WHA, ARE YOU KIDZ, i dunno how to construct heist action! i have never even been to the smithsonian! BUT I WILL SEE WHAT I CAN DO. it would probably involve the pevensies thinking ruefully that caspian is no edmund, but then caspian proves himself in other ways...
BUT FIRST.
on the way to atlantic city, they spend the night at a comfort inn in the boonies of pennsylvania. and after lucy and susan have gone to bed, edmund watches the news on mute and close-caption. news about the missing pevensie children are beginning to show up less and less, which is good and bad. good 'cos it's easier for them to slip under the radar now, and bad because that means less shots on TV of his friends and relatives, and he kind of has grown used to seeing their faces, blank with worry, saying how they were such good kids, they are missed, etc. photos of an exuberant lucy with her cheerleading friends in uniform, a scrappy yearbook photo of peter smiling a twisted not-a-smile, a better one of susan (a better smile), and the really dorky one of himself from the time the quizbowl team took second place. (ugh, he thinks when he sees that. remembers the frustration of sitting out on the round when no one else on the team knew what color the stars are on the flag of new zealand.) and greg flaherty and his stupid face saying, "the older two, though, they kind of had a reputation," before a straight-faced hairsprayed newscaster goes contemplates the connections peter had with the falcone gang and the night the electricity was cut on grant street.
you've always wanted adventure, edmund thinks grimly to himself. but he is also a kid, and he misses his home, and the pizza place by the school. and internet. and not having to worry about gas money. and--
stop it, he tells himself.
the door opens and peter's back from buying cigarettes at the corner store. edmund looks at him.
peter says, "let's go for a drive."
+
through the quiet pennsylvania town, and past city limits. edmund asks him where they're going and peter says he'll see. doing 70 on the highway just 'cos they can, past headlights and road signs, and edmund turns on the radio and they listen to 80s rock until peter makes fun of him for nodding along to bon jovi.
"where are we going?" asks edmund, when peter goes off the highway. "we're not leaving the girls behind are we?"
"of course not."
fields and farms, miles of flatness all around and nothing no landmarks to tell them where they are. and peter says, "perfect."
he parks by an empty field.
"what are you doing?" edmund asks when peter starts rummaging around under the seat. "what are you looking for?"
and when peter pulls out the gun, edmund blanches.
peter says, "you're going to have to learn to shoot one of these someday. may as well be today."
+
the gun is heavy in his hands, heavier than he would have thought, but then again what does he know about guns. it feels too big, or maybe edmund feels suddenly small, he doesn't know. he thinks of cop shows and action films, and bruce willis, and world war 2.
"put your pointer finger here," says peter, his hands gentle on edmund's. "don't put your thumb there. move your left hand here."
"how many times have you shot a gun?" edmund asks.
peter says, "i don't know."
"have you ever killed anyone?"
"straighten your elbow."
and when he presses the trigger, the gun explodes. edmund can't really put it any other way -- he sees now why peter drove them all the fucking way out here. it explodes and jumps in his hand like a living thing and he almost drops it, but he doesn't, and is glad. and what he's thinking is how hollywood sound designers have been lying to the public for years; it's not a bang or a pow or any of that shit -- it is something that leaves his ears ringing, his hands shaking, and the air smelling like sulfur.
"you have to watch for the kickback," says peter, and edmund says, annoyance covering up his nerves, "yeah, you could've told me that earlier."
no subject
BUT FIRST.
on the way to atlantic city, they spend the night at a comfort inn in the boonies of pennsylvania. and after lucy and susan have gone to bed, edmund watches the news on mute and close-caption. news about the missing pevensie children are beginning to show up less and less, which is good and bad. good 'cos it's easier for them to slip under the radar now, and bad because that means less shots on TV of his friends and relatives, and he kind of has grown used to seeing their faces, blank with worry, saying how they were such good kids, they are missed, etc. photos of an exuberant lucy with her cheerleading friends in uniform, a scrappy yearbook photo of peter smiling a twisted not-a-smile, a better one of susan (a better smile), and the really dorky one of himself from the time the quizbowl team took second place. (ugh, he thinks when he sees that. remembers the frustration of sitting out on the round when no one else on the team knew what color the stars are on the flag of new zealand.) and greg flaherty and his stupid face saying, "the older two, though, they kind of had a reputation," before a straight-faced hairsprayed newscaster goes contemplates the connections peter had with the falcone gang and the night the electricity was cut on grant street.
you've always wanted adventure, edmund thinks grimly to himself. but he is also a kid, and he misses his home, and the pizza place by the school. and internet. and not having to worry about gas money. and--
stop it, he tells himself.
the door opens and peter's back from buying cigarettes at the corner store. edmund looks at him.
peter says, "let's go for a drive."
+
through the quiet pennsylvania town, and past city limits. edmund asks him where they're going and peter says he'll see. doing 70 on the highway just 'cos they can, past headlights and road signs, and edmund turns on the radio and they listen to 80s rock until peter makes fun of him for nodding along to bon jovi.
"where are we going?" asks edmund, when peter goes off the highway. "we're not leaving the girls behind are we?"
"of course not."
fields and farms, miles of flatness all around and nothing no landmarks to tell them where they are. and peter says, "perfect."
he parks by an empty field.
"what are you doing?" edmund asks when peter starts rummaging around under the seat. "what are you looking for?"
and when peter pulls out the gun, edmund blanches.
peter says, "you're going to have to learn to shoot one of these someday. may as well be today."
+
the gun is heavy in his hands, heavier than he would have thought, but then again what does he know about guns. it feels too big, or maybe edmund feels suddenly small, he doesn't know. he thinks of cop shows and action films, and bruce willis, and world war 2.
"put your pointer finger here," says peter, his hands gentle on edmund's. "don't put your thumb there. move your left hand here."
"how many times have you shot a gun?" edmund asks.
peter says, "i don't know."
"have you ever killed anyone?"
"straighten your elbow."
and when he presses the trigger, the gun explodes. edmund can't really put it any other way -- he sees now why peter drove them all the fucking way out here. it explodes and jumps in his hand like a living thing and he almost drops it, but he doesn't, and is glad. and what he's thinking is how hollywood sound designers have been lying to the public for years; it's not a bang or a pow or any of that shit -- it is something that leaves his ears ringing, his hands shaking, and the air smelling like sulfur.
"you have to watch for the kickback," says peter, and edmund says, annoyance covering up his nerves, "yeah, you could've told me that earlier."
peter says, "try again."