I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and positive, ready to tackle the shooting test ahead. Delfi joined me on the way to the mess hall, where we found the station bustling with activity. Every table was packed with people, and the woman serving food barely acknowledged me as she dished out a plate of goop.
As I navigated the crowded space, someone pushed me from behind, propelling me toward the food line. I turned to apologize, but the guy behind me brushed past, ignoring my attempts at communication.
"Sorry?" I said, trying to catch his attention.
He turned around, his small stature contrasting with his muscular build. "Get out of my way, maggot. I’ve seen you shoot. You’re not going to last long enough to starve."
Annoyed, I retorted, "I've trained since then!"
"Is that so?" he sneered. "Then you won’t mind a little wager. When we start competing group against group, will you choose my team as your first opponent?"
Confident in my abilities, I agreed. "Sure. Deal. What's your name?"
"I am Theodore Huntington the third. Our team is Team 03, the Deathshooters."
Before I could say anything else, Delfi pulled me away. "Hey, what?" I protested.
"Are you mad?" she whispered urgently. "That’s Theo, he’s won the biathlon world Olympics bronze medal last year. And haven’t you seen his friends yesterday? They are among the best marksman in our group! Do you want us to lose?"
Realizing my mistake, I quickly relented. "All right! I’ll not choose them. Who decides our competitors anyways?"
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"Majority vote or the team leader. We haven’t decided on one yet, but I’m afraid you won’t be it. Not by a long shot," she teased.
"Pun intended?" I asked, grinning.
"Yes." She laughed. "You’re never boring to be around, are you?"
As we made our way to the shooting range, Delfi explained to me how the shooting competition worked. Each team would have to shoot at various targets. The team with the lowest score would be disqualified immediately. In the coming days, different teams would compete against each other in a combat simulation. Losing would not necessarily mean disqualification. Officers would rank the performance of each team and disqualify the one with the worst performance. Going up against a particularly good team, would increase the chance to get wiped out badly.
We arrived at the shooting range, and I could feel my nerves starting to build up. This was my chance to prove myself and show everyone that I had what it takes to be a space marine. I took a deep breath and stepped up to the shooting line.
The first round was a simple target-shooting exercise. I could hear the sound of gunfire all around me as my fellow competitors fired at their targets. I took my time and aimed carefully, trying to ignore the pressure building up in my chest. When the buzzer sounded to signal the end of the round, I was surprised to find that I had scored higher than I expected. Not good, but better than expected. Overall, our team managed to get a score decent enough to reach solid middle placement.
The other members of my team performed significantly better. Delfi got one of the best scores of the whole tournament and even an approving nod from Sir-screams-a-lot. Malfeasony hit bullseye on his first three shots, then paused and resumed with a still good, but not perfect grouping. He acknowledged my questioning look, but said nothing. I had the feeling he could have scored better, but couldn’t imagine why. Not wanting to start another argument, I decided to ignore it.
To my surprise none of the groups got disqualified. Our instructor grudgingly admitted, that even the worst scoring group was still fully adequate. He also told us, quite loudly that he had noticed significant improvements compared to our first day at the shooting gallery. He explicitly did not look at me, which, since I was standing right in front of him, was telling. I swooned a bit on my feet. Was that a compliment?