"Dad, can you teach me how to shoot?"

The words had fallen out of my mouth one morning over breakfast, the only time I really saw him before he went into his study to draw up more plans, most likely for his big comeback. He needed it to be perfect, and so he spent nearly every waking moment concentrating on it.

He'd been reading over the morning paper, the Gotham Herald, making silly comments about headlines and a photo of Oswald 'Penguin' Cobblepot being charged once again for distribution of illegal arms, but had gone quiet when I'd said those words.

"Why would you need to learn?" he asked, looking up at me over the paper.

I looked down at my feet. Of course I couldn't tell him about my plan to kidnap a notorious snitch and threaten his life, it would raise too many questions.

"I erm, thought about helping you out in the gang and stuff. Maybe if I learn to shoot I could be of use?" I replied.

He scoffed, but could tell I was serious. "It's a dangerous world out there, pumpkin. I wouldn't want you getting hurt, especially when you're not as capable as the guys."

I chewed my lip. "You don't know how capable I am until I try it, I suppose."

The corner of his lip twitched. "I don't have much time... but you may be onto something. Knives are great but not always practical." He put extra pronunciation on the l, as if his tongue was wrapping itself around the letter and choking it.

I gave him a smile as he put down his paper, and began to get up. "You've got an hour, that's all." he added.

"Oh thanks, dad! I won't waste your time, I promise." I giggled, getting up and following him, not too close, but enough to show I was interested. It was funny that though we had grown quite close and he seemed to have aspects of a dad, I was still quite cautious of him. I couldn't say it was because he was a murderer, because I suppose I was one too, and so was my mom and my Auntie Ivy, and I was just dandy with them. Maybe it was because he was fairly unpredictable, and I was still trying to scope out whether he wanted me here or not. Also to see if he would try and kill me.

I'd read up online about him and my mom, only to learn he'd tried to kill my mom several times, albeit she'd tried to kill him right back. That really ground my gears, the fact that he'd tried to kill her, and I after reading it I'd been very close to confronting him and understand what the hell he thought he was trying. However, I was sure I wouldn't keep my cool and then he might turn on me and try to kill me too. Maybe it was enough punishment for him that he'd failed to kill my mom, but some low life thugs succeeded in his place.

He entered another room, one that I had funnily enough, never seen or even accidentally bumped into when trying to find my way around the hideout. It was rather bland, decoration wise, but featured a set up indoor shooting range with an array of guns. They ranged from uzis to Tommy guns to just plain 35 caliber pistols.

"Boys, be off with you." he snapped, at three goons that were playing poker in the corner of the room.

They gave no sounds of displeasure, most likely because they would be shot on the spot, and left quickly without a word. The two of us were left alone and he turned back to me, clasping his hands together.

"So, have you ever shot a gun?" he asked.

"No, sir." I replied.

"Held a gun?"

"Nope."

"Hell, even been at a shooting gallery?"

I shook my head.

He threw his hands in the air. "Christ, curse your mother for being useless, least she could have done was let you have lessons."

"We were poor."

His smile fell. "Not paid lessons, stupid. I meant she could have driven you out in the middle of nowhere, set up some bottles, and let you try and shoot them down."

I shrugged. "I think she was trying to raise me to be a respectable citizen."

He let out a life. "It's America! Everyone and their dogs know how to shoot a gun. Well, everyone except you, but we can change that today." He opened the gun rack, and passed me a simple 9mm handgun, along with a magazine. It was surprisingly heavy in my hands, and I hand to redistribute my grip on it so I didn't drop it.

"We'll start simple. Pull the slide back."

He pointed at the specific part of the gun, and I obeyed, pulling it back.

"Now load the gun with a magazine, which I'm sure you've at least seen in movies."

I nodded, and slid the magazine into the bay with a click.

"Now pull the slide back further and let it go, which will allow the round to go into the chamber. Don't put your finger on the trigger at all until you're aiming it at your target."

I did as he said, and smiled in triumph.

"That was the easy part, now onto the shooting part." He stood behind me, placing both of my hands onto the weapon, and holding it at around shoulder height. "Stand wide, guns have quite a kickback and you're small, so I don't want you falling over." I stood with my legs at an angle, just wider than hip width apart. Dad stood back, and pointed at the red and white targets.

