Groundlings

The next day came too soon. At breakfast, he’d told Tika what was happening and she’d given him the most worried look he’d ever seen on her face. And then she’d put on her uniform and her own gun and clapped him on the back and left. Without speaking a single word.
He was considering skipping the day. It would ruin him if he did, but he was more or less doomed anyway, right? No, no, he couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t let himself. He had to go, had to show up. Maybe he’d show everyone else up.
Doubtful. But the thought of succeeding for once, out of nothing but pure and unbridled spite, fueled him through his morning classes.
But when he got to the range, that horrible sinking feeling was back. He was shooting today. He was going to miss spectacularly like he always had, he was going to be the butt of every joke in the classroom. For the third fucking time in a row.
Miss Pavel put them through the same stance examination as yesterday, satisfied with the small progress being made. She then tested their theoretical knowledge by having them load the rifles themselves, which was likely going to be the easiest part of the day. At least for Mobreigh. There were some that struggled, that needed help with their loading because their guns were older and less well kept. He could’ve worked with them just fine. Great, Mobreigh thought to himself. I can load a gun better than anyone else here but I still can’t shoot worth shit. That’s nice.
Miss Pavel set the targets. A golden circle perhaps as big as the palm of Mobreigh’s hand marked the center, with a small x indicating the bullseye. Five more rings of colors surrounded the gold, each marked with how many points they would score in a game. Because they were working with their rifles today, the targets were set relatively far away. Enough to merit the use of a rifle, but nowhere far enough to prove a real challenge. Except to Mobreigh, of course.
The shooting was, thank god, not turn based. They would never finish on time if that were the case. Instead, Miss Pavel had them put on their protection, goggles and earplugs in this case, and let them loose.
Mobreigh’s first shot missed the target entirely, landing nowhere near the outermost circle. Ugh. Terrible. He tried calling up the giant messy slew of tips he’d gotten from all sorts of people this whole time. He was good at visualizing, so those were the best exercises he could employ.
He also knew he did his best work when the stakes were raised as high as they could go.
Before Mobreigh knew what he was doing, he was on the ground. Or at least how he pictured it. Selsdon fought for his life a few feet away. His big hands were covered in thick leather gloves, difficult to bite through. They were an essential part of groundguard regalia, even though in general the groundguards wore whatever they wanted so long as it fit the constraints. Selsdon had spent his ammo and dropped his gun in the heat of the fight, now working at close range with a small knife.
He looked at Mobreigh, and Mobreigh’s heart broke. But Selsdon was strong and capable, and he fended the three zombies he had stumbled on off well. The knife went into a skull and the corpse dropped. Another was so rotten and broken down already that a kick caved its head in. It collapsed. Selsdon turned to face the last one.
He had been wrong. There was one more, approaching slowly from the back. It was quiet and Selsdon hadn’t noticed it.
He wouldn’t notice it.
It had to be killed at all costs.
Mobreigh took a deep breath and aimed between its eye sockets. Steady, now. Take your time and make the shot good. But don’t wait too long.
You’ll lose him again.
He fired. The zombie dropped, a mere few feet behind where Selsdon stood.
Then everything disappeared. Mobreigh was back in the range, wearing his stupid looking goggles and floundering around desperately for any technique that might save him. He didn’t even look at his target. He knew his mistake. He’d gotten too caught up in the scenario. He’d placed the zombie where it was most convenient, where the shot was clearest. Mobreigh thought he had seen it move when he shot anyway.
He shot again, fighting tears. Stupid! Stop fantasizing about being a hero. Stop fantasizing about saving your brother. What’s done is done, Mobreigh. Deal with it.
He fired again. And again. And that was it. He was done for the day, since they each only got one round for practice.
Mobreigh lowered his gun, and only then became aware that Toby was staring at him, an open mouthed awe plain on his face. Toby’s beautiful eyes moved from Mobreigh to his target and back again. Miss Pavel seemed to have noticed that something was out of the ordinary, and made her way over.
Her cane made a dull thunk as she came to rest between the two boys and looked at the targets herself. She whistled, not even trying to conceal that she was impressed.
Mobreigh looked at his target. What he saw nearly stopped his heart for good.

One bullet hole stared at him from outside the rings. One hole in the third. The rest all gold, and one, one single precious one ripped through the middle of the X. An unmistakable perfect bullseye.

What the hell?