hitting it. Until her fingers hurt and her arms were heavier than they were before until finally.
"Very well, Number Eight.. You may go."
June blinked, stood in the same spot she had been stood in for so long when she was a teenager. Staring at the targets, her hands neatly folded behind her back, much like she used to do when she was waiting for instructions.
