September 9th, 2030, 6:46 am

For the Medo, membership requires that a new recruit must eliminate their immediate family to strip them of love and an outside support system. By doing this, the cult bends the once-typical human into a hardened killer; if they can murder the ones they care for most, they should have no problem doing the same to others.

Well, apparently, for the Imperial Guard, every new conscript must undergo firearms training... to do the same thing.

Sergeant Talia Rory instructed us to be outside at six-thirty in the barracks, though that was before my altercation with Sergeant Lee. Class 30 was prepared to step out into the training yard when Rory said she and the other Sergeants needed a couple of extra minutes, and that we should wait outside. I am unsure if the two events are related, but I hope that she and Sergeant Frost persuaded him to pull his head out of his ass.

I killed Private Otto Meier, that is a fact. My body killed him, my fingerprints were on the bat I used to crush his skull. I will take the blame for his death, but if only Lee could understand that I was not in control of my own mind, then he would know my struggle and why we're doing all this in the first place. If Otto had not stopped me on the last night of my fugitive spree, I may still be on the run. He is the reason I am here, not to mention how the Imperial Guard knows anything about the Medo at all.

If only Lee knew what it took to get this far.

I face straight ahead in our class formation, lined up an arms-length apart according to rank. I squint looking at Sergeant Rory, who stands before the four present classes. The sun crawls over the horizon, through the cracks between the skyscrapers blocking the eastern shore. Rory has her back turned to the light, forcing the rest of us blind.

"So, as you all already know, the Imperial Guard is implementing a firearms course that is to be taken this week before the arrival of these, uh, beasts." Sergeant Rory adjusts her ballcap, fidgeting with a smile. "Classes 27 through 29, you have already received this training over the past however many years you've been here. Therefore, you are expected to perform to the best of your ability and act as a mentor for Class 30. You are dismissed and may begin on the range."

The three rows in front of Class 30 collapse behind us to where the range is located. I haven't had a chance to observe what I will be shooting at once I reach that stage, but I know I will in due time. My hands sweat at the thought.

Once the older classes have pushed beyond us, Rory clears her throat. The other nine turn their attention back to her; my gaze remains stuck. "As for Class 30, you will merely be observing today. I want you all to be attentive learners and watch the other classes shoot. Feel free to ask questions, though I would reserve them for Class 27 and 28. 29 is still somewhat new to it and they need their practice. Tomorrow, we will cover the basics. The more you learn today, the quicker you will pick it up tomorrow. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," we say at once.

Rory nods. "Awesome. You have your orders; if you need me, I will be at the nest closest to the northern bluff. Dismissed, 30."

I rub my damp hands on my shorts and exhale. Before I can twist toward the range, I glance at CJ to my right. "Dude, come here."

He watches the rest of the class fold to the range as he nears me. "What's going on?"

"I can't do this."

"What do you mean? You can't shoot?"

"No," I whisper with a shiver in the light of the rising, warm sun. "I don't like guns."

CJ takes my wrist and guides me to the firing line. "Look, man, maybe you just have to get used to it. We aren't even shooting today; if you watch these guys do it, it might get easier for you to do it tomorrow."

For being an official Imperial Guard firing range, it isn't as large as I would expect. It appears to be just enough to fit twenty riflemen behind the fence and no more. The "grass" field in front of the gate is torn to shreds with dust covering much of the ground the closer it is to the targets. The grass is greener and more abundant nearest the shooters.

I peer out to the targets beyond, and I freeze. CJ's grasp cannot budge me.

The targets are modeled after a human figure with a wooden head, torso, arms, and legs, all connected by metal wiring. A paper cutout of a bullseye is plastered on the chest and head. Crude as they are, they do possess a major detail that differentiates them from actual humanity: a black-painted M on their left wood plank arm.

I stretch my own arm out and stare at the black streaks that haunt my skin. I know what it symbolizes, but I also know that some people cannot tell us apart.

A disgusting display, if you ask me.

"You okay?" CJ rustles my other arm, tearing me away from my thoughts. "You were just staring."

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine," I reply, forcing myself close to the row of gunmen between us and the fence. "Let's go talk to some of these guys like Rory said."

CJ tugs on my wrist and I make no effort to resist his pull. I stop and plant my sneakers into the ground. "Dude, what's going on? I know something is bothering you, and it's not just the guns. If something is up, you can tell me. Remember when you said that to me? Well, the offer goes both ways."

