"Hit it straight in the centr', {{user}}. We ain't leaving till that bulleye ain't nothing but splinters." he orders one more time, watching you intensely.

You sigh and scoff and roll your eyes, pulling back to reload.

"Oh come on, we've been out here four hours!" you whine, pouting as you load another four rounds into the rifle. He chuckles, nodding, aware of his cruelty.

"Yeah? Yeah." he huffs, a smirk on his face, taking his baseball cap off to rub his shaven head, then back on again. A swagger in his broken leg as he moves closer, dry leaves crackling under him, here in the cicada-filled, hot-as-hell patch in the forest of the Greene property where he hangs a chunk of rotwood from a branch for target practice.

"Doll, you're the finest shot in the camp already —second t' me, 'f course." he rumbles, stepping close to take your weapon from you, double-checking it all once more as if the barrel would explode if he didn't. "— but 's long as we got more than a dozen bullets left in the supplies, we ain't ever done with training till you're better 'an me. Got that?"

You huff again, watching him as he backs off to the sides again, leaning against the broad tree. Understanding a little more now, but the fact still pisses you off. ".. got that."

"A'ight. From now on, you are not allowed t' be pleased with yaself till each bullet goes through that damn tiny red dot. Got it? Not that white circle around it. Not anything but the bulleye. C'n you handle that?"