((Bryant Carver continued from Nice Morning For a Shootout))
Bryant wandered the compound, more or less aimless save finding Marilyn or Juliet again. He realized now he hated being alone, as it left him with his thoughts, left him with himself.
Ben. Mike. Ben. Mike.
The names of the two boys he had slain rolled around in his head since he had left Ben dying with a pound of buckshot in his chest. They mantra was both comforting and painful.
Bryant didn't see any of his fellow students as he found himself meandering into the armory, but he heard them. He heard screams, gunfire, indications the Program was going off without a hitch and it wasn't just him that was killing people. He was surprised no one took a shot at him; at this point he almost would have welcomed it.
"Never thought Uncle Sam's boys'd be too busy killing each other to spare some time for a lowdown nigger like me." He said to no in particular as he headed into the armory.
There was no one in the armory. In fact, it was blissfully empty. No guns, of course, but no bodies either. Small blessing. Bryant didn't know how he would have taken seeing another corpse at this point.
He headed into the main area, past the counter to the stockroom where the guns would have been held, and set his bag and the shotgun down. The silence in the room was deafening, and Bryant welcomed it.
He needed to calm down. He needed to get his head together, to take his mind off the Program, off white people, black people, Adams, Uncle Sam, the United fucking States of cocksucking America. Thankfully he was fairly secure in the stockroom, and he would see the door open through the fence if anyone walked in.
Secure in that knowledge, Bryant dropped into his fighting stance and started shadowboxing.
It certainly looked odd, to see him shuffling around the stockroom floor, throwing combinations, slipping and blocking punches, but there was a strange sort of beauty to it. Had someone seen Kendra's display of ballet in this area earlier, they might have been able to notice similarities in the grace, and form of the footwork.
Bryant popped two jabs, stepping to the outside of his imaginary opponent's lead hand before powering a right cross through. He exhaled sharply as he punched, regulating his breathing.
Bryant parried a jab, slipped under the cross, threw a right hook to his opponents ribs as he slid his shoulders under their outstretched arm.
Bryant switched to Philly Shell, his right hand guarding his face, his chin tucked into his lead shoulder, and his left arm staying around waist level. He turned to his right, letting a jab roll off his shoulder before coming back and answering with a right of his own. Vaguely he wondered if Coach Washington was angry at the display; he had always wanted Carver to fight conservatively with both hands flush with his face.
Bryant was sweating now, as his body and muscles worked in martial choreography. The names of his victims slipped into the back of his mind, not forgotten, but set aside so that he could retain his grip on himself. In shadowboxing, Bryant could ease himself back into the world.
Bryant stopped some twenty minutes later. He was bathed in sweat, nearly out of breath, and at peace with himself, at least for the moment.
He picked up his gun and bag, and started back out, thankful no one had interrupted him. Now he just had to figure out what he needed to do.
((Bryant Carver continued in Deception))