He didn't need to look up from his newspaper to know who was walking into the range; the regular clap of boots on the concrete floor, punctuating the steady hum of fluorescent lighting. This time of day most cadets were grabbing some down time between the finish of classes and training, before the dinner rush at the mess kicked off.
But not Cadet Hawkeye.
As her measured footstep approached he dropped the paper on his desk. Why did he bother reading it? It was full of propaganda. How those simple desert dwellers were supposed to be a threat to Amestris he'd never understand. Yet here was a photo of the glorious Alchemists, Iron Blood, Strong Arm, Crimson, Flame, all marching in defence of their country. Now the State Alchemists were involved the poor sods didn't stand a chance.
Not for the first time he was glad of the shrapnel in his knee keeping him from active service. Range Marshall at the Training Academy suited him well enough these days. At least his years fighting Aerugo border insurgents had defended against a serious threat. Hadn't it?
As the young cadet approached, kit bag in hand, he turned the sign in log around and offered her a pen.
God, she was young.
"Afternoon, Cadet. How's things?"
"Well enough, thank you Sergeant," Hawkeye replied as she signed the log.
Returning the pen, her hand suddenly hesitated midway and the Sergeant noticed her eyes locked on the photo in the paper; flags and Alchemists standing proud on the front line.
"Yeah, I pity those Ishvalans now."
Hawkeye said nothing but nodded respectfully and continued down the line of firing stations until she reached the farthest one. With ritual care, she unholstered two handguns, one from the small of her back and one from a shoulder holster, and laid them on the table along with a box of rounds from her kit bag. Finally she set up a target sheet on the pulley and sent it down range.
Then, as she did every afternoon, she practised. Methodically firing, reloading, and resetting her targets. Not that it seemed she needed to. Her accuracy as a sniper was becoming legendary around the camp and beyond.
The Sergeant watched for awhile, the smooth arc her arm traced through space as she practised drawing her weapon and discharging it into her chosen target. Hawkeye seemed so precise and proper, little more than a well designed cog being neatly crafted into the military machine.
But the Sergeant suspected she was something else. He'd seen her once in hand to hand combat.
The precision was still there, but the proper, the well mannered appearance was replaced with an unrelenting, elegant fury.
The precision was still there, barely containing a tempest. A cog that could crack the gears around it a bring down the machine.
He turned back to the newspaper and, passing over further stories of the wonderous achievements of the Amestrian military, he found the crossword. The crack of pistol fire alternating with the whizzing of the target pulley was a familiar accompaniment as he settled into his wrestle with the puzzle.
Harsh ringing from the telephone on his desk split the easy routine of the moment. The Sergeant answered and nodded.
"Yes, sir. I'll relay the message immediately."
He hung up the receiver and walked down the line to Hawkeye.
God, she was so young.
"Excuse me, Cadet."
Hawkeye dropped the target sheet she had just removed onto a pile on the desk and looked up.
"You've been ordered to the COs office. Asap."
It was late to be being summoned to the COs office and he knew the likely reason. An increasing number of Cadets were being advanced prematurely and sent to active service on the front line. Hawkeye's abilities as a sniper were not unnoticed.
"Very well. I'll just tidy…" she said beginning to crumple the sheets.
"It's ok. They sound like they want you there half an hour ago. I'll sort this," the Sergeant smiled and tried not to look concerned.
"Thank you, Sergeant," Hawkeye said as she holstered her pistols and collected up her bag. "See you tomorrow."
He'd miss the company of the blonde shooter. Hopefully she'd return to complete her training. As he watched her walk away he thought of the responsibility's her shoulders would soon have to bear. She seemed to carry enough already.
He picked up the discarded target sheets, silhouettes of an armed assailant in different poses, and noted the damage to each one. Large holes ripped the fibres of the heavy paper, where round after round had torn precisely through the same area.
Strange. He continued to leaf through the pile of used sheets noting the location of the perforations. Some were close in the torso yet none of the targets had been hit in the heart, or the head, or any instant kill zone. The Sergeant frowned. Hawkeye didn't miss.
What was she thinking?
Then he noticed the pattern.
Hands. Why the hands?
On every target, no matter the pose, hit after hit shredded the hands.
AN - Huge thanks to That-Hoopy-Frood and Nice_Valkyrie who are wise and generous and helped me feel ok about this wee thing.