I hate stress (muscle cramps are a bitch and a half)

Clack

A familiar-shaped piece of metal was placed down on the table in front of me as our instructor passed more out in front of us. The straight rod, familiar curve of the hilt, and hooked shape under the crook were a dead ringer.

"Yes, it is a gun. No, it is not a toy. If I catch any one of you fooling around during my lessons when handling gun safety, there will be no hesitation for punishment and a swift replacement." Madame Volkova's voice echoed through the room, cold as ice and sharp as a finely honed blade. The taps of her heels were the only sound as we hung onto every word she spoke, anxious of being caught slacking unawares.

"Today, you will be familiarizing yourselves with the process of disassembling and reassembling." Shooting us a stern look, she clapped her hands.

"We will begin now!"

So here I am; six years old and blindfolded, handling a highly dangerous weapon that is capable of serious damage. What even is life?

Fingering the magazine catch, I press down on it, ejecting the magazine from the well with a click and slide into my right hand. The empty magazine was a bit hefty but wasn't as heavy as I thought it would be. Placing the magazine on my right, I placed my right hand on top of the slide in a four-fingered grip and slid it half an inch back then forward while clicking the slide locks with my left thumb and index, releasing the slide from the receiver with a surprisingly pleasant sound.

(I'd honestly do this over and over again just for the sounds alone. It's a pretty easy thing to get lost in and a good time-waster as well; easy to pick up as well after a few tries at it.)

Placing the receiver aside, my fingers squeeze the recoil rod located at the bottom of the slide from the inner part of the recoil rod towards the outer, and pulled the inner end away from the barrel, setting that aside next to the receiver. I then fingered the barrel, pulling the metal tube outwards away from the slide and then farther forward into the opening before pulling it back out.

Just as slowly, I started putting it back together, listening to my brother's progress. It seems that, just like me, he was getting more comfortable with the weapon. His hands were going at a slow pace like mine to prevent attracting any attention, but there was no faltering in any of his motions after his first two attempts at assembling and reassembling the gun.

Thankfully everyone's attention was on their own assemble, too focused on remembering which end goes where under the piercing blue gaze of our intense instructor who would occasionally question what function a part of the gun was for. The occasional classmate would flinch and hesitate on some parts when under her gaze, too nervous to move.

When it was nearing the last ten minutes of class, there was a knock on the door before a man wearing the staff uniform wheeled in a cart holding multiple cases inside the room. There was an air of question as my classmates poorly concealed their curiosity, craning their necks to look at the front.

Giving the man a quick nod to leave, he walked back out of the room, leaving us with the full cart. Curious, I tapped my desk and waited for the reverberations to hit; the cases were about the size of a violin case and inside, there were odd pieces of what seems to be metal. The more I study the shapes, the more familiar they become to me.

"Listen up!" Madame Volkova picked up one of the cases and placed it on the table that was strategically located in the front of the chalkboard. "The Program has provided every one of you a set of regulated guns you will be assigned to learn how to handle." Unlocking the metal clasps, she turned the inside of the case to us; inside was an unassembled pistol, much like the one we had practiced on as well as a cleaning kit.

"You may bring them to your assigned dorms and are allowed to practice shooting them in the shooting range during the hours provided to your division. There will be a schedule placed on the wall to inform you of when the available times are." Shutting the case, she locked the clasps. "Next week, you will be able to request rubber bullets for practice; mind you, real bullets will only be given out either when you are deemed ready."

Glaring at the class, she gave a serious: "Understood ?"

"Yes, Madame Volkova."

"Good," she nodded. "You may take a case on the way out. I expect you to practice today's lesson, there will be a review first thing in the morning tomorrow in class, and if any one of you fails, there will be consequences." Her hard stare ensured nothing comforting at those threatening words.

"You are dismissed!"

"Thank you, Madame Volkova."

Picking up a case on the way out, we made our way to the dance studio for our ballet lessons. My hand gripped the handle, white-knuckled as I realized what this meant.

It was almost time to send us out.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

"Here." I passed over Squishy's slippers.

Peeling off his last sock, he reached over to grab it. "Thanks."

My hands pulled my white long-sleeve as I walked over to the bench to put on my own pair. Pulling back the elastic band, I slipped on the slippers (pun not intended) and let go, creating a muted snap. My toes wiggled around in the soft footwear, a bit cramped. I'll probably have to ask for a new pair soon; it was getting a bit tight around the edges.

"I'll come with you, mine are a little small too."

"Oh," I touch my lips in realization. "Did I say out loud?"

"Yep~" He teasingly grinned, wiggling his fingers at me as his other hand put on his ballet slipper.

"Sorry."

Squishy just laughed it off, waving away my apology.

Snagging my sleeve with his hand, he tugged me to the exit, "C'mon, let's go. You know Ms. Nikitina isn't the most patient of people; remember what happened to Three from the 3rd division?"

