The Greene Effect - REWRITE!!

CHAPTER EIGHT - TERRAIN

Amelia Greene -

I walk alone to the shooting range. It's nothing much, seeing as it's frowned upon to waste ammo anyway, but it's there for days like this. A simple table, a few targets, and plenty of trees.

I'm a bit earlier than everyone else, but I like privacy. All I have to focus on is me and my shots.

The sun hangs in the sky, leaning towards the west. I have about two hours until the lecture, orchestrated by Lieutenant Brown, of Second Platoon. No idea what it's about, but they can take hours at a time.

None of us ever look forward to it. We stand the whole time, in either blistering heart or right as the sunsets. Both exhaust us; sometimes people collapse.

I try not to think about it and focus on the time I have here. As long as Pierson doesn't regularly visit the boys and I can joke and laugh off our worries. It's enough to keep me going.

I open up the cartridge of rubber bullets; they're not as deadly as a metal one but can do some serious damage. I fondly remember Aiello being hit with one back in basic. I'm pretty sure Pierson smirked.

On a tree, about twenty feet away, is a sheet of paper. A red dot acts as the main target, like the chest or head of the enemy. The rest of the white area is areas you can hit and may still be guaranteed a kill, but in most eyes, that's just incompetence.

I lean down, resting my elbows on the table. Of course, we don't have that luxury in battle, but it helps with balance.

Rolling my neck, I set my sights, and pull the trigger. A hole appears in the red circle. I shoot again. A second hole just to the left, still in the same circle. The third time, the bullet lands in the second hole.

I smile to myself, satisfied. It was certainly a journey to get to that type of accuracy.

"You've gotten better."

The sudden voice tenses me up and I turn defensively, readying for whatever it may be. Pierson easily grabs the barrel of my rifle, a bored expression on his face.

"Oh, shit. Sorry, sir, I thought . ." I trail off as he blinks in understanding. I silently wonder if I'll ever be able to be snuck up on again.

"Keep going," he orders plainly. I tear my eyes away from him and back to the tree, pressure landing on my shoulders due to his watchful eye. I never know where his expectations sit.

Once upon a time, they were exceptionally high. As time went on and we learned we worked well in battle, mutual respect arose. It could have shattered many times but I know it's a privilege, and to hold onto it for as long as possible.

It makes things easier. Noticing his relaxed fist, I sun and fire another round, the bullet disappearing into the first hole. I have gotten better, indeed.

"Only taken three years," he adds on from out of nowhere, scoffing slightly. I narrow my gaze a bit up at him but saying nothing more. Respect doesn't delude how annoying he can be.

I was good then, too, but now it's more natural. A sixth sense. "Better late than never," I reply, attempting to keep the conversation light.

"Usually the never coincides with dying, Greene." I shoot him another flat look I know he sees. He must find this amusing. I'm not sure what was with the men around me and finding fun in bullying.

"I'm still here. One of your most loyal men, sir," I speak with drips of sarcasm. "Two years is certainly enough time to develop a soft spot."

His glare is offensive. "I don't develop soft spots, Greene. Look where the hell we are."