09-02-2018, 05:46 PM
The room’s blacked out interior exploded to life. It was an indoor venue; a long rectangular room accommodating a crowd of 3000. The spectators sat on one end followed by a group of competitors and then a long space of nothing; everyone intently focused in the same direction toward the far end of the room where white targets lined the wall. One for each shooter.
It was July 26. Los Angeles, California, USA...the 2028 Olympics. The event: 50 Meter Rifle, Women’s 3 Position. Standing, kneeling, prone. The target was the size of a US dime, which had seemed big to then five-year-old Nika. She’d said so when her mom had placed it in her hand and the elder woman laughed in response. From where the competitors were to the targets it was not a big area to hit at all and later Nika would wonder, also aloud, who thought to make the targets so far away. ‘Can’t you move them closer? That would make it easier.’ Her mom had laughed at that too.
All around her shooters wore their strange outfits of stiff canvas, designed to minimize the natural movement of the body which greatly affected the accuracy of a shot. Even something as mundane as the beat of your heart rippled outward to your muscles, even if the average person was unaware of it. In shooting one had to pay attention to everything; breathing, heart rate, heart beat. It was an incredible exercise of control. There were more factors too; gravity, muzzle velocity, air resistance, altitude, temperature, trajectory, weather, etc. Shooting indoors was completely different from shooting outside, naturally. Olympic shooting was different from so called ‘sniping’ in some sort of combat, hunting, or whatever you wanted to call the scenario.
Nika was something called cross dominant. In shooting terms, this meant she was right handed but left-eye dominant. Her mom’s answer to that had been simply to teach her to shoot with both hands. As the Atharim assassin spent a lot of her time training; it was a part of her daily routine that she mixed VR and actual shooting from an average of one to three hours a day. She’d vary both the weapons and time in which she practiced. Sniper rifle, assault rifle, pistol, trick shots...long range, close quarters, defensive, the woman practiced it all; fresh at the start of a day, mid-way through and exhausted after long bouts of exercise and the like. Perfect practice made perfect.
The venue itself was brightly lit and decorated with the Olympic rings as well as the soaring angel logo of this particular Olympics. Nika was down on the competition floor. Options allowed her to delete the other competitors, judges, crowd, etc. If she left the crowd on, she’d see her five year old self next to her father in the stands. As a child she had tried very hard to sit still so as not to be a distraction. There had been a picture taken of her at the 10 meter air rifle event four days prior in which she was captured with the overly-exaggerated intense stare of a child, both fists on her chin, as though she was willing her own mother to win. Someone had captioned the photo, “Italian coach drives Raskov to Gold.” The Italian Team had plastered it up in their section of the Olympic Village on the UCLA campus and apparently it had amused them to no end. NBC had gotten hold of a copy and made sure to keep an eye on little Nika during the next event. She had not disappointed. It had been hilarious and adorable and a great feel-good story as her mom had also ended up winning gold in the 50 meter 3 Position. Ultimately Nika ended up with a lot of footage with which to build this particular program.
She was right next to her mom, having replaced an athlete from China. Both kneeling first, Nika settled in, chambered a round and started her breathing exercise. Downrange the white target seemed very small. She aimed, cheek resting on the rifle’s stock. Slow breath, as though she could will the molecules around her to stillness; fired. The score on screen read 10.2, a good shot but her mother was ahead with a 10.4; she had all the scores memorized. Nika ejected the spent casing and glanced sideways. A 10.6 would come next followed by an incredible three successive 10.8s that the crowd went wild over. Her eyes remained on her mom. The other woman fired again.
Drawn, Nika watched her. Blonde hair in a careless bun, a shooter’s visor held the shorter strands away from her face and blocked the glare from lights. She was so beautiful. Nika could remember the way she smelled and how she spoke. Lea Raskov was a native Swede and it was a family pastime to tease the woman about the number of times she said ‘yah’ in the course of a conversation. Her daughter later on had particularly loved the peculiar way she rolled her Rs. A lump formed in the back of her throat. Nika swallowed and closed her eyes. Last night had been difficult. The flashback. She opened her eyes to see her mom’s smile. Three 10.8 shots in a row. The lump in her throat would not be subdued this time. Nika felt her own mouth pull down. Her eyes welled. She choked on an ambitious sob and paused the program, her mother froze mid-smile...she was glancing toward the stands where her husband and daughter sat.
The rifle slid to rest butt-first on the floor and she clung to the barrel two handed as though it were the only thing supporting her in the entire world. Because it was. Hot tears spilled down her face like a broken dam. Lea was three feet away yet nowhere at all. Nika shook as unbidden grief tore her to pieces. Empty, so incredibly alone. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to be held again. Loved. To be loved...but her family was gone forever.
