A girl and her sniper rifle.

I had a friend named Sierra once. She was a pretty chill girl. Really only had two defining characteristics about her though, her love of lemon-lime sodas and her innate marksmanship. She was a damn good crackshot. Her dad was a bit of a gun nut. Owned lots of rifles including a classic, old-time sniper from back in the WWII era. Beautiful old thing. She learned to fire it at age 12, could hit targets at 100 meters by age 15. She ended up entering some sharpshooting competition around the area. This one competition was particularly important to her because it was sponsored by a soda company. The prize was a year’s supply of any soda the winner wanted. Of course, my friend entered for that delicious lemon-lime goodness. So she hefted her trusty old sniper over to the field. There were 16 contestants so the competition was a single-elimination bracket. The rules were simple. Stand behind the line, aim and fire. If you hit it, the target got pushed back a few meters. If you miss and the other guy hits it, you’re out. Well my friend easily blew most of the competitors out of the water. Punks couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. She completely cleared out her side of the bracket with almost no competition. It came down to the final round. She was up against Jackson. At 6 foot 6, this guy was an intimidating foe. Even with those catcher’s glove-sized hands he still wielded his rifle with the grace of a ballerina. Completely wiped out his side of the bracket. It was getting tense. He fired off first. 50 meters. Easy. Her next. 50 meters. Easy. And then him. 100 meters. Easy. Her. 100 meters. Easy. 150. Harder. 200. Harder. 300. Barely made it. But it came down to the wire. Two bottles, 400 meters down the field. Jackson stepped up first, sweat dripping down his face. He fired. BANG. CRACK. The bullet nicked the side, shattering the target. But you could see the Jackson’s nervousness. It was clear that he would not be able to hit the next target. It was up to Sierra now. She was sweating buckets. It all came down to this. If she could tap that glass even slightly, she’d be looking at a year’s supply of her favorite soft drink. She lined up her shot. Stared down the sights. The audience looked on in anticipation. Her lemon-lime drinks were on the line. This was all she needed. BANG. . . . Nothing. Her soda was gone. Sierra missed.