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"No, no. Your stance is all wrong." Desmond lifted himself from his spot at the fence and mimed the demonstration in front of her. "You have to stand square." He drew a line between his feet, a useless distinction all things considered. "See where I'm standing? You're supposed to be parallel."
"I am parallel." Eva's words sounded more indignant than intended, but it wasn't as if she was lying. Both feet parallel, just as he instructed. Yet her arms were starting to strain just holding the bow, her shoulders starting to form a knot.
"Hmm. Not quite. Your front foot's just behind your back foot. That's more a open stance, than anything." He made no comment on Eva's shaking form, yet the trembling where she held the arrow high increased, the only thing she could focus on. Almost as it to backspace the comment, he shook his hands in front in retaliation. "Look, close your eyes for ten seconds. See if that works for you."
The whole exercise felt a bit silly. What started as a wandering thought as they walked through the campus grounds early in the morning ended up an easy lecture by Desmond and a hands-on demonstration. "Anything to get my mind off things," he reasoned. Eva didn't question it; the last few times someone questioned Desmond's ulterior motives, he denied the answer, lending evidence to his honesty.
And it was fair that he'd teach her anyway; most people find reliability in experts in the field and while the subjective is painful in that department, she couldn't find any significant fault in Desmond's credentials nor character. Nothing in the way he taught - concise, demonstrative, easy for even a beginner to understand - showed any less than mastery.
It didn't disguise Eva's expanding impatience, through no fault of his own. Second by excruciating second, she closed her eyes and the pain still reverberated in her. Archery, she knew, was a sport that required muscle training, something she had mostly neglected in favor of her professional work. Her arms bore the blunt of the pain, and she counted in her head the seconds the moment she could finally survey her work.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
She opened her eyes only to her hold on the arrow shifted to the left, pointed directly towards the rim of the target instead of dead center.
She heard the sharp intake of disappointment from him. "Square stance," Desmond repeated. In front, he acted as proverbial mirror to her abysmal response, pulling one of the arrows from his quiver as his silly little prop. "It's supposed to be a beginner stance for a reason."
Beginner. A term that didn't apply to Eva because, in truth, she's no 'beginner' at anything. She was just someone who learned quick and mastered, not perfected, easier. Beginner meant that she was prone to mistakes. Part of her wanted to talk back, clarifying that no, a beginner was such a juvenile way to refer to starting fresh on a hobby. But there was no point arguing to someone with the knowhow as a marksman.
And said marksman, he put in his everlasting patience onto her as he continues to mime. "See? Easy." He emphasized his pose again, indicated that this is how she's supposed to stay in her form.
Right. Easy.
So she huffed and followed through, put her feet in parallel with the target. Her shoulders attempted to untense, but it ends up seizing her. She settled her breathing so that she'd accept the results of her attempt easier. She lined up the arrow dead center, right where the tiniest yellow circle would be. Closed one eye just to focus on her target easier. Increased the momentum by pulling the bow further and let go.
A notch. Right between where yellow and red bled. Eva's facial muscles twitched at the mistake.
Desmond didn't react as if he was disappointed. Instead, he clapped at her attempt, eyes closed in contemplation, surely. "That's good," he softened the blow of her utter failure. "Try again, okay? This time--" and here, he put himself in the same position again, this time the arrow just a millimeter lower, eyes wide. "--keep both eyes open. Helps you have clear vision where the target would be."
Eva frowned, because that just wasn't what she experienced other sharpshooters did in the past. They would close their eyes just to make their shot more precise, especially with someone with her vision. Still, she did not consider arguing, instead listening to Desmond's advice and kept her eyes wide open. Lined up to precisely the center. Took the shot. She looked to see where the arrow went.
Still off-center. This time, much lower. And much more off center.
"It didn't land." Out of desperation, than anything. Eva lowered her bow and sighed.
"That's okay. You just need to try again." He gave her a smile with no hidden agenda beneath it.
Easy for him to say when he was good at what he does. Ultimate be damned, trained work in archery was leagues different than a quick ten minute session. Still, Eva didn't let that deter. She simply nodded and steadied her position of the arrow again. Back to the target.
Simple. Easy. That was what Desmond said.
However. It was arrow after arrow, each further and further away from the center of the target. Her patience waned at each consecutive miss. Yet through some miracle, Desmond didn't waver his support. In fact, the drive became urgent, his encouragement building up as her arrows formed recognizable shapes across the target.