It was July 26. Los Angeles, California, USA...the 2028 Olympics. The event: 50 Meter Rifle, Women’s 3 Position. Standing, kneeling, prone. The target was the size of a US dime, which had seemed big to then five-year-old Nika. She’d said so when her mom had placed it in her hand and the elder woman laughed in response. From where the competitors were to the targets it was not a big area to hit at all and later Nika would wonder, also aloud, who thought to make the targets so far away. ‘Can’t you move them closer? That would make it easier.’ Her mom had laughed at that too.
All around her shooters wore their strange outfits of stiff canvas, designed to minimize the natural movement of the body which greatly affected the accuracy of a shot. Even something as mundane as the beat of your heart rippled outward to your muscles, even if the average person was unaware of it. In shooting one had to pay attention to everything; breathing, heart rate, heart beat. It was an incredible exercise of control. There were more factors too; gravity, muzzle velocity, air resistance, altitude, temperature, trajectory, weather, etc. Shooting indoors was completely different from shooting outside, naturally. Olympic shooting was different from so called ‘sniping’ in some sort of combat, hunting, or whatever you wanted to call the scenario.
Nika was something called cross dominant. In shooting terms, this meant she was right handed but left-eye dominant. Her mom’s answer to that had been simply to teach her to shoot with both hands. As the Atharim assassin spent a lot of her time training; it was a part of her daily routine that she mixed VR and actual shooting from an average of one to three hours a day. She’d vary both the weapons and time in which she practiced. Sniper rifle, assault rifle, pistol, trick shots...long range, close quarters, defensive, the woman practiced it all; fresh at the start of a day, mid-way through and exhausted after long bouts of exercise and the like. Perfect practice made perfect.
The venue itself was brightly lit and decorated with the Olympic rings as well as the soaring angel logo of this particular Olympics. Nika was down on the competition floor. Options allowed her to delete the other competitors, judges, crowd, etc. If she left the crowd on, she’d see her five year old self next to her father in the stands. As a child she had tried very hard to sit still so as not to be a distraction. There had been a picture taken of her at the 10 meter air rifle event four days prior in which she was captured with the overly-exaggerated intense stare of a child, both fists on her chin, as though she was willing her own mother to win. Someone had captioned the photo, “Italian coach drives Raskov to Gold.” The Italian Team had plastered it up in their section of the Olympic Village on the UCLA campus and apparently it had amused them to no end. NBC had gotten hold of a copy and made sure to keep an eye on little Nika during the next event. She had not disappointed. It had been hilarious and adorable and a great feel-good story as her mom had also ended up winning gold in the 50 meter 3 Position. Ultimately Nika ended up with a lot of footage with which to build this particular program.
She was right next to her mom, having replaced an athlete from China. Both kneeling first, Nika settled in, chambered a round and started her breathing exercise. Downrange the white target seemed very small. She aimed, cheek resting on the rifle’s stock. Slow breath, as though she could will the molecules around her to stillness; fired. The score on screen read 10.2, a good shot but her mother was ahead with a 10.4; she had all the scores memorized. Nika ejected the spent casing and glanced sideways. A 10.6 would come next followed by an incredible three successive 10.8s that the crowd went wild over. Her eyes remained on her mom. The other woman fired again.
Drawn, Nika watched her. Blonde hair in a careless bun, a shooter’s visor held the shorter strands away from her face and blocked the glare from lights. She was so beautiful. Nika could remember the way she smelled and how she spoke. Lea Raskov was a native Swede and it was a family pastime to tease the woman about the number of times she said ‘yah’ in the course of a conversation. Her daughter later on had particularly loved the peculiar way she rolled her Rs. A lump formed in the back of her throat. Nika swallowed and closed her eyes. Last night had been difficult. The flashback. She opened her eyes to see her mom’s smile. Three 10.8 shots in a row. The lump in her throat would not be subdued this time. Nika felt her own mouth pull down. Her eyes welled. She choked on an ambitious sob and paused the program, her mother froze mid-smile...she was glancing toward the stands where her husband and daughter sat.
The rifle slid to rest butt-first on the floor and she clung to the barrel two handed as though it were the only thing supporting her in the entire world. Because it was. Hot tears spilled down her face like a broken dam. Lea was three feet away yet nowhere at all. Nika shook as unbidden grief tore her to pieces. Empty, so incredibly alone. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to be held again. Loved. To be loved...but her family was gone forever.