Vin was now begging.

"Chris, please. I don't wanna do this. Please?" he asked, but Chris tied the blindfold behind his head anyway. "What if I promise to keep my eyes closed?"

"Just take nice, deep breaths," Chris instructed him, his voice quiet next to Vin's ear. "Ready?" he finally asked.

Vin shook his head, no. But, silently, he began, reaching out in front of him, wrapping his fingers around the long shaft.

God, I can't do this! Why? Why today? Why is Chris making me do this? Vin's mind screamed. At least the blindfold was soaking up his tears.

"Breathe," he heard Chris's voice again and he obeyed.

Vin's tumultuous thoughts began to congeal. The darkness was close, confining. Vin could smell the soil. He could feel the early morning damp clinging to his skin. He could hear the distant sounds of gunfire.

Outside himself, his hands began moving automatically, mechanically, brushing over the hard steel and alloy parts laid out before him, taking the time to note the location of each uniquely-shaped piece of the Remington Bolt Action Centerfire Rifle, model 700 PSS.

First he placed the trigger guard on the stock then he set the stock over the receiver and trigger assembly. With the only screwdriver on the table, he tightened the screws knowing by feel how much torque to apply.

There were men all around him but Vin could focus on only one of them. He could hear the man's heart beat like the ticking of a clock. He was so close. Vin could smell his sweat and hot breath as the man tightened the bindings on his wrists.

He placed the spring and follower into the magazine, and then snapped it into place on the stock assembly.

On his knees, Vin waited for the first assault. He knew it wouldn't be the only one, but he knew it would be the worst. The ones that followed would be received by a dulled mind, a battered body. But, now, Vin was still fresh and alert. And scared.

He placed the firing pin into the rear of the bolt assembly, and then tightened the bolt plug with his fingers. He pulled the coin — a penny, he knew by the weight and feel — from the slot in the firing pin head and dropped it on the table in front of him. Then he turned the bolt plug until the firing pin head slipped into the small notch on the rear rim of the bolt, cocking the bolt.

The fists came first, pummeling Vin's exposed body — his chest and ribs, his stomach, his groin, his arms and legs — only his face was spared. Again and again the blows were landed. The slap and thud of flesh against flesh, fist against bruised tissue filled Vin's ears over the continuing clamor of gun and mortar fire.

With the safety on, he felt for the lugs on the bolt assembly, then aligned them with the receiver in order to slide the assembly all the way in. He then pushed the bolt handle down, into the closed position.

Then Vin was tossed face down to the ground like unwanted garbage. Dirt now mingled with the saliva he hadn't managed to swallow. Vin felt hands on his legs, fingers digging into his naked flesh. Then a steal bolt ripped into him, jarring him, shoving him against the ground. Again and again and again.

He then ripped the blindfold from his face in order to visibly check the chamber and magazine, making certain they were empty before sliding the safety mechanism off. Again he smartly closed the bolt, checking that the firing pin remained cocked before pulling the trigger.

He fired the empty rifle nine more times before exclaiming, "Done!" through gritted teeth as he set the rifle down on the table.

"Very good," Chris nodded, clicking off the stopwatch, before noting the time on the clipboard he now held in his hand.

"I don't get it, Vin," he finally said, looking up at his team's sharpshooter. "You far out-perform everyone in this division every time the brass makes us do these tests, yet you put up such a fuss ... especially over this one — and I've never seen anyone reassemble a rifle that quickly in my life!"

Vin just hung his head. He didn't know what he could tell this man. He could do all this stuff, sure, but why'd they have to blindfold him to make him prove it?

"What's really going on here, Vin?" Chris asked him. "I need to know."

Sure, his boss needed to know. Well, he didn't need to tell him.

"I just think it's dumb is all," Vin finally responded. "It's never gonna happen like this in the field—" No one is ever gonna blindfold ya without ... without tyin' yer hands, he finished the statement silently to himself.

"I know that, Vin, but they need some way to gauge all our skills. Make sure we're staying on top of our game," Chris explained. "Besides, you never know when you might have to do this in the dark."

"If yer in the dark and yer gun's in pieces, you've probably got worse things ta worry 'bout than simply gettin' the damn thing back together," Vin stated.

Chris reached out and put a firm hand on his shoulder, but Vin twisted out from under it, throwing the blindfold down onto the table which held only the reassembled Remington, a screwdriver, a penny, and a magazine spring from a Mauser SR-93.

Vin turned then and left the room. He stalked off down the hallway, his thoughts whirling in his head. Why'd he have to do that? God fucking dammit!

He still burned where Chris had touched him. He could still feel the gentle pressure of the man's fingers on his shoulder. Vin twisted his back, trying to shake away the sensation, but it wouldn't leave.

Vin had no choice but to leave himself. He repeatedly pressed the elevator button, but the contraption wouldn't arrive. Finally, he just headed for the stairs, climbing up the one floor out of the basement, then into the marble lobby, his steps echoing around him, mocking his flight.

"If you run, you'll only die tired," they were told in the army.

"I can't run," they themselves would shout in reply. "I can only stand and fight."

"Stand and fight," Vin told himself now. "Stand and fight!" his mind ordered.

But he kept running.

~ fade ~

Series Index

May 2001

Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.

Characters from "The Magnificent Seven," were used without permission and this story in no way signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. The M7-ATF universe was created by Mog, and extra thanks go to her for allowing other people to play within it. The story itself and any non-Magnificent Seven characters belong to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.

Thanks to my beta reader for all of her help and encouragement!