Brett stood off to Seth’s left, big headphone-style hearing protection and black Ray Ban sunglasses on. They were north of town, away from any suburbs or farms, hidden away in a small copse of woods nestled into the foothills of the nearest mountains. The sound of a stream filtered through the trees from somewhere nearby, and the whole area smelled of the decay of fall combined with cold humidity.

Twenty-five yards in front of Seth, Brett had erected a piece of cardboard on a wooden gardening stake. It was cut to roughly the shape of a man, with a fat ‘T’ in the middle of the face, a square in the chest, a circle where the stomach would be, and a rhomboid shape to represent the pelvis, all drawn in Sharpie.

“Follow-through. Just like a punch, but slower. Shoot at the bottom of your breathing, keep the trigger depressed after the shot.”

Seth nodded as he stood with his left foot slightly forward of the left. Not quite as much as his fighting stance, but just enough to put a slight blade to him. His right hand hovered by the pistol drop-holstered on his hip.

“Go!”

Seth’s fingers closed around the grip and he raised his arms, rear arm almost straight and lead arm bent with the elbow pointing downwards. It felt stable, easy, much more than whatever the hell Seth had been trying to do until now. He kept his finger straight and off the trigger the whole time—just as Brett had already yelled at him to do about two dozen times already—until the target appeared at the end of his sights. And… breathe. At the point where there remained nothing to let out, Seth executed the smooth trigger pull Brett had needed to demonstrate even more than he’d needed to yell about trigger discipline.

BANG!

The slide on the gun blasted backwards and and empty casing ejected to Seth’s right. Seth holstered the handgun. Brett walked forward to the target, and tapped his finger on the small puncture right next to the ‘T’. He shrugged. “Close enough. Wouldn’t get you points on qual, but that’s pretty much a kill.” He pulled out a case of .45 ACP ammo from his jacket and shook it. “Fifty more reps and then you’re ready for contact drills,” he said with a shit-eating grin as he walked back to Seth.

Seth glared at the target. This reminded him an incredible amount of doing kata—static sets of moves with no opponent, no punching bag, and often done in a super traditional manner you would never actually utilize in a live fight. He had hated them, but they’d laid the groundwork for him. They were useful when teaching white belts. Seth blew air out his nose. Right. He was a white belt in gun-fu.

“Don’t sweat,” said Brett. “We’ll take a break every ten. Don’t want skill over-saturation to happen. Besides, I want to see if we can replicate that kick you did last night.”

“Right. Well, we’ve already done at least twenty shots-”

“Twenty-two. Ten more. Ten more kill shots.”

Seth pressed his lips together and flared his nostrils. “Alright.”

“On your own count. Give me ten clean ones.”

Seth settled back into the stance Brett called Weaver, and readied himself to draw.

BANG!

Seth looked to his left to see Brett holding his pistol in his off-hand, with no support. Seth followed the line of fire to the target and saw very clearly the hole dead in the center of the ‘T’.

“Like that,” said Brett. He spun the gun once on his finger and holstered it.

“One hand is out of the question,” said Seth. He readied himself again. Breathe.

BANG!

Seth holstered his weapon and walked to the target. Just barely inside the bottom edge of the ‘T’, but nonetheless inside it. Seth turned to give Brett a thumbs up, but Brett was texting.

“Hey! Kill shot!”

Brett nodded and continued texting. Seth rolled his eyes and walked back to the firing line, setting up again. Brett kept his face glued to his phone and walked over to a log on the edge of the clearing behind Seth, sitting down and continuing to furiously text. Seth readied himself again.

All told, it took thirteen rounds to get the ten kill shots Brett required of him, but as the last round in his magazine locked his slide back, Seth did feel some accomplishment. His aim was improving. Slowly. He sent the slide home and holstered his pistol, walking over to the log and sitting down next to Brett.

“Logistics,” he said. “My fireteam is inbound from five different states, and none of them know their travel payment info, so I have to coordinate with higher to get them the appropriate travel allowances.”

“Why are you all in different places?”

“Leave, dude. We’d all just wrapped up a deployment to…” Brett rolled his eyes. “A classified location. After a combat tour—which for us, everything is—you get an opportunity to take a lot of downtime. Unfortunately, Hunter is short-staffed right now. We were the ones furthest along our R&R. So, I got called up and told to get my team to California. Also helps my hometown is LA. Barely a six hour drive.” Brett tucked his phone away and slapped the log with both hands. “Alright. That kick. Take your pistol and belt off.”

Seth stood and unbuckled the shooting rig, setting it gently next to the log. Brett stood as he did so and pulled his plate carrier out from the large duffel bag he’d brought, slipping the armor plating out from the bottom of the vest before he donned the shell. It could still stop a bullet, just not ones as powerful as it could with the heavy plates in.

“Alright, Seth.” Said Brett. “Kick me.”

Seth walked up to him, uncertain. He thought of how far he had flung Arc with a reflexive push-kick. He didn’t feel any stronger, or any faster, but last night he’d demonstrated that both of those factors had increased by an exponential amount. “You sure?”

Brett looked behind him. Clear, grassy ground for about fifty feet. He nodded. “Yeah, dude. I can take a hit.”