Pausing at that, our minds involuntarily flashed back to that memorable day. Number Three was one of the older girls in the 3rd division. She excelled in the arts that were taught here: acting; singing; dancing—the works. That was all she worked well with, however, so Three was on thin ice for her lacking skills in the basics learned here like combat, mathematics, science, and history.

(Or anything regarding academics and the classes targeted toward our main purpose of being placed in this hell hole. Dumb as a rock, that one. Although, she does make for a good liar—that opportunist little shit—always getting away with not doing her best in any work given by blaming others. We always felt something off whenever she did that; as if something was interfering with the air around them.)

Despite treading a (very) fine line between useless and barely passable—her talents in the arts are her only saving grace—she was vain in every sense of being. Always fussing over how she looked and constantly complained about 'ruining her hairdo' or 'hurting her face' whenever the combat instructors were occupied and not paying attention. She was an all-around whiny lying brat.

Ms. Nikitina is one of the harshest instructors in the Program. She was brutal if anyone had incorrect form or was off a beat and was strict about her time used to teach us. Thankfully, she put me in the back to prevent any accidents from happening due to her distrust in me managing to follow along, leaving Squishy in charge of going over the different moves and stretches.

It had happened in our fourth month here when we were still trying to form an evaluation on where everyone was ranked. The Incident had happened in the last period of the day. Three had apparently been fussing over her hair and had taken fifteen minutes more than allowed to. I remember Squishy and I were in our usual spot in the back; my hands were pushing down on his back as he had his legs spread out on the ground and bent down between them to stretch out his hamstrings.

A girl had come out of the changing room and sat down on her designated spot, starting on her stretches. As each minute passed from the designated time of start with Three nowhere to be seen, Ms. Nikitina's face became tenser and tenser with annoyance. The air was so thick with tension coming off from her form you could cut it with a knife.

When it finally reached the five-minute mark, she snapped and walked up to the last girl who came out of the room. "Where is Three." There wasn't even a questioning tone in her words; it was a demand.

The girl questioned—I think she was Eight or Six, I can't bother to remember—was sweating buckets under the burning glare of our instructor, barely forming an answer when Ms. Nikitina just didn't bother waiting for an answer and walked off to the changing room. There was a pregnant silence as we watched her go; the moment she disappeared into the room, the class immediately erupted in an explosion of murmurs regarding what would happen.

"I knew this was going to happen."

"That bitch had it coming."

"Hopefully, we don't get caught up in the mess."

Some of our classmates were worried; others were eager to see what would happen, and then there were the ones who didn't give a shit and did what we were instructed to do. (Namely Squishy and I—and that one kid who always takes glances at us for some reason. The weirdo.) My brother and I were content to ignore what was going on and continued to stretch until we resumed class.

We heard a scream, which was followed by a loud Slap echoing from the room. Dragged by her red hair that she was so proud of, Three was thrown in the studio crashing face-first on the waxed floors, a bright red handmark on her pale cheek.

(A small part of me couldn't help but giggle internally when that happened, a quick twitch of Squishy's lips signaled his shared amusement. I don't know how I should feel about that. On one hand, it's morally wrong to take satisfaction in what was going to happen; on the other, she was one of the biggest sabotagers in the Program at the time, so it would be beneficial to us that she was gone. On the other other hand, she was a major bitch.)

What happened next involved a high-heel, a mirror, and a pair of scissors.

Three was swiftly replaced the day after.

End of story.

We shivered in sync at the memory, still fresh in our minds despite the time past. These days, we don't blink an eye at the punishments given out, too used to the harsh conditions; but Ms. Nikitina was one of the instructors we steer clear of upsetting.

"We should probably get going."

"Yeah."

Walking towards the exit, he let go of my sleeve at the last moment before anyone saw it, keeping his hands to his sides like mine as we made our way to our spots in the studio. The familiar smell of window cleaning solution and waxed wood fills my nose as we carefully make our way to the back of the room.

Starting on our stretches, I bent down while keeping my legs straight until my palms completely touched the floor, my twin stretching in sync with me. There was a slight burn as my leg muscles pulled a bit. Counting until five, I bent my knees into my chest a total of five times before returning to my original bent position and going on my tiptoes for another five. Moving onto the next form, my hands moved a bit forward as my feet took a half-step back leaving some space between my heel and the floor. I pushed my heels down and straightened out my back as my hips lifted up in the air, staying there for half a minute before going on my toe again five times.

Each movement I made was slow and practiced, as I hated rushing through my stretches. Pulling a muscle was a bitch and a half to get through, and I have no intention of ever being a victim to that.

(A cane rapped against my calf, bringing a sharp stinging pain I was all too used to that barely brought a tear to my eye anymore.

There was an exasperated groan as I fell down, already feeling my leg muscles smarting. "What was the point of teaching you those stretches if you seldom use them, you daft child." She sharply tapped their cane on the ground. "Now up. Today's lesson is over for now. See to it you ice those legs, and remember today as a warning."

