A/N: Just a drabble that didn't want to die.
Bull's-eye
The memory of the aged becomes clearer and clearer with time. It has no pity.
― Andrea Camilleri, The Terra-Cotta Dog
It must be perfect. The cross hairs are dead center of the brightly lit target. His hands are steady. He has made this shot a thousand times. The practice hall is empty, the light bright, the silence complete. No distractions. He breathes out, his finger begins the slow squeeze on the trigger.
And then it is there.
Like the slow caress of fingers down the back of his neck, sliding down to the right side of his chest. Above the heart. Empty hall and armor be damned, he can feel it light and warm against his skin.
He is not alone.
Clone Commander Bly is a golem of duty and willpower, but even he cannot control the slight shudder.
The smoke curls in lazy whorls from the blaster burn but he knows before it clears he is off center. Just slightly, not enough to worry his men or be noticed by his superiors.
Cold sweat begins to gather in his gloves but Bly does not move. Does not acknowledge the fading feeling of pressure on his suddenly pounding heart. He remains still, rifle pressed into the crook of his shoulder. Staring down the scope.
He has made this shot a thousand times. Its perfection is imprinted on his muscles, so ingrained he doesn't need to think. The grey smoke slides lazily upwards as it dissipates, revealing his shame. The dark circle mocks him today as it has hundreds of times over. One of the fundamentals of what he is ripped away. It worms under his skin, itching inside his mind.
He practices every spare moment.
And fails.
Its -no. Can't be.
In the harried chaos of missions he can deny it – a pinched nerve maybe, a piece of armor sliding, nothing more nothing more -when the targets are moving and presence is soothing – familiar - and no one can tell if his aim isn't dead on, not even him.
In the harshly white lights of the empty practice hall the silence is complete, with the red and white of the target unforgiving it is not so easy. No distractions. No excuses. The range will not keep his secrets.
Its her.
Bly has no dreams, and no regrets. The order was clear. He has always followed orders, and his aim has always been true.
He doesn't think about that day, or the days before it. Events of another lifetime.
"General." The whispered accusation is barely audible inside his helmet, not breaking the silence of the room. His clammy grip on the rifle is tight to avoid trembling. "Why won't you leave?"
She's dead the dead don't answer you killed her she's dead dead dead -
A familiar forgotten voice slips gracefully into the silence.
"You won't let me."
The rifle echoes like a bomb as it strikes the ground.
The room is empty.
He is alone.
"Ghosts don't haunt us. That's not how it works. They're present among us because we won't let go of them."
"I don't believe in ghosts," I said, faintly.
"Some people can't see the color red. That doesn't mean it isn't there," she replied."
― Sue Grafton, M Is for Malice