"It's nothing, CJ. Really."

"But it's something?"

I rotate with deliberate steps. When I make it back to him, he releases my wrist and focuses on my eyes, gazing through me. I look down at the scarred M on his right arm. Luckily for him, his skin was able to cover up the monstrosity that ailed him. For me, not so much.

I sigh. "Yeah, it is something. I have only touched a gun once in my life, and it was right before I killed Sergeant Lee's friend. I can't even imagine killing someone with one, it just seems so cowardly. Guns make killing easy, and I guess I'm, I don't know, vulnerable?"

"Vulnerable? Like you don't think you can control yourself?"

"I don't know. The Medo has the power to control my every move and I'm afraid that I might do something I don't want to do. And I don't want to lose the trust I've worked so hard to build."

CJ throws his arm over my shoulder and walks with me down the row. "Look, man, I get why you would be anxious, but I think you have to put that behind you."

I blow some air out through my nose and shake my head. "Easy for you to say. They could take control of me the second I pick up a loaded gun and the next thing you know you'll all be dead. I'm more or less surprised it hasn't happened yet."

"If you're so afraid to use a gun, why don't you use a sword like you were talking about yesterday?"

"I thought you said using a sword would be ineffective, CJ."

He shrugs. "It could be, but hey, I don't really know much. You're the expert on all things Medo around here. If using a sword is what it means for you to work at your best, then that's what we'll need you to do."

"I could try it out. Who was it that Hal said he knew that used a sword, the Colonel?"

"I think so, yeah. Let's go ask him, he's over by that gun case talking to Craig."

CJ and I mosey over to the large metal case stationed by a squadron of gunners, emptied into their hands. Hal and Craig converse with one another along with a private from Class 29 who I somewhat recognize from Friday night's disaster. Seeing Hal and Craig interact with each other in a nonhostile way is something I will never get used to.

"Hey, Hal, we gotta ask you something," CJ declares as we approach. "The Colonel knows how to use the sword, right? That's what you told us?"

Hal leans against the gun case and crosses his arms. "Yeah, he does, why?"

I detach CJ from my shoulder. "I want to ask him for help. The Medo told me I need to use a sword to kill the beast. If he can teach me, I'll be able to help you guys take it down."

"Why not just use a gun," Craig ponders aloud. "We're here now, observing, so why not just learn this instead? A sword isn't going to do you any good."

"Uh, well," I stutter, scratching my neck.

"It's a long story." CJ catches the question and drops it in place of me.

Hal exhales and flutters his head. "Look, Slater, MacTavish isn't really a teacher. I once asked him jokingly if he would teach me to swordfight and he shot it down, dead serious. Sorry, dude."

I groan, rolling my head back. "Come on, Hal. He's the Empire's best swordfighter. If I tell him it's for fighting the beast and the glory of the Imperial Guard or some bullshit reason, he'll have to teach me, right? How could he say no to me wanting to save the Empire?"

"As I said, he's not a teacher. Besides, if it came down to that, he would probably take on the job himself. He'd get himself fucking killed, but he would do it without teaching you."

"Hal, please. If you would drive me to his house after training today, I can convince him myself. I promise I can do it if you at least give me a chance."

Hal purses his lips. "Sorry dude, I can't do it. He's not gonna budge."

CJ slaps Hal on his chest with the back of his hand. "Are you going to at least let him try? The worst he can do is say no to him. Don't know why he would though."

"Hal, I think it's worth letting him try to persuade MacTavish. Just because he didn't teach you doesn't mean he'll refuse Slater." Craig gestures to me while glaring at Hal. "Look, I know that sounds shitty for you but one, he saved Slater's life so the possibility exists, and two, refusing Slater would be a disservice to the Empire, his rank as Colonel, and his status as Guardian of the Heir. Not giving Slater the training he needs would put him in the hot seat."

"Not to mention Captain Manchester would probably get on his case about it, too," I add, nudging CJ beside me. He returns with a playful shove.

Hal stifles a laugh and shakes his head. "You three are some real fuckers, huh? Ganging up on me like that?" He presses off the gun case and jabs two fingers into my collar bone, sending me backward. "You want to meet MacTavish, you got it. Just don't come crying to me if he says no. I'll say this now: I told you so."

I push Hal with a smile torn across my face. "You're the man, Hal. Thanks."

"No need to tell me twice."

