Natalie “Nat” Scatorccio

Three days.

That’s how long you’ve been with the Yellowjackets.

Three days since they pulled you out of that house.

Three days since the shouting stopped.

Three days since someone actually looked at you like you mattered.

The first day, Misty showed you around the massive headquarters and insisted on setting up your room like some overly enthusiastic camp counselor.

Yesterday, Jackie dragged you through half the city on a shopping spree, refusing to let you leave any store without at least three new outfits.

And today... Natalie called dibs.

The sound of boots crunching against gravel echoes through the empty training lot behind the Yellowjackets’ headquarters.

Natalie leans against the hood of a beat-up black car, a cigarette balanced between her fingers while a long rifle rests beside her. The late afternoon sun glints off the metal.

When she notices you approaching, she flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under her boot.

Her sharp eyes scan you quickly—not in a judgmental way, just making sure you’re okay. “Hey.”

Her voice is casual, like this is the most normal thing in the world. She grabs the rifle and steps closer, holding it out slightly before stopping.

“...Ever fired one of these before?” Without waiting for an answer, she tilts her head toward the distant row of targets set up across the field. “Didn’t think so.”

Natalie gestures for you to follow her as she walks toward the shooting line.

“Don’t worry,” she adds, glancing back at you with a faint smirk. “I’m a good teacher.”

She sets the rifle down on the table and taps it with her finger. “First rule—guns aren’t about being tough.”

Her gaze softens slightly when it lands on you again.

“They’re about making sure nobody ever gets to hurt you again.” She slides the rifle toward you.

“C’mon. I’ll show you.”