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section7mfuWord count - over 1000
Shooting Games
It all started with tequila shots, which probably should have been a sign that it was a mistake. It was a truth which should be universally acknowledged that any plan that started off with tequila was almost certainly terrible, April thought anyway. And since in this case it had led to the four of them sitting on a plane back to the US in sullen, hungover silence, nursing a collection of scrapes and bruises and barely speaking to one another, she doubted any of the others would disagree.
The end of their current assignment had happened to coincide with the anniversary of her joining Section II which was admittedly a cause for celebration. Except that since they were in the-middle-of-nowhere, Mexico, that left them with the town's one bar and a choice between suspiciously pale beer and the tequila. They had opted for tequila and about halfway down the bottle, the conversation had turned to all the less obvious skills for a spy – such as good alcohol tolerance – and, naturally enough, an argument about who had the best tolerance.
“I can drink ten pints and still shoot the wings off a fly,” Mark boasted.
“Really, the trick is more finding ways to avoid drinking in the first place,” Napoleon murmured diffidently.
“You are only saying that because you know you will lose,” Illya said.
Naturally, Napoleon's attention was on him immediately. “Was that a challenge, tovarisch?”
“Only if you're feeling up to it,” Illya replied, his tone effortlessly conveying his doubt, and April had no doubt that Napoleon knew he was being played. Just that she also knew it was going to work.
She sighed loudly. “Honestly, darlings, not everything has to be a competition. But if it is lets at least make it interesting.” She fanned herself ostentatiously with her money clip.
All eyes were on her. “What do you have in mind?” Mark asked.
“There's a shooting range out back. How about thirty dollars each, one drink per clip, you fire until you miss the bullseye, your gun is empty, or you throw up. Three misses and you're out, winner takes all?”
For a moment they just stared. “You have been thinking about this, haven't you?” Illya said at last.
She smiled demurely. “A girl needs new shoes.”
“You're on,” Mark declared.
*
And so they moved outside and the tequila moved with them. “Before we begin,” Illya said dryly. “Can we all check that we are not using live ammunition? Because I, for one, am not explaining any accidents to Mr Waverly.”
Mark clapped him on the shoulder. “Don't worry. If anything goes wrong you're bound to be the one who gets shot. So you won't have to explain.”
“That is a comfort,” Illya said seriously.
Of course they were using darts. And the thing was, they were all world-class shots, it came with the territory. So the first four or five rounds passed in rapt concentration and each of them fired straight through the bullseye, drank, and fired more.
By the time they were well into the second bottle though, the world was beginning to swim in front of her eyes and focusing on the target was getting...tricky. So naturally, that was the time that they started making side bets between themselves, five dollars here and there on individual shots, betting on who was going to be the first to miss, betting on how long they were going to take aiming.
Her hands were shaking slightly. The others weren't much better – the tips of Mark's ears were crimson, there was a sheen of sweat on Napoleon's forehead, and Illya's accent was noticeably thicker. Although she couldn't help but notice that the last had coincided with the start of the betting, and that was something to be suspicious of.
In fact, there was plenty to be suspicious of. The tequila burned going down and they started playing dirty, distracting each other any way they could. She closed one eye, squinting through the other at the foggy target that seemed impossibly far away, while Illya leaned against the fence on her other side, telling Napoleon a series of increasingly dirty jokes.
“...and then the bear holds up the string of fish and says...'Not even a nibble?'”
She heard Mark choking behind her and her arm jerked in surprise and her shot went wide.
“Oops,” Napoleon said regretfully. “Mark, you're up.”
“You're cheating,” she complained.
“There was nothing in rules that said we could not cheat,” Illya told her.
Maybe it was the tequila, but that almost made sense to her. She relinquished her spot and Mark moved up, stumbling slightly as he took his place, his gun already in his hand and for a moment she was worried he might just shoot himself in the leg. But no, he reached the range and started shooting, and he even managed to hit the target, albeit firing very slowly.
She heard Napoleon moving round until he was standing directly behind her and she half turned in time to hear him shout. “Mark! Behind you!”
And Mark turned, the gun wobbling in his hand, and he was facing her, he pulled the trigger, but the shot went wild....and a second later there was a high pitched whinny and the sound of galloping hooves coming towards them.
“Huh.” Napoleon squinted over towards the field. “I think you just shot the horse in this one horse town.”
The horse crashed through the fence towards them, bowling Mark over, and she and Illya rushed towards it, grabbing for the bridle, calming him down. “Easy, easy,” she soothed, as she dug her heels in, slowing him to a stop and being knocked into the mud for her trouble.
“Будьте спокойны , красивый,” Illya added, stooping and carefully examining the horse's legs, wincing slightly as it attempted to take a bite out of his shoulder. “I think he will be fine.”
“Though I'm not so sure the farmer is going to agree,” Napoleon said, as an old man holding a pitchfork rushed over, shouting angrily in Spanish.
In the end, they had to give him all the money in the betting pool to satisfy him. Which had ended up being all their expense claims for the month. This was going to make the actual celebration of her first year back in New York a little difficult.
She rubbed painfully at her elbow where she'd hit the mud and sighed.
“This is all Mark's fault for shooting the horse,” Illya said with feeling, his hand pressed against the back of his head.
“No, it's Napoleon's fault for distracting him,” April said firmly.
“I think it's your fault for suggesting tequila and guns at the same time,” Napoleon said, annoyingly uninjured.
“I think it's Illya's fault,” Mark said, his head slumped on the table. “I don't have to have a reason.”
It was probably all of their faults. And it was probably the fault of the tequila. And - “We never did find out who the winner was.”
There was a pause. “Try again when we get back?” Mark suggested brightly.
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no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 08:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 01:10 am (UTC)My favorite: “I think it's Illya's fault,” Mark said, his head slumped on the table. “I don't have to have a reason." Brilliant!
no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 08:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 08:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 08:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 05:07 am (UTC)Anyway, they gave one farmer a good year.
I agree about Mark's line, and also sinle out "There was nothing in rules that said we could not cheat,”
no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 08:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 09:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 01:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 02:54 pm (UTC)Brilliant piece of writing and character interaction. I'm pretty sure we all heard Illya's accent blurring into something very Russian. April is a brave young woman to tangle with those guys.
no subject
Date: 2015-11-17 09:28 pm (UTC)