"Look down the scope... and gently pull the trigger."

I did so, and was absolutely underestimating the opposite force I would get. Staggering a little, I regained my balance to find my bullet hadn't even come close to the target that I had looked down my scope at.

He sighed. "I knew you'd be wasting my time."

I furrowed my brow but didn't reply, just lining up my shot once again. This time when I pulled the trigger I was more sturdy, and the bullet impacted the penultimate outer ring of the target. He kept giving me passive aggressive comments, on how I was doing it wrong, or how he could have spent his time much wiser, but I tried to shut him out as best I could.

Taking a deep sigh, I pulled it once more. I really thought it had it, but this bullet ended up even more far away than the last.

He groaned. "I know I said I'd give you an hour, but I don't think I can really be here for all of it. My blood is going to start boiling."

I raised an eyebrow. "Aren't fathers usually supportive?"

He gave me a simple grin. "Not this one. I'm realistic, and the reality of this situation is that you're not at all a natural, and I'm hungry."

My mouth fell agape, and with the gun in my hand I was tempted to just shoot him, but I was sure that wouldn't end up well.

He began to leave the room. "Feel free to practise in here. Don't use all my bullets though, toodles!" he sang, before the door slammed behind him.

If I had Superman's laser eyes I would have burnt down the door by now, as a glare pierced into where he had just been standing. I turned back to the targets, emptying the rest of the magazine into one. I pressed the release, let it fall to the ground, and slammed in another magazine, repeating the steps he had just taught me.

I may not have been able to get it on my first try, but I was going to show him just how well I could learn.

Around ten minutes later, I took a break, and slammed my empty handgun down rather carelessly. I sat there, discouraged, starting to believe that I really wasn't good enough to do this. There was the saying that practice makes perfect, but practice took time, and I was always the impatient type. My lungs pulled in deep gulps of air, as I sat on the ground and attempted to relax. When trying to do something right, but I found myself getting seemingly worse with every try, I usually found that catching my breath and relaxing would let me do it better next time.

I couldn't sit still for long before I had to get up again, and load my gun. I took a deep breath, slid the slide pack, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit between the two inner circles of one of the targets. My mouth made an o in shock, and if I was that way inclined, I would have cried.

I turned to the second target, and pulled it again. The bullet buried itself on the innermost dot - a bullseye. Without a pause, I swung to face the third target, pulled it and saw yet another bullseye.

"Oh fuck this." I swore to myself, emptying the handgun and picking up a larger pistol, with a larger caliber.

I repeated my routine, loading it, pulling back, pulling trigger, and this time I got a bullseye, or very close, on every target. Cockily, I proceeded to move on to a shotgun, and loaded the correct bullets into it.

"Waste of time, my ass."

I aimed it at the middle target, and pulled the trigger. In my fit of rage, I hadn't really accounted for the increased kickback, and so I was knocked backwards, and landed on my butt. My shoulder and behind were incredibly sore, but I couldn't help but laugh. I had acted too quickly, and now I was splayed out on my ass like a fool.

Again! Again! shouted the inner child in me, and so I jumped back to my feet. I raised the gun, pulled the trigger, and this time on purpose, let myself flop backwards on the floor. I cackled and held my stomach, light on breath. I just imagined someone in the middle of a gun fight not standing correctly, and flying backwards just because of the backwards force.

"Aight, it's serious now, bub." I mocked, in an Italian American gangster accent, and flipped up. I stood sturdily in a wide stance, pressed the butt of the gun to my shoulder - that would soon be bruised - and took a deep breath in. I pulled the trigger, and cringed a little at the kick. The bullet had a much larger impact, but smacked right into the centre of the middle target.

"Bullseye!" I cheered.

I shot at the targets again, and the hole overlapped with the first one, creating a sideways eight. Bullseye, after bullseye after bullseye. I put my hands in the air, still holding the heavy weapon, and gave a little dance like no one was watching.

Little did I realise, my dad was in fact watching from the doorway. With a smile on his face.