“Okay…”

Seth kicked. The heel of his augment hit the empty plate carrier and Brett’s air whiffed out of his mouth with a loud “Uff.” But Brett only fell back and to the ground, immediately able to prop himself up on an elbow.

“Well,” said Brett. “Good kick. But nothing like last night. You wanna actually try?”

Seth helped Brett to his feet and set up again, focusing on the center of the plate carrier.

SMACK!

Seth sent Brett falling backwards again, but Brett rolled over his shoulder and came to his feet, already shaking his head. “Nope, not it.” He walked forward and set himself in front of Seth again.

SMACK!

The same.

Brett put one hand in his pocket and stroked his beard with the other. “Alright. Let’s try this from a different angle. What was going through your head when you launched that dude into a tree like a kamikaze pilot into an aircraft carrier?”

Seth scratched his head. “Not much. Felt like time slowed down.”

“So you had adrenaline dumping. Okay. Lucky you.” Brett moved past him back to the duffel bag, rummaged for a minute, and pulled out a medical bag made of black canvas with a small raised medic cross on it. He unzipped it and pulled out a capped needle.

“Oh, hell no,” said Seth.

“What?” Said Brett, walking towards him, needle in hand and shit-eating grin plastered over his face. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

“I’ve seen enough fucking movies,” said Seth. “Fuck off with that.”

Brett paused, then the grin devolved into laughter. “No,” he said, coming up for air. “You’ve seen too many movies. Just give me your arm, dude.”

“So you’re not about to stab me in my chest?”

“Fuck no. Look at this needle. It’s like twenty-five gauge. It would break on your ribs.” He took Seth’s wrist and felt the inside of his elbow. “Good veins. Easy day.”

Seth pursed his lips. “That’s not bad at all.”

“No,” said Brett. “But you’re gonna feel like you just did cocaine.” With a small pricking sensation, the needle slipped into Seth’s arm and Brett began slowly depressing the syringe. He finished, and jogged back to put the needle in the bag. As he was returning, Seth felt it. His heart began pound-pound-pounding in his chest, his breath came shorter, heavier, and his hands bordered on shaky.

The two of them set up across from each other. “Do it,” said Brett.

Seth lashed out.

Brett did launch back, but not near as far as Arc had. Maybe two feet before his feet hit the earth again and he fell backwards, rolling over his shoulder again and standing up. Brett placed a hand over his stomach. “Alright, that one hurt, dude.” He bent over. “Fuck. Still not what we’re looking for, though.”

“I just don’t think I can do it,” said Seth. “I have no idea how I did it, and it’s clearly not something I can recreate. I’m not even sure I want to. If I start kicking people through walls, I can’t go to CFA. Worse, I might kill someone by accident.”

Brett pushed himself upright, a wince still on his face. “No,” he said, walking back to the log and slapping Seth on the shoulder. “You’re a good person. You wouldn’t.”

“I’m not, though,” said Seth, his voice barely above a whisper. He heard Brett turn.

“No, dude. I’ve been around long enough to have something of a sense of character. You’re good.”

Seth faced Brett. The conflict in his heart distorted his face. “I’m really not. I’ve killed people—people you’ve worked with. I enjoy violence now. It’s not an outlet sport for me anymore, I enjoy causing pain to people.”

“People?” Said Brett. “Or enemies?”

“Does it matter?”

“Matters a lot.”

“How? I still enjoy the violence. Good people don’t enjoy killing and hurting.”

Brett raised an eyebrow. “Says who?”

“Says any kind of common sense.”

Brett shook his head. Seth saw in his eyes that softer look again, the one that said underneath the cavalierness, underneath the hardened warrior, there was a person who cared about anyone in his charge. “They’re fucking wrong, or I wouldn’t be a good person myself.” He placed a hand on Seth’s shoulder. “If you can’t do bad, what are you?”

“Good?”

“No.” Brett formed a fist with his free hand. “Is it bad if I beat the living shit out of some random dude?”

“Well, yeah?”

“What if he’s mugging someone?”

“No?” Seth started to see what he was saying.

“If you can’t do bad things, then you have no choice in it. You’re not good, you’re weak. By being strong-” he poked Seth in the chest. “You’re capable of doing both good things and bad things. Hell, you probably want to do bad things. You probably do bad things. But that’s not what makes you bad. It is it the consistent choice to do good things that makes you a good person. Even if you mess up and the darkness inside of you gets the win sometimes. You can’t be good if you can’t be bad, dude.”

Seth met Brett’s gaze and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, I think I get it.”

Brett removed his hand from Seth’s shoulder. “It’s a hard thing to get. Took me until my second enlistment to understand. But a guy who was the rank I am now… He helped me get my head on straight. Still had a lot to go through, but I wouldn’t have made it without his guidance. Hopefully, you don’t have to go through the dark places I did.” He pointed to the target. “Alright, ten more rounds. We’ve got a lot more training to do if you want to drop a charging bear, dude.”

As Seth set himself up on the firing line, he thought. Maybe Brett was right. Maybe the void within him didn’t have to be this awful burden, this hunger for blood. Maybe the anger could be put to good use. It could serve him instead of the other way around. He hoped so. He wanted to be good. He wanted to do right. He wanted to save Andrew. Seth raised his gun and fired.

BANG!

Square in the ‘T’.