Arrow to the Moon // [Briar]

By nature, I am a Career. Ruthless. Lethal. Vicious. My every moment is sheer grace and poise; coordination has been crammed into my bones before they were even finished developing. This ever burning flame within me - within us - is not innate. We are not born with swords by our sides and sheaths across our shoulders. It is a seed planted into our minds by our parents and peers, growing roots that reach to the ends of our bodies, stretching to the very ends of our fingertips.

CAREER is etched into the freckles spattered across my skin. It has seeped into my bloodstream and weaved its way into my heart, a venom that does not reap life but instead corrupts from the inside. It molds benign children into savage warriors; it turns dolls to knives and soft flesh into impenetrable steel.

The proof is in my eyes - copper eagle talons - and in the comfort of my stance alongside my sword, rested in my relaxed hand. I set the long blade aside, standing it up against a rack that holds several arrows and a bow with a luster that catches the harsh fluorescent light of the training center. I take it my hands, holding it steady - the feeling of the coldness of the bow against my skin is almost alien, for I have merely dabbled in archery, never spending the time to master it.

My fingers close around an arrow that I pluck off of the rack. It is a feather in my hand, rather than a stone like the bow. I position the arrow as I remember the instructor demonstrating, slipping it into the arrow rest and holding it back with the string, using only the grip of three fingers. My hands quiver, shaking beneath the possibility of failure and embarrassment and the onslaught of ridicule that could stand in my future.

The target is still, but I am not. Around it are a few Careers, obstacles I must avoid - so much as skimming them with the arrow's point could turn into something very ugly, very fast. (But luckily, the training center isn't crowded in this hour. Maybe I can get by without maiming anyone.)

My hesitation only drags on further, to the point that it is almost foreboding and my stomach begins to churn. The arrow, off-center from the focus of my vision, the target, seems to mock me. You can't shoot, Amber, it snarls. You're not a good enough Career. My teeth lock together in aggravation, and in my head, I retort caustically, You know what? Fuck. You.

Just. Fuck. You.

And I release my grip on the arrow.

It slices through the air with a soft ripping sound, like a knife tearing through fabric, and -

and the arrow veers off to the side, not even remotely close to the target.

Dammit.

No, it did not hit the target. But it did hunt down a new victim: a boy, around my age, with brown curls of hair. It is the first of his features that catches my eye, although the arrow is not flying towards his head. When it does sink into its new target, the impact of where it cut into the boy does not hit me for a moment.

One half-second of silence.

And then the impact of what I have done hits me in one swift wave of shock. My heart beats heavier against my chest, its weight increased by the horror piled on top of it, and my entire body becomes a rigid stone statue, as if I had stared Medusa in the eyes.

I just shot him in - in the - OH. MY. RIPRED.

I just shot him in the butt.

Oh. My. Ripred.