The guns start to rattle next to us, bullets pinging against the wooden mannequins and whizzing through the air. Some kids lie on the grass, aiming their rifles under the chain-link, while others sit in plastic lawn chairs against the fence. For some reason, I am under the impression that this does not pass safety regulations. Not that I would know anything about guns, of course.

CJ taps me on the shoulder and points his head to the next shooting nest. "You gotta come check this out, man. Sergeant Lee is over here fucking up these targets."

Probably because they remind him of me.

As CJ strides ahead, I observe the Sergeant from a distance. He lays prone on the grass with his one-eyed gaze straining through the sights. He retains balance over his body every time he pulls the trigger, barely giving in to the recoil. The bullets scream across the range and pierce into the head of the mannequin, chipping away at the wood. After only a couple of rounds, the target's head is nothing but a spiked bowl.

Corporal Porter along the wall of the nest glances at the Sergeant. "Come on, Brayden, save some Medo bastards for the rest of us."

A Class 29 private chuckles beside her. "He's about to take down the Medo all by himself; don't tempt him, Alex."

"Hey, that might just be the motivation he needs."

To be honest, I don't mind if Lee wants to eradicate the Medo on his own. That's one less deed for me to do. The only real deterrent from letting him do that would be that his final target wouldn't be Rodney Roarke. It would be the person standing ten feet away from him, watching him perfect his headshot.

CJ comes to me with his vision seared onto Sergeant Lee. "He's pretty good. I'm sure he's had a lot of practice."

"Yeah, and he's got incentive."

"I guess he does." He rips his gaze from him and meets my face. "Listen, I know he's a prick to you, but you have to admit, he's damn good. In fact, he's incredible. I'm sure he'll eventually realize that this feud you two have is not going to last in the grand scheme of things."

I throw my hands over my shoulders and stretch out my neck. "Don't know when that will be, though. He's tough to crack. Trust me, I've tried, again, again, and again. Nothing has changed. He's going to hate me for the rest of his life for something I didn't even do!"

The bullets cease their flight. Porter and the unknown private cut their chatter and turn to me. Lee eases the grip on his rifle and curls in his prone position to view my now-trembling body. His glare stabs me right through the throat; I have no words to express.

The three guards in Class 29 return to their previous activity. Porter and the private resume their conversation and Lee takes a second before maintaining his marksmanship once more. The stale air leaves my chest.

CJ leans in close to me. "Look, if you would sit down and talk to him, just you two, you can tell him what was really going on. I know you've tried, but now that things have gotten dire, it may be worth a shot." He nods at Lee, who still obliterates the mannequins. "Besides, I would rather have that on my team than not."

"I'll think about it."

"Good," replies CJ, who heads past me. "I'm gonna go find Shanelle and hang with her for a bit if you want to come with."

I produce a brief laugh. "Nah, man, that's something you got to tackle on your own."

CJ grins and turns to skim the upcoming nest. After plenty of head craning and maneuvering, he moves on to the next one.

The last thing I want to do is talk to Sergeant Lee face to face, alone. For starters, who's to say he won't beat the shit out of me once he gets the chance? He would make sure I'm hospitalized if we were ever isolated from any witnesses. Even if he did keep his anger and aggression under wraps, there is no way in hell he would listen to me or believe a word I said. He's still in the delusion that everything is my fault, and that I'm the only reason all this is happening.

Is he wrong? No.

But is it worth wanting to kill me over and not save the Empire from annihilation? Also no.

Perhaps I can get someone to facilitate the meeting; someone with authority, like dog-face Petry.

I squirm at the thought.

Corporal Porter springs off the wall of the firing nest and steps toward me. I brace for a punch or something, judging by the mixed expression that is painted on her face. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you."

I point to Sergeant Lee. "Is it about the Sergeant?"

"Brayden? Yeah," she says, leading me away from the range. "Listen, we were all devastated when you killed Otto. We were all friends with him. But for some reason, Brayden never got over it. I mean, yeah, they were close, but still. It hit all of us pretty hard, yet for some reason, it hit him the hardest."

"That's what I would expect, but I don't exactly know what you want me to do."

Alex Porter glances at her Sergeant who continues to fire at the dummies in the range. "He was there, Slater. Or at least, he was supposed to be." She brings her attention back to me. "He and Otto were partnered up that night in the Castle, the front atrium. Brayden got distracted and left Otto alone. He was probably gone