The latest arrow missing the sliver of the actual target, however, had him suck air through his teeth, and Eva gulped at it, a final straw. "How about you try going closer?"
"I don't need to," she bluffed. Her pride was one thing; her competence was another. She breathed through her nose, hoping that Desmond didn't see the effort exerted. Just for a target, no less. "One more shot." She held up a finger.
Any other person would try to stop her. Desmond only shrugged, but his eyes conveyed extreme worry. "Alright. It's you're call." Like he was used to Eva's assumed reluctance.
She took Desmond's advice, at the very least, to scoot closer to the target. Just one inch so that she could actually make a perfect shot. The bow weighed heavy, Eva breathed in and out and focused solely on the target. It was no strife if she didn't make the target, but in the moment, this was the only thing that mattered for her.
The target mocked her, unscathed. At the bottom, her first arrow, another taunt. And Desmond, monitoring behind her, he didn't even consider mocking as a viable reaction.
So she let go of the arrow. "See? Perfect-"
The sound of leaves ruffling interrupted her train of thought. Eva opened her eyes to catch a glimpse of digital birds flying haphazardly to who knows where, their nest interrupted. Unfortunate that the dome didn't crack. More unfortunate was the loss of her arrow.
"-shot." Her voice dropped. Her stance, her bow, her self-esteem, they all dropped. She calculated it. Not too windy, her stance was perfect, her eyes both open and she even calculated where her shot would land without interference from Desmond. What inanity made this impossible to grasp?
Clearly, Desmond felt her ever-growing cringe. His eyes averted. Gave her an uneasy grin, akin to an apology pat on the back. He tightened the grip on his quiver, and that all but stamped the absolute embarrassment on her part. "Maybe we should take a break, yeah?"
Pity fries, cut too thin and salted too much for her liking. Still, she bit into them, let the salt shrivel in her tongue. Overall, fine for freezer food, better as an antidote for awful targeting skills.
But Desmond took it all in stride, his smile tattooed as he grabbed a share of fries and dropped it on his plate. "It's okay. Not everyone gets a bullseye on their first try." His reassurance, rung hollow. "It just takes practice."
Practice and logic and math, she would have said. It was easy to theorize the math of archery. Predict the trajectory of where the arrow would land. There was predictability and patterns, and Eva was a master at finding those patterns. The stars just didn't align this one time. She didn't say much on Desmond's statement. Only "I see" before silencing herself and nibbling on a particularly crispy fry.
"But you did good! Don't get me wrong, it's better than most beginners." Meaning: you still kind of suck. No amount of reassurance can shrink Eva's disappointment. He picked on a stray fry and swirled it on the pool of ketchup. "Ah, I guess I'm still stuck in that Ultimate mindset. Sorry." He shrunk into the chair, his shoulders loosen.
Don't give it a name, she thought, it just makes the practice legitimize and lets it continue. Desmond was the last person she considered falling into the mindset, considering his lackadaisical manner in which informs his practice. "What do you consider marksmanship, then?"
"It's just something I do on my end."
"Not a hobby?" But something?
He shrugged at the suggestion. "Well, not anymore. But I'm not complaining. It's just a bigger part of my life now that I have to embrace." He sighed, his shoulders dropping. "For better or worse, I'm afraid."
Yes, she was familiar with the worst of these questions. Asking someone if they've ever killed just for handling guns was inappropriate no matter the context, but it was a heinous thing especially for a marksman. Especially Desmond, honest as he was humble. Nothing like having a so called "Ultimate mindset."
Whatever that means. Eva focused on eating her once frozen fries instead. "Must be a lot of pressure," she muttered.
"A little bit, yeah." Desmond rubbed his neck, unsure. "But I assume that's for all Ultimates, right? You gotta live up to the title, you know?"
"Mm." There wasn't much to live for under the title. Anything she couldn't do that a normal person could, anyway. It wasn't like she could apply for a different title.
His face turned grave. "Actually, what about you? What does constitute as Ultimate Liar?"
"Hm?"
"Can you even be pressured to be one?" His mouth twisted into confusion.
"Why do you ask?"
"Just. Can't imagine anyone doing it for a living."
