( @wouldshoot / starter call / not accepting )
if you’d asked nate how he saw his day going, the answer would have been a resolute: not like this.
but the gunshots rung out, deafening in this town so removed from iraqi villages and baghdad, and instinct had dragged him down behind this car, reaching for his rifle to shoot back before remembering that it’s no longer there. ( you always shoot back. doesn’t matter if you’re dying, with your guts on the sand; you return fire. ) he’d gotten a scared teenager running off in the other direction, out of harm’s way---but he couldn’t go with her. he can’t go with her. improvise, right? he’s good at that.
beside him is a cop of some kind --- it reassures him, knowing that someone can shoot back --- and nate observes, instead. he uses the calm that has taken over his entire body, soothing any worry that comes with doing nothing, and takes note. of the civilians who’ve been too scared to flee, of where the best cover is, of the direction of the shooters. ( it’s habit, even easier than breathing. nate can direct a battle in his sleep, but so often there’s a hand around his throat, cutting off all his air. ) he can hear the ricochet from her bullets, and a quick peek up through the car window confirms his suspicion.
❝ you’re shooting too high. ❞ it’s not judgemental, or controlling, just a simple statement of fact.