Disclaimer: I most definitely don't own Full Metal Alchemist, and I most definitely never will. ;-;
Notes: Took Hawkeye at the firing range, and tried to get into her head... and this is what I got...
Reload
Metallic ring and Click.
Fire.
Gunsmoke curls through the humid air.
Reload.
Click.
Fire.
Eight shots, carefully counted.
There's something oddly comforting about the feel of the pistol in my hands, the bullet's straight path, the jerk of the recoil. It's so simple on the surface, but with a chemistry and complex workmanship behind the external form that it's somehow so true to everything we are.
Reload.
Click.
A sound solid structure. To house such power, how else could it be? To serve the military, to maintain order, to be a strong ally, a solid support, and to follow one man without question... How could I be any other way? Could I survive under any other guise?
Fire.
Another eight bullets in the bullseye.
Even by shedding my military jacket in favour of a t-shirt, I can feel
beads of perspiration forming in the damp heat.
Reload.
A true path, a straight path, directly to the target. A path I plot for my bullet, but a path I cannot possibly arrange my life along. There are always obstacles, and bends, and turns, and roundabouts, and curbs, and loop-de-loops with no-turning-left-during-rush-hour signs on the roadsides. A gust of wind can curve a bullet's path, but will not stand that bullet on end. A perfectly planned path was whipped into a muddy puddle in less than an instant with the simple acceptance to work under a certain ambitious alchemist.
Clicklack.
A deep breath and a steady hand.
Fire.
We all wish we knew what to expect. That we could prepare for the jarring recoil of consequence.
How could I have known the extent of that recoil when I began?
That my loyalty to this man would lead me here, to a place where a decision seems straightforward in the remaining shadows of that first One.
You ask if I would come with you.
But you already know the answer, as do I.
Another perfect eight.