"Always be prepared." )

Finally on our set of stretches, we sat down with our legs together in front of us as we bent forward until our heads touched our knees before slowly spread our legs out into a forward split, our hands clutching the arch of our foot as we bent forward on each side with our heads touching our knees. After a couple of more different positioned splits and stretches, we sat back on our bottoms, just in time as Ms. Nikitina strutted in through the door with a bang that would have surprised me if not for the loud aggravated pumping of her heartbeat I could hear from the second floor.

Blonde hair tied back into a tight bun with acidic green eyes—as described by Squishy—tall at a height of 180 cm, she cut a beautiful figure, the kind of beauty that you could only look at.

However, it seems like she's not in the mood to go easy on us today.

There was a barely-there snarl on her lips as her brows were furrowed in frustration at something. The gait in her walk was tense and quick as she went over to the CD player in the corner of the room. Taking in a deep breath through her nose and out her mouth, she turned towards us with a sharp smile on her face. Her heartbeat thrummed with rage.

Ah.

Squishy and I looked at each other with the same thought in our minds.

Today's lesson is going to suck.

"Students!" She called out, her sharp tones obvious in the clenching of her teeth.

Despite the obvious signs, we answered back with the others, wanting to just get this day over with already.

"Yes, Ms. Nikitina!"

"Today's program is especially difficult, so I want you to pick up the pace. There will be no daydreaming and dawdling, lest you want to be assigned any more practices than what I've already prepared for you. Now, am I understood? "

"Yes, Ms. Nikitina!"

^^^^^^^^^^^^

"What the hell happened in that bitch's life to be such a damn shit today!" Squishy groaned as he let the cold water run over his body. It was just us in the showers, as usual, giving him free rein over language.

I suppose I should've told him off for cursing but that would have been hypocritical of me, seeing as I spat a whole tirade full of swears this morning while trying to look for a pencil to use that I had forgotten was behind my ear.

(I will never live that down.)

"Freakin' banshee, that one."

I hummed in agreement; that was a spot-on description of what she was this afternoon. My ears felt like they were half a step away from bleeding under the torture that was her screeches. The number of times we had to pirouette had me feeling disoriented and barely able to do a complete set of piques; not to mention the other sets of jumps and turns we had to do for today's routine. I would not like to be the ones punished for not making it through the class.

A twinge from my calf had me let out a quiet groan of discomfort. My hand kneaded the muscle as best as it could in an attempt to soothe the strain caused by overuse. Thanks to our ability, the pain would usually ease away after a half-hour or so, but the consequence of the speedy recovery would be the immense concentration of pain that would occur during the time it takes to heal.

Poking his head out of the stall, Squishy looked at me with a bit of worry. "You alright there, Bratishka? Should I get you something?"

Bless.

"I'm fine," waving off his questions, I sighed and started taking off my shirt, "You almost done there?"

"Yeah, just give me a second."

Turning off the showerhead, he wrapped a towel around him and walked out of the stall as I finished undressing, closing my eyes before pulling off the blindfold. With a pile of clothes in my arms, I tossed them into the laundry bin before snagging a towel and getting inside the stall.

The moment I turned on the water, I couldn't help but let out a moan of bliss as the cold water soothe my aching body. My whole being practically melted into a pathetic puddle until it started shivering from the chill. It would be great if I stayed there until my lips turned blue, but I don't want to catch a cold so I reluctantly turned shut off the supply of water.

By the time I walked out, my twin had already finished drying his hair and was simply biding his time by playing with the issued practice gun. Running his fingers along the sides, he made the motion of pulling back the slide and aimed the end at an invisible target. Seems like he was already having fun with it.

Quickly changing—with Squishy helping me dry my hair—we made our way to History class with our cases in hand, which was thankfully our last period. When we were halfway there, our ears picked up two strangers standing at the doorway of our assigned room. Raising a questioning brow to my brother, I asked, "Did they tell us about any visitors coming today?"

He shook his head, "Not that I know of. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure, but it's suspicious."

With nothing else we could do, we continued to the classroom. The moment we were in the view of the two adults—they wore the same lab coats as the scientist from back then and had a weird vibe going around— we were prevented from going inside.

"One and Two from the 1st division?" The taller one asked Squishy in a clinical tone, leaving no room for any questions—as if he doesn't already know who we are by our tracking bracelets and the clipboard he was holding that no doubt had our pictures on it.

Not liking where this was going, Squishy's chord squeezed mine in assurance.

"Yes?"

"Is that a question or an answer?" The taller one mockingly asked with a sniff, obviously not impressed with what he was seeing. I could practically see the superiority complex oozing off of him—and I'm the one with the blindfold.

My twin let out the feeling of annoyance before schooling his emotions.

"Yes."

Nodding at us, he wrote something down on the clipboard before clicking his pen off.

"Come with us, you are needed elsewhere."

And didn't that sound ominous.