charlie chance. (nightcalled) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-12-16 18:46:00 |
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He tugged at the hem of his sleeve with an impatience he hadn't known since the beginning of boot camp. It hadn't been a good start to the day — the headache that grinding his teeth had wrought hadn't faded since early morning, and the long run had done little to soothe the apprehension. One week out of boot camp and Castor still couldn't chase the constant annoyance away, not when he was surrounded by some of the same idiots he'd trained with, with their menial problems and daily complaints. He couldn't relate; he couldn't hold a conversation longer than two minutes with them; he didn't sympathize with or understand their supposed struggles and dumb exaggerations. And he was a stranger all over again, just as he'd been on day one. The crate beneath was proving to be as uncomfortable as it had been ten minutes prior, but Castor didn't move from it, fiddling with the sleeve evermore and realizing, belatedly, that there was a good chance it had gotten shorter. He wasn’t difficult to spot. A group of older girls stood at the opposite side of the wide hangar, taking full stock of the unknown and dour-looking boy. Whispers exchanged, speculation echoing along the metal walls behind them. Fiddling carefully with the straps of her gun bag, Charlie stood nearby and couldn’t help but overhear the lot of them. (A reprimanding voice parroted in her mind, how proper girls didn’t engage in gossip.) But she was young and the seeds of curiosity had easily been sown. And perhaps she had a fascination for the appearance of strays -- but whatever it happened to be, the girl shrugged the case over her shoulder and made an obvious path for where the boy was sitting, regardless of the giggling audience left behind her. Charlie was fairly tall for a girl her age, her uniform neat and pressed, her dark hair pulled back and out of her face; she waved to the boy politely as she approached. “Privacy is tough to come by around the base,” she said, her smile restrained, “but it’s not impossible if you know where to look.” She held out a hand, that practised politeness of her childhood appearing easily enough. “I’m Charlie, by the way. You’re new around here?” Castor couldn't be sure which was more baffling: that she was talking to him, or that she was holding out a hand. To shake. Tracing that arm up to her face, she couldn't have been that much older. Two years, three years tops. Her face alone didn't give away her age; it was the way she held herself, how crisp her politeness was. He didn't extend his hand. Watched, for a moment longer, until the words came, much more harshly than intended. "If I am, does that make you the welcoming party?" The shock was momentary, a quick jolt through the shoulders and down the spine. Charlie shrugged and her hands ended up tucked away in the pockets of her jacket. Judging by her expression however, her spirit hadn’t been entirely deterred by the boy’s rough rebuke of her greeting. Something slightly the opposite, in fact, as she seemed to be holding back a grin (that was likely also not polite). “Guess it does,” she said agreeingly, her feet still planted to the spot. “But don’t worry, I only keep the rifle around for those other surly cadets I meet. Can’t be too careful of who you meet out here, you know?” Fragments of other conversations slid past, the sound of boots echoing as other young men and women walked briskly around the hangar. Pinned somewhere in the back of her thoughts was a reminder of her own training, but for now, she wasn’t in a hurry; this, suddenly, had become more interesting. The sentiment wasn't shared by Castor, who similarly wasn't in a hurry but also not entirely in the mood for conversation. That much wasn't Charlie's fault. He scraped his boot across the floor, settling palms on the edge of the crate. "I'm so flattered. Do you meet a lot of surly cadets?" “Just enough of them,” Charlie said, a hint of amusement rattling out in her voice in spite of herself. She shook her head and cleared her throat, let the sounds of marching somewhere in the distance push her once again back into focus. “I need to get to the range soon,” she continued in a forced serious tone. “Look for me around there if you need help with anything…” Trailing off, she realized she hadn’t had time to pry out a name for him; instead, the girl raised up for an awkward farewell salute. The pause that followed felt equally awkward; he expelled a deep breath. "Castor," he supplied. "In case you're thinking about calling me 'new kid' or 'kid', don't." “Hadn’t even crossed my mind,” Charlie solemnly swore, pulling at the strap of her gun bag and turning to leave (and certainly not smiling at all). “See you around, Castor.” She was eyed with instinctive suspicion — he'd had his share of nicknames among the other cadets, attached to him in the early days of their training and none of which he appreciated — but rather than giving her a rude parting comment, he shrugged. Not a confirmation, not a refusal. They would definitely see each other again. Focus on the target, they said. Don't keep your finger so tight on the trigger, they said. Keep it snug under your arm, they said. It was like being spoken to like a fucking child, and Castor, frankly, had had enough of it, especially as it wasn't his first time with a rifle. Or his second. Or third. And every time, every goddamn time, someone had a comment under the pretext of constructive criticism that didn't feel that way. He imagined their faces on the target and plowed bullets toward it, but instead of succeeding in hitting it precisely where he hoped (almost always an inch or two off, too annoyed to focus), he only gained side-eying from the cadets next to him. If they were scared of him, he didn't care. If they were afraid he would turn around and clock them with the butt of the rifle, that fear was somewhat unfounded — not to say he didn't imagine it from time to time. Charlie had walked in during the middle of the session, watched it from the back of the room, her heavy earphones dangling around her neck. No, she hadn’t forgotten the surly younger boy named Castor from the hangar. Seeing him in fact at the practice range, now that was something of a surprise — and judging by the amused smile she bit back, it wasn’t a particularly awful one. Leaning against the back wall, arms folded, she (politely, of course) waited for him to finish before approaching. “Well, look who it is,” she said in a carefully pleasant voice, “you found your way around after all.” Charlie -set her protective glasses on the top of her head and gave the boy a thoughtful look. And for a few moments, it seemed as if Castor hadn't noticed her — or was ignoring her. Evidently, it was the second: he eventually drew his gaze from the task at hand, glancing at her over the curve of his shoulder. He didn't seem especially pleased to see her, though there was a note of recognition there: he remembered her. The gun came down, but only an inch or so. "It's not my first time here," he pointed out, not making a move to remove his own gear yet. If he kept them on, would that drown out the sound of her enough? A sigh was bit back. "Carly, or something?" He knew it was Charlie. “Or something,” she agreed, pushing back her amusement to something that appeared acceptable. “And I noticed -- you must put in a lot of practice don’t you?” The trainee just to Castor’s left had quickly made their exit, and Charlie took it upon herself to sink into the unoccupied space. She adjusted her own rifle, appearing to give it a casual once-over. “I’m sure an experienced shooter wouldn’t mind a little competition.” And now it was her turn to offer an over-the-shoulder glance, but this one was, in contrast, hardly frosty regardless of the challenge posed (too much to resist). “What do you think, Castor?” If there was a flash of distrust in his eyes, it was warranted, at least to him. The other cadets in his age group had tried, and failed, to worm their way into his good graces (of which he had so few to begin with), leaving this feeling like an intrusion— almost. In the guise of competition, Castor could surrender to the idea of allowing someone into his space, though he was far from ambitious, never looking to be better than the rest. Just better for himself, for his family. And the only person he wanted to be better than was the father he'd put behind bars. He adjusted the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, and miraculously refrained from an eyeroll. "You're on, Carly." |