A/N: I wrote this on the spot, no beta, no read-through, not even spell-check, since it was written directly on TtH after I saw the challenge. That's my crummy excuse for not having a disclaimer and for any errors.
Dedication/Disclaimer: to MaxGSandeman, for reminding me I don't, in fact, own any of these people. Except the Suit. The Suit is mine.
Ian Edgerton pulled the trigger with a smirk. Another hit successful, another criminal who couldn't escape the justice system...another paper target that would no longer menace society.
Ian pulled off his protective ear-wear and gave the suit Impatient Look Number Four: How Dare You Interrupt my Firing Range Practice?
The suit, and the agent within, quailed in fear.
"You have a student," the suit said firmly.
"Funny. I don't have any classes," Ian deadpanned. "Sniping 101 is taught only during months ending in 'er,' barring all months after Halloween," he continued. "Maybe this mythical student will sign up on time next year and we won't have this sort of misunderstanding."
"I think you're the one who doesn't understand," the suit said more firmly. He handed Ian a letter. Blah blah blah, kid's a hero, whoopdidoo, please, please, please teach him, you incredible sniping god, blah blah, signed,
"The President?" Ian asked incredulously. "The President
wants me to train some kid in sniping?"
"Yes, Agent Edgerton. He's done some very admirable things as a civilian, when he decided to join the Bureau, he asked to become a sniper. He's already done all required training, even had a few cases and completed all the prerequisites. He asked for you specifically."
Ian sighed. "Lemme meet this kid. Then I'll decide."
"I should warn you, he's almost twenty-six, and he's not going to like being called that."
"I really don't care."
The suit shrugged.
The kid was about an inch shorter than him, but had a little more shoulder-width. His hair was mid-length for a man, with a wavy sort of curl to it that made him look about sixteen years old. He was clean shaven, which enhanced the image of youth, and had a handsome, open face with big brown eyes which lent a resemblance to a friendly puppy.
All in all, he looked like the most innocent, defenseless kid Ian had ever seen. The President had sounded pretty impressed, though, so Ian decided he'd at least let the kid shoot a few rounds before he said no.
"How good's your vision?"
"20/10," the kid replied in a clipped, military-precision voice.
Ian's respect-o-meter pinged a few percent higher. "You ever shot a gun before?"
"Can you count the number of time on one hand, two hands, or are toes required?" Ian questioned in a bored, condescending voice.
"Careful," the kid shot back. "I might need your fingers and toes too."
Now the kid was at a 39 instead of a 12. Dry wit always impressed Ian.
"What do you know about rifles?"
"If you want kinds, rates, speeds, pros and cons - we could be here a while. In brief, they're the type of gun preferred for making accurate shots over greater distances, ranging in complexity from a generic hunting rifle to a professional or military-grade sniper's rifle."
Ian considered this answer. "Good enough." He led the kid over to a table of disassembled guns. "Can you put any of these back together?"
Most of them were perfectly reassembled in less than the amount of time it took army cadets. A few, the kid seemed less familiar with, but all of them were done right.
"Not bad," Ian said cautiously. "Can you shoot any of them with accuracy?"
The kid examined each one with a critical eye. He put aside the Seacamps, like Ian would have - the peril of large hands; small guns often wouldn't work as well for a man. A derringer was also moved away, but derringers weren't made for accuracy, so no surprise there.
The kid ended up keeping most of the guns on the table. He looked at Ian when he was finished.
"Pick up the smallest, simplest make, clean it, load it, and fire two clips in the target. New target, new gun, repeat. Come get me when you finish with the handguns, and maybe you can move up to the big fish."
Ian went to practice some more. He was gonna get that number two spot come hell or high water, and Hans Wittenburg better watch out.
An hour or two later, the lights flickered. Ian stopped firing and took off his ear-protectors, turning to see the kid there with a bored look on his face.
Ian reviewed the targets, and his R o' M ticked to a 65. The kid was good. All shots went to center mass or the head, usually right between the eyes.
"Not bad," Ian said again. He took the kid back to the gun-locked and pulled down a good rifle for beginners. "First lesson starts now."