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Caitlyn Kiramman always had a plan.
Plans were good— made things efficient. Plans embraced research and investigation, and there was nothing more thrilling for a Kiramman than a thoroughly researched investigation.
And when a plan didn’t work out? Well, that called for spontaneous action which had always been rather exciting, even if her mother would disagree.
They ran in her family she supposed; came with the esteemed Kiramman name, essential to carry the weight of the expectations that followed it. The name that reverberated around a room of whispers and interested stares. The name that could move mountains, its syllables sinuous like molten lava navigating the cracks of the earth, urging the crust above to shift to its will.
The name that at times, felt like a shackle, tying her down and chafing her skin as the looming wall between her and the real world stared her down. Tall and mocking and unreachable. She was only fourteen after all, and she still liked to think that she wasn’t alone in her restlessness.
In this instance, however, there was no small talk, or molten lava. It was just her, her plan, and her gun. It was a relatively simple one, all things considered: get through the course and finally beat the, quite frankly, ridiculously high bar that Younger Cait had set for herself.
She took a sharp breath, reloading her gun and positioning her rifle with a practised agility, nuzzle aimed squarely at the target that—if her calculations were correct (they always were)—was about to fly up. Shards of wood splintered into the crisp air, her signal to move as the crunch of dirt under her feet constructed a familiar rhythm, one that never failed to draw a grin from her face.
She slid onto her knees, reloading and unwaveringly counting the beats, gun already cocked and game to shoot by the time she let out a long exhale.
Both eyes open, steady.
The target flew up and she pulled the trigger, heart racing in anticipation of the familiar crack of metal piercing wood, a satisfied smile crossing her features as the sound broke the still air of the forest.
She moved over to the timer, crunching leaves sinking under her feet, a frown taking over her face as she noted its reading. She wiped the sweat from her brow, muttering under her breath as she brought out a pocket notebook and pencil, crossing off the third of a long list of options.
“How are you faring?” a voice wavered from the distance, the otherwise strong, gravelly tone broken up by the wind. Caitlyn looked up instantly, her lips curling upwards, her face slightly pinched.
“Hello Sheriff, I’m quite alright.”
Grayson let out an amused chuckle, waving Caitlyn over who complied immediately. She looked down at the scrawls on the paper. “What do you have there?”
“I tried mapping out my routes so I could shoot the targets more efficiently,” Caitlyn said as she scrunched her nose and held out her notebook, pointing at a neat, hand-drawn diagram of the compound. “Route three was supposed to be the fastest but I must have miscalculated.”
She frowned again, a small huff escaping her. She never miscalculated.
Grayson stooped over. “This is quite impressive.”
“Not nearly accurate though,” Caitlyn’s brows furrowed as her fingers started flying, gesticulating abstractedly, “I shall have to work on it. I can aim steadily and reload quickly, but I must deduce the best route to further minimise the time I take. It might be that my ankle is sore— I’ve been running for a good bit. But I’d expect my stamina to have improved by now. I think I may need to train my ears to better pick up the direction of the wind because the breeze catches against the leaves and it blocks my-“
Caitlyn stopped mid-sentence, chastising herself with a sheepish look on her face, “My deepest apologies, Sheriff, I’ve been rambling and taking up your time.” She paused, flushing. “My mother would be disappointed.”
Grayson only smiled, eyes flickering with something like understanding, “Your mother won’t hear about this from me.” Her eyes trailed the steel of Caitlyn’s rifle, the clan symbol burned into its comb. “Give yourself some credit, Kiramman. You have great potential.”
Caitlyn’s eyes widened and she looked away, visibly pleased. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you asked me the other day.”
“Oh?”
“Yes! Don’t act surprised.” Caitlyn said, eyebrows knitted. “You asked me what I was shooting for.”
With the Sheriff’s nod of acknowledgment, she continued, “I think I want to do what you do. Help people. The real way, not through the fancy parties held by mother, or through council meetings disputing some trade agreement or other with a foreign country.” She bit her lip and let out a soft sigh, “It just… has to be tangible.” Her fingers tapped against the dirt absently, digging insect-sized graves in the soil as if they could possibly take the fall in her place.
Grayson lowered herself onto the ground slowly, leaves crunching under her weight as she gestured for Caitlyn to join her. “That’s an unusual ambition to have.”
That’s an unusual ambition for a Kiramman to have .
Caitlyn wrinkled her nose, sitting down.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought and I doubt my parents would approve, mother especially.” She fumbled with a loose thread on her uniform, frayed edges twining around her finger as she eyed the sleek metal of her gun. “She would tell me that these are my cards: the councilwoman’s daughter, the top student, and the ambassador of the Kiramman clan. And that it’s my responsibility to play them to the best of my ability. And I know I should—it’s been expected of me before I was given my first name—but I just can’t. Not for the rest of my life.”
She rocked back and forth, ears perking at the chorus of a murder of crows flying overhead, and simply waited, the wayward breeze that danced on the surface of her skin a soothing balm to her racing thoughts. Silence weighed down like the mist that began to creep into the woods and around the brambles— there, but not particularly uncomfortable.
“It’s a question that never goes away.”
Caitlyn looked up, meeting focused, grey eyes that were clouded over in a storm of stories that never quite blew over, brewing instead in a shroud overhead. Caitlyn knew better than to ask.
Caitlyn knew how to read the sky.
“It… changes. With time.” Grayson said after a beat, mouth quirking upwards, careful. “You’re going to have an answer to that question, and then that answer is going to be challenged.”
She met Caitlyn’s eyes, her face softening, “Remember that and don’t fight it. Trust your heart. You’ve got a good one.”
Caitlyn rubbed her fingers against the hem of her pants, thoughtful.
——
Caitlyn Kiramman had a plan.
A good plan too, but one that ended up being a sheet of paper floating (rather pathetically) down the edge of a gaping cliff into the Undercity, while she tried her damned best to keep up with Vi.
It ended up being her putting steady hands to Vi’s face as she choked down the shimmer, the purple liquid glowing and greedy in the darkness.
Caitlyn looked into grey eyes and a memory tugged at the back of her head, remnants of storms and a steady voice like the smooth scraping of gravel. These ones—Vi’s eyes—were less of a storm, she thought. More of a hurricane. Full of rage, of lost and weather-worn items, and of something else she didn’t quite have the ability to place. She remembered an age-born confidence, claims of being able to read the sky.
Caitlyn looked into grey eyes, humbled, and swore to learn how to read a hurricane.