Post Retribution.
He tried to ignore the presences at each of his sides as he spoke with the boy at the counter, checking in and receiving the box of his allotted shells. His voice was quiet, only enough effort to be audible put into it. He took the box, fingers curling around an edge and sliding it the rest of the way from where the boy had pushed it, letting it fall into a cradle of arms only the slightest bit awkward. The sound of the magazines shifting as they resettled told his brain to get moving and he hugged the box against him. He turned, nodding morosely to the boy, an ever-present state anymore, and prevented eye-contact all the while. And from what was left of his peripheral vision, he noticed the one on his right give a terse nod before moving to tail him.
He walked in silence behind the stalls, heading for his usual one and all too aware of the men following him. He knew he should have the muffs on but he really couldn't bring himself to care about a great many things, recently. Besides, the resentful thought came, why put all the effort required into bringing them from hanging around his neck to his ears when much more had been invested before and resulted in wretched failure? He imagined death would be preferable to life as it was now.
They were coming up on the mid-mark and there was only a bit further until his preferred booth, the second from the far end where no one would bother him. He'd started out watching his feet as he meandered but had given in to the faint curiosity of how the few people in here were faring, checking out the targets before sharp movement caught his eye. He turned to face forward and slowed to a stop at the two MP blocking his progress, the magazines clinking softly at his halt and an eyebrow moving in anxious confusion. Couldn't they just leave him alone, already?
"I'm sorry, sir," came the stand-offish voice from the MP on the right. "But you may not pass any farther."
"Why not?" His voice was not devoid of all authority, but it certainly lacked the assuredness it had held not two months ago. Wait…he recognized these men. His eye widened infinitesimally before it snapped shut. "No, never mind," tone cynical and frustrated. He half-turned away, free hand in pocket and face angled toward the floor. He couldn't resist the look he tried to sneak around the guards, to maybe glimpse the source of the methodical liberation of ammunition that he knew pounded the target with unearthly accuracy. But while he was not short and the guards not tall, he could not see around their broad shoulders and instead released a resigned sigh, finally completing his turn and settling for a stall closer to the entrance.
The box jingled as it landed on the counter and he pulled the muffs up. And with his jacket removed, he freed his gun, opened the magazine, checked it, slammed it against his left palm to reload it, and clicked off the safety. The left hand deftly dropped upon the top of the gun and jerked toward him, falling to support the pistol from underneath as he brought it level with his eye. He focused on the target, so clear before him and tuned out the guards, any remaining noise, and the flickers of the target a few booths down as it was pegged again and again. All his attention was on the target and the lone bullet freshly loaded into the chamber. He needed practice, and lately, longed for the solitude it afforded. Things were different, now. Practice was a necessity when only a gun stood between him and his enemies.
He couldn't afford any mistakes with only one eye and a gun cradled by naked hands, payment for a salvation newly delivered and bitterly received.