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chapter fourteen!
SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT
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ARES KNOWS THAT some of the things he does or says don't exactly line up with other people's morals. He is well-aware of the fact that he's pretty skewed in the head, meaning he can act in ways that make other people go wide-eyed, or thinks things that would make them raise an incredulous brow if they ever heard what runs through his mind.

For example, most people wouldn't feel so elated by having a gun in their hands.

Ares knows this because of the wary expressions on their faces. There are about thirteen other people in the Guns 101 class taught by him and Blake: Clarke (which is kind of a no-brainer), Nate, Kiernan, Raven, Harper, Jones, Jasper, Myles, Sterling, Monroe, Drew, Connor, and Derek. He only knows their names because Blake had given him a run-down before they'd arrived. He'd said something about how knowing their names might make them more inclined to listen to Ares, but whatever. He isn't so sure about Jones— the kid clearly hasn't forgotten about their ordeal with the poison fog when Ares had elected to leave Rhett behind. He keeps glaring at Ares like he's waiting for the perfect opportunity to shoot him right between the eyes.

Sensing the mounting tension that's already beginning to thicken between the two boys, Blake turns to Ares and mutters, "Don't worry about Jones. I'll handle him."

The man faces the group, his eyes briefly scanning the clearly nervous teenagers. Ares gives them a good, hard look as well. Jasper is trying and failing to hold his rifle comfortably. It looks clunky and awkward in his spindly arms, shifting around restlessly in a way that makes Harper and Monroe, who flank either side of him, edge away in case the safety flicks off. Nate looks bored already. It's probably just an act, but the dazed expression on his face doesn't make Ares feel any better about teaching this lesson. Handling other people isn't his specialty unless it involves beating the shit out of them.

To his surprise, it's Raven who gives him a small, supportive sort of grin. He dumbly blinks at her in response and doesn't have the two senses to lift his lips in response. Before anything else can happen, Blake launches into one of his notorious speeches.

"Listen up!" he announces, instantly bringing every speck of attention to him. Even though their group is relatively small and the rest of the camp is bustling from beyond their space behind the massive dropship, the very forest seems to halt to listen. "These should turn the tide and level the playing field. I don't think I have to remind you that these are not toys. There's a good amount of bullets in that bunker, but that doesn't mean they should be wasted. Remember that our supplies are limited. These are for protection, not for you to shoot your friend's eye out on accident."

It takes all of one second of peace for Jones to open his mouth.

"And what is Ortega doing here?" The boy's eyes are narrowed in his direction, his dark face pinched with hatred. "Needed to keep him on a leash so he doesn't kill us all?"

Nate, Kiernan, — and, to Ares' bewilderment, Raven — immediately open their mouths to jump to his defense, but Blake cuts them off with his own warning glare at Jones. "Ortega is here because he knows what he's doing. Now, if you actually want to learn, I suggest you shut up and let us do the talking."

Jones wisely shuts his trap, though he doesn't look happy about it.

"We're going to show you what it looks like to fire these," Blake explains. "Ortega?"

Ares shoves down the nerves fluttering in his gut, not so much butterflies as some sort of deranged monster gnawing at his insides. Why did Blake have to make him demonstrate first? If he messes up, he'll be the laughing stock of the entire group. It's been a year and a half since he'd touched a gun, and the ones used in the Underground had been pistols.

He blames all of the eyes on him. He's not shy, but he hates people. He still isn't accustomed to people actually paying attention to him, and the kids watching his every move, his every breath, make his grip on the weapon slightly slippery.

He'd had only last night to familiarize himself with the workings of an automatic rifle. It's different than a pistol for numerous reasons, not only in size but also weight, kickback, and aim.

His eyes briefly sweep the small gathering. Nate gives him a subtle thumbs up. Kiernan's grin, though small, is reassuring.

Ares releases a breath, raising the gun toward the empty space they'd chosen for target practice, a large cloth with a giant black X marking their goal. It's strung between two trees with twine. Luckily, there aren't too many trees in this area anyway, meaning no stray bullets will ricochet off the bark and impale one of them.

He leans his head down and shuts one eye, peering into the rear sight. He aligns the center of the X with the front sight and loosens another breath from his tight lungs. With a flick of his finger, the safety is off.

Without giving him another second to doubt himself, Ares pulls the trigger.

The kickback is glorious. It's like someone had shocked him back to life, filling him with a spark of glee as the bullet rips through the fabric a few inches from the center. It's still on the thick line of the X's left side, so he'd been close, which comes as a relief that almost has his shoulders sagging.

