It's Already Too Late [Uprising Ranged Weapons]

Vena stepped into the warehouse. It was rather decrepit for a place where she was supposed to learn how to survive. Her eyes instinctively scanned every inch hoping for something that could save her should this go wrong. But there was nothing. It was four walls, a table, a few weapons, and some, what she guessed to be, borderline psychotic people. That was safe. She had wanted to be a part of this, so she would get over it. In truth, Vena needed the training and the allies. What would she do if something bad happened? She was already stuck with no one to turn to; This was better than nothing, after all.

As she finished scanning every nook and cranny for exit and entrance points, her eyes ran over the two people standing at the other end. Without hesitation she sauntered up to them. "If nice is what you want to call it." She said walking up to who she presumed to be the leader. She eyed the stash of weapons greedily. Pretty sure she saw a few blades, her mind considered for once that she might actually do well. Finally, she turned to the man at the front, who she had earlier pegged as the leader.

"Hi. I'm Vena." She said simply but didn't offer her hand. It was rare that she ever let someone touch her. Very rare.

I scan the area. More and more people begin to appear from the shadows, and I can infer that we will begin soon. There are different sorts of weapons sitting at a table. Firearms, bows, knives. I have never shot a gun before, only a bow, and I find myself eager to try out something that creates smoke when you fire it. I try not to let my eagerness to grab a gun show though, I don't really want everyone to think that I am a creepy, frenzied, gun-firing killer. At least not yet ...

I let myself create a male to female ratio as more people continue to enter the warehouse. There are 3 males including Griffin and 4 females including myself. And as usual, all of them look older than me. Stronger, taller, faster. Better. But I'm pretty sure none of them can avoid pain the way I can, so I feel myself gain a bit more self-confidence as I try to assess each individual. Some seem to know Griffin better than I do. Some introduce themselves. Some don't talk. I tend to appreciate those who don't talk. I know that my parents taught me to be polite and create conversation with people, but I'm just not very good at it. And I tend to get yelled at when I do talk. My language is considered 'offensive', whatever that is supposed to mean ...

I let my head swing toward Griffin as he speaks. Everything grows silent as he begins to instruct us on what he would like us to do. His leadership skills are quite heightened, unlike mine. I'd much rather follow a path that has already been carved by someone else than make my own. That must be part of why I am here. I had been wanting to be part of some sort of rebellion training for years, but there was never anyone to go to. And so, I was never part of a rebel base. Why? Because I didn't feel like creating such things. Unless the hardships are already done for me, I don't do them.

"Don't kill each other, please. Try and hit the targets with any of these weapons."


I look at the weapons on the table. I reach out for a gun, larger than most that are on the table. I feel myself become a bit giddy and a small grin creeps up onto my face. It is so much different than the bow that is slung over my shoulder. Its ammunition is so much different than the arrows that sit in the quiver that lays against my back. But I still feel sure of myself. My self-confidence continues to grow. I line up perpendicular to one of the wooden targets that line the far wall of the warehouse. I hold the weapon in one hand, aiming for the middle of the target. I'm amazed that I figured out how to work the thing before I even held it in my hand, it must be some instinct or the fact that my father loved watching what he called 'Westerns.' They always shot guns in those shows.

My finger slides over the trigger and with a bit of forced pressure I am able to get the weapon to fire. Unfortunately, my one hand cannot control the gun I am holding and I watch the gun some back and hit me in the face. I close my eyes, not only because I know I missed, but also because I know that I probably just caused a bruise to form on my face. Yet another thing to worry about. But I feel more enraged than I do anything else and I know that I have to redeem myself. I line myself back up, aiming at the target again, but this time holding the firearm in two hands. I am ready for the rebound of the gun this time and as I squeeze the trigger, I know I will hit the target this time.

And I do. It hits the very top of the target. It definitely wasn't where I was aiming, and I realize that I was aiming high from all my experience in shooting a bow and arrow and that this gun was much different than the bow. Much more powerful. Much less eloquent. I nod to myself though, for the shot is better than my first one and perhaps that hit on the target allows me to redeem some lost respect from those who were watching. But despite the fact that I hit the target, I still missed and I know I could definitely use improvement.

Or I could just be a show-off and use my bow. That sure would be simpler.