Freedom is not for Everyone

(To say he collected such was an understatement.)

The others were competition, and as such he treated them as such. With a close watch and an even closer eye on their hands.

His choice stayed in his hand; the recurve from before and a handful of arrows. Far more confident in the weight of wood shafts and fiberglass than the heavy stock of a gun.

It’s a test, it’s all been a test, and he doesn’t know if he’s passed or failed. Nerves are starting to fray and though no one’s dumb enough to lose a bid with a raised fist the whispers are starting to echo.

"Never trust a Commie, I tell ya-"

"-it’s gonna be a high profile, just watch."

"Not sure why -he’s- here."

"-better than us, who does he think-"

Eyes are starting to wander and more than once he finds himself locked in a struggle of pride and self-assured superiority. (There’s no other way to fight; he’s tried and he’s lost far more than he wants to admit.)

"Hey. Hey kid."

He ignores it, tests the string, doesn’t let that word get into his head.

"Gonna play that way kid?"

And that’s how it starts, how it always starts. With that word that indicates just how he’s meant to be. Something he hasn’t been since Barney taught him to throw a punch behind the convenience store. 

"Where I’m standin’, looks like I ain’t the one whining like an eight year old," he counters. And then they’re nose to nose in moments, and he’s ready for the guy’s punch, ready for an excuse to swing one back.

The sound of movement distracts saves a fight breaking out.

He’s always been a quick shot. It’s part of why Buck gave him a second look and a chance at all. Arrows fly through his fingers and he doesn’t need to know he’s hit them all. The sound of seven thuds is enough for him to know.

When he finishes it’s with enough time to grab a double handed hold on his bow. And when the jackass from before moves to say something, to point a finger, spit already threatening to fly, he strikes.

Hard and fast.

Just like how the guy stumbles back, weapon clanging against the floor.

He maneuvers himself around the edge of the group, until he has a lopsided semicircle of the Archer on one side and the collective rest on the other. Unconsciously, his shoulders raise and his chest fills out and he looms, offering only a cold sweeping glance over all of them.

"Iғ ᴛʜɪs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴀ ʀᴇᴀʟ ғɪɢʜᴛ, ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴛɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ. I sᴜɢɢᴇsᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴀ ʀᴇᴀʟ ғɪɢʜᴛ."

An order comes through his earpiece, and he changes his game. They are all over-aggressive, self-assured enough to hear a bait when delivered. He allows his foot to slide back slightly, his confidence apparently shaken. They'll smell blood in the water.

signal flow

Should he explain what he was? Does she know he's a weapon that is summoned often for another's purpose and not his own? And that, this time, that purpose wasn't at all clear? He remembers the broken chamber and the fluid he's suspended in draining from between the jagged pieces as he brutalizes his way to answer a call...

"I ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ I ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ."

It wasn't much, a call for help, the flash of a face and a bit of a name, but he's worked on so much less.

ＬＡＢＹＲＩＮＴＨ → the sentence meme