Though he doesn't let any of them see that he'd ever doubted himself as he turns around to face the group. A smug expression is plastered onto his face, limbs loose and shoulders relaxed. Nate and Kiernan cheer supportively. Raven merely raises a slightly impressed eyebrow, but the sight of her attention on him is enough for him to ignore Jones fuming.

Blake nods. "There you have it. That's why he's here."

The co-leader of the camp goes next. Ares notices the tension in his body as he replaces Ares' position and aims at the makeshift target. Instead of the cool, nearly-unbearable confidence he'd been expecting, it almost looks like Blake is experiencing nerves similar to the ones he'd just felt.

The bullet he fires lands slightly closer to the center of the X than Ares' had, but only by a hair. All signs of nerves vanish from Blake's body the moment the echo of the shot bounces throughout the clearing. Satisfied, he lowers the rifle and faces the others.

"We'll have a brief run-down of the parts, then eventually move to target practice," he says. "Since we don't want to waste bullets, your clips will be empty until you get used to the feel of the gun and how to plant yourself in preparation for the kickback."

Ares starts to feel stupid once Blake drones on about the various features of the rifles, tuning him out as both of them point to the various spots on the guns. His eyes are glazed over, his finger moving on its own accord as Blake repeats, "Pistol grip, tactical pistol grip," over and over. It quickly becomes clear that most of the group is choosing to look at Blake rather than him. It's not just because Blake is the one talking, either. Ares is closer to the right side of the group while Blake is positioned at the left, giving all of the spectators a fair chance at seeing what they're pointing at, but he may as well not exist. Myles, a young boy maybe only fifteen years old, outright refuses to look at him. His neck cranes painfully to look down the line at Blake.

This was a mistake. A terrible mistake, a stupid mistake. Who's going to listen to him when half of these kids won't even look at him?

As if noticing the frustration etching harsh lines into Ares' face, Nate raises his hand like a kid in class. Ares blinks in shock. The sight of Nate actively participating in a learning environment is enough to snap him out of his stupor. This is the same kid who'd fallen asleep in Earth Skills.

Even Blake pauses his explanation at the sight of it. "What is it, Miller?"

"I still don't understand how to align the two sight things," Nate says. "Mr. Ortega, could you help me?"

Derek, a fairly tall kid with blond hair shoved under a black beanie, snickers at Mr. Ortega. Harper elbows him firmly in the ribs.

Ares knows that Nate doesn't need help. Though he may not have fired a gun before, his father is a Sergeant on the Ark. He's been around them his entire life, may have stolen one from his father's arsenal to play with as a kid.

For a moment, he almost forgets that the others are watching him and narrowly prevents the words, "Right after I shove your rifle so far up your ass you'll be spitting out bullets for weeks," from tumbling out. An empty threat that would have made Nate laugh and caused the others to never let him near them again. Instead, he grinds out, "Sure," and walks over to help him.

As he shows Nate how to align the sights at the middle and near the end of the gun, he forces himself to be everything he's not: patient, understanding, and the kind of person you'd trust to teach you how to fire a killing machine. Once Nate pretends to finally understand, he thanks Ares and claps him on the back. Myles flinches like he expects Ares to whirl around and shoot Nate dead for touching him, then goes wide-eyed when Ares returns to his spot at the front of their line without acknowledging the contact.

It takes a good hour for them to finally reach target practice. Blake motions to the other few pieces of fabric they'd positioned around the clearing, the number of options sparse due to safety hazards. Having a bunch of inexperienced teenagers shooting automatic rifles all at once would be a recipe for disaster.

Ares works his way down the line, slipping clips of bullets into each person's magazine. Myles visibly shakes the entire time. Nate fist pumps. He tries his very best to avoid Raven's intense gaze as he takes the rifle from her, focusing way too intently on the clips of bullets instead of how his body seems too hot for his jacket all of a sudden.

"So," she drawls as if daring him to look at her, "where did you learn to shoot a gun?"

He keeps his stare firmly fixed on the rifle all the way until he clicks the magazine back into place. Then he flickers his gaze up to hers, looking right into her intense brown eyes as he replies with a smirk, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Ares hands her the gun and walks on without another word, leaving her flushing in his wake.

He notices Nate watching him with wiggled eyebrows. The dark-skinned boy mouths, "Bold."

Ares flips him off.

Then he realizes why he said that. Openly talking to Raven like that while she's technically still in a relationship with Collins? Bold indeed. But he honestly doesn't know what to make of her and Collins' relationship. Though strained, it still seems to be intact, and Ares doesn't want to be a homewrecker like the guy he'd found his mother with.

Then again... maybe Collins should get a taste of his own medicine. See how it feels to be Clarke.

"Line it up!" Blake announces. "I want groups of four at each target— one will have five. Take your shots one after the other and leave room for the person using the gun. You won't wanna be jammed in the face with the end of it."