Of course. A living. That was the Ultimate mindset he must have been thinking about; doing something for fame and money, not because it's a talent made to be for fun. Selfish and conceited and will do anything to stay relevant.
There was nothing 'talented' about what Eva did. It didn't warrant as a talent because it was too unglamorous and ugly for the UTP to consider. At least too ugly compared to the title they bequest onto her. Of course Desmond's right; lying isn't a talent anymore than her true designation. But that's just part of her, not the whole of her.
Would he be capable of rendering the truth the way it did? Desmond, on the cusp of his hobby being the whole of him instead of just one facet, wanting to understand the whole conceit of how the UTP operated. Even she didn't know the full extent, but they both knew that UTP's hold on society meant dumbing yourself down into a specific labeled box for everyone's convenience. The pressure of being the best of the best for whom, no one really knew.
"It's just who I am." She dipped the fries into ketchup. "Nothing more than that." Bit onto the fries. More salt that potato. Desmond stared at her curious, forcing her to continue. "It's not much pressure, if you're asking." It was a title for her; there was no pressure just to be considered a liar.
Desmond's eyebrow quirked, his mouth formed into a pout. Maybe this wasn't the answer he wanted. Certainly, that was all she could give him. "Yeah. I get it. I mean, I get your predicament. Me, I just get bombarded by comparison, you know. They don't really accept just me, they accept me, but better. You know?" He broke eye contact with him, holding his head in his hand. "Ah, I'm just rambling at this point."
"It's fine." She herself wasn't much of a conversationalist, so having company of someone who was willing to talk worked fine with her.
"I don't want to sound like I'm ungrateful, though. It's still a great opportunity. There's just challenges, you know. I try not to let them affect me, but it's." He sighed. "Maybe I'm worrying too much."
"Perhaps you are." And he was. Letting the UTP dictate his course of action. Puppet on strings and all that. This was more than just a him problem - it was larger than one conversation over fries.
Eva looked out on the greenery. The target still taunted her. Paint chipped from failed attempts. Maybe too was the UTP warping her own understanding of her abilities, wanting to master, not enjoy.
"You're still considering taking another shot at it?"
She turned back against him. "...it just doesn't make sense."
"Sure it does. It just takes practice. Just more focus on hitting the target and less... right, right. Still in that Ultimate mindset again. Sorry, sorry, I'm trying to not do that." Laughed because he could. Perhaps it was best to flock away from the topic of talent for now.
"Don't be sorry. It's good advice." Almost like she was commanding him to continue.
"You peak a lot. I notice you move your hand so you can see where the arrow lands. Peeking only changes the directory of your arrow. So if you're aiming at the center and you peek, it'll go in the direction your arm moves."
Eva watched as Desmond's movements unfolded, solid and knowing. She imagined the trajectory of the arrow hitting its mark, right at the center. Just like he predicted.
"Like that. Now, the real question; do you want to try again?"
There was really only one answer for that. She just had to be sure to hit the target, one more time. That was all she needed.
Square stance, wider than her shoulders, aligned with her hip. Determination wracked her as she breathed in and out, the bright yellow of the target's center at her eyeline. The sweat that coated her palms, transferred onto the bow, didn't help matters.
Desmond, he watched intently, palms together as if in prayer. "You've got this," he muttered, a mantra of encouragement that weighed on her to get this perfect, as if the world depended on this.
Right. No pressure.
The bow, just as weighty as before but less cumbersome for her shoulders to carry. She pulled the string back, let her steady herself as she closed her eyes. Count of ten. All the while, she could hear the whispers of "You can do it Eva, you can do it" refuel her renewed interest, ending with the gentle but forceful applause once she pulled on the bow.
No peeking, his words echoed. She let the arrow travel as necessary.
The first thing she saw was the target, with one singular bow dead center of the yellow.
She turned back to Desmond, the crinkling of his eyes paired with his wide smile and his hands clasped together, bouncing just slightly at the triumph. "You did it! Good job, Eva!" A whole different side, divorced by his keen, sharpshooter attitude. It was the most real she'd seen Desmond.
Pride surged through her as she tossed her hair aside as an - admittedly, smug - grin formed on her face. She could afford a little showboating just for that. "Nothing less than perfect."
Just as intended.
(On closer inspection, the shot actually was a few millimeters away from the target, but Desmond's enthusiastic cheering drowned out that particular mistake.)