The attendees do as they're told, organizing themselves into neat lines at each cloth with an X. Ares and Blake show them how far back to stand and correct any mistakes they see. It's almost amusing, really— Myles almost falls back on his ass at the strength of the kickback, only to be caught by Kiernan, Connor is actually a lost cause, and Jones still looks like he wants to slice Ares' head off.

Ares debates the consequences of shooting the kid in the leg, then decides they're too severe to be worth the satisfaction it would bring.

He's surprised to see that Jasper is a pretty decent shot. His thin, wiry frame is deceiving, absorbing all the shocks of each fired bullet with his mouth pulled into a line of grim determination. Monroe pats him on the shoulder in congratulations when he lands a shot on the X— not at the center, but certainly the closest anyone else has gotten to it.

When Clarke moves to the front of the line Ares is standing near, she pays him no mind. She merely fixes her eyes on the target ahead of her as she flicks off the safety of the gun, then raises it to the appropriate height before squinting through the sight. A pause. A breath. Then the bullet fires, tearing through the cloth several inches to the right of the X's center.

Ares notices a particular gleam in her eyes that's all-too-familiar to him. It makes her blue irises seem electrified as she stares at the hole she'd made in the cloth, a tiny smirk of pride uplifting her lips.

Who'd have guessed that Clarke Griffin is an adrenaline junkie?

"Not bad, Griffin," he comments with a nod.

Clarke's pale cheeks flush with what looks like shame as if she'd been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. For whatever reason, she doesn't want to look like she's having fun with this. Probably to set an example for the rest of the camp for how seriously they need to be taking these weapons, but Ares wonders if she'll ever lighten up enough to allow a little fun for herself.

"Thanks," she manages to say. "We'll need lots of improvement if we want to have an advantage over the Grounders, though."

With that, she trots to the back of the line. Ares blows air out of the side of his mouth and watches as Raven takes her place. Like Clarke, she doesn't acknowledge him as she raises the gun, though Ares notices that her hand placement is all wrong.

"Wait, Reyes." He straightens up from where he'd been leaning slightly against a tree trunk, crushing crisp blades of grass underfoot as he walks toward the brunette. She rolls her eyes halfheartedly as he approaches. "You'll risk a shoulder injury holding it like that."

Raven glances down at her hands and then back up to him, a silent invitation for him to correct her. He walks around her right side, noting how he towers over her by several inches as he peers over her shoulder at the pistol and tactical pistol grips. Her hand is way too low on the front grip. Reaching out, he shifts her fingers up until they're touching the handguard, then closes them around it, his skin way too warm in all the places they're touching. He lets his hand linger over her own.

It's not necessary, but he says anyway, "There."

Raven glances up at him. Ares, feeling the stare, dares to meet it. It remains for a moment, then two, then Ares realizes they're holding up the line and takes a step back. The body heat she'd supplied from their close proximity is replaced with the cool air of the late September morning, slapping him in the face like a bucket of ice water.

"Fire away," he commands, but turns around before he can watch her do it, noticing the shit-eating grin on Kiernan's face as he passes. He gives the blond boy a warning glare that bounces off of him. Kiernan, it seems, is immune to his cutthroat expression.

Then he realizes that Kiernan shouldn't even be in this line. His eyebrows crease as he examines the three groups— some people had switched.

"I told them to do it," Blake explains as he approaches, still keeping an eye on the others as he speaks. "Shooting different targets will prepare them for the real deal. Even facing a different way can trip them up if they're not ready."

Ares nods his agreement. Smart move. "We should try different angles— from the ground, from behind a tree, the works."

Blake doesn't respond at first, still choosing not to look at him as he asks, "How you holding up?"

Ares' mouth drops into a frown. A million retorts come to his head, roaring to be heard over one another until his mind is a whirlwind of venom. Since the older man is looking in the other direction, he takes the time to assess every inch of his face and posture, searching for a hint of manipulation. His brain calculates how this information could be used to Blake's advantage. If he replies honestly, that he feels like a damn failure, then Blake might deem him incompetent. But if he lies, it might be a trick to get him to do more people-related things.

So he chooses not to answer at all. "Just because we're teaching this class together doesn't mean we're buddies, Blake."

"It was a simple question," Blake replies. Ares detects emotion flickering over his bronze face— curiosity. He's... inquisitive as to how Ares is doing.

But he still doesn't trust it. Blake hasn't done much to earn back Ares' good graces. The manipulation from before had stung badly, and it still does. The last time Ares had trusted the man in front of him, he'd ended up playing into Blake's selfish hand and caused the deaths of three hundred of his people in the culling.

So he lifts his lip in a bland half-smirk as he says, "I'm feeling good enough to shoot the Chancellor."

He sees the blast of his words make their mark. Sees Blake's stiffening shoulders, the tightening of his jaw as Ares' sentence settles in, and knows he hit the bullseye.

Maybe he'd merely been curious, after all. Oh well. Too late for that, now. Ares continues walking on, his gaze trailing around the group of gun trainees — they really need an official name for that — and freezes.

Myles is holding his hand way too close to the barrel of the rifle. If he moves upon the kickback, he could get his finger blown off—

He doesn't think. Doesn't bother to consider who he is or his reputation as he storms closer to the kid, hands outstretched to stop him, nearly there as the word, "Stop!" fires from his mouth—

Only for the first brush of his hand to send Miles pivoting, turning until the rifle is aimed at Ares' face. The voice that comes snarling out is hardly human. "Don't touch me, Psycho."

Ares' chest feels hollow as his hands fly above his head in a signal of surrender. He swallows, saliva getting caught in his throat when his mouth dries, the rest of the world moving in slow motion as the others turn toward them in shock. But he doesn't dare break eye contact with Myles. Not even as adrenaline bursts through his veins, making his fingers tremble. There's not a trace of fear that crosses his carefully blank expression. Any detection of emotion could send Myles off the rails.

He's dealt with people who'd merely been acting out of fear before. In the Underground, it had earned him a few of the scars lacerating his chest.

Nate's hand is outstretched in an instant. Where he'd come from, which line he'd been in, Ares doesn't know. He sees him in the corner of his vision, approaching Myles slowly like he's a rabid animal. "Dude, what the hell are you doing?"

But a voice inside Ares' head is screaming even if his mouth can't. Get away. Get away. Get AWAY, NATE!

"Myles!" Blake's sharp voice cuts through the clearing like a knife, sending everything back into proper motion. "Stand down. Now."

As if clearing himself from a daze, the boy blinks. He seems to realize what he's doing. Where the gun is pointed, how Ares himself is seemingly weaponless (he's not) because his gun is leaning against a tree so he could help the others, how Ares has his hands up, how the rest of the group is staring at him as if he's the Psycho, now.

Myles slackens his grip on the gun until it's only held on by the strap across his shoulder. His pale, round face fills with horror at his actions, finally looking at Ares like it's the first time he's actually seen him. Brown eyes well with what seems like tears.

"I'm — I'm —"

Monroe silently reaches over and flicks the safety of the boy's rifle.

It's deadly silent. Ares slowly lowers his hands, his biceps aching, adrenaline still pumping like fire beneath his skin.

"Give me your weapon, Myles. Go take a break." Blake holds out his hand expectantly. A still shell-shocked Myles does as he's told, his steps heavy and motions slow as he slings his rifle off of his shoulder and places it in the co-leader's hand. Then he retreats back to camp with his shoulders hung in shame.

Blake's eyes glitter with authority as he sweeps his gaze around the remaining thirteen other pupils, his voice firm. "We do not point guns at other campers, got that? Never. One mistake and that person's dead because of you."

His words seem to have a double meaning that Ares catches onto instantly. One mistake and that person's dead because of you.

One mistake.

Jaha? The man isn't dead, but from Raven's account of what had happened, he'd been extraordinarily close to it. But still. It's the only possible explanation for the slight tightness of Blake's voice, the thick swallow he'd performed after the speech said with such conviction that Ares becomes certain his theory is right.

Everyone remains silent. There's not so much as a rustle of leaves. As Ares finally lets himself glance around, he catches the uneasy stares of more than one person, but not unease toward him. Their eyes are plagued with the unease of what had almost happened to him. How they'd been a finger twitch away from watching someone be murdered right before their eyes by a scared kid— and would some of them had been glad for it?

Ares' jaw tightens. He knows one of the answers to that question, because at least Jones has the decency to look guilty.

_________

a/n:

i know that this chapter lacked action, but character-central chapters are important too!! i didn't want to skip over this guns 101 class because i wanted to show ares' struggle maintaining authority, how the delinquents react to him, and how not everyone is too fond of him. plus, he's one step closer to understanding bellamy!

i'm really excited for the next few chapters because unity day was one of my favorites. honestly, all of season 1 was a gem.

how many of you guys are all caught up on the show?? season 7 premieres this wednesday!! you can follow my tumblr (supernovablake) to see my liveblog of the episode and all the memes i'll be reblogging. i'd love to interact with all of you on there!

also, fun fact: since i last updated, benjamin wadsworth (ares' faceclaim) was live on instagram and he attempted to answer my question but he read it wrong🤦🏼‍♀️i was too busy crYing to care though

—kristyn

( word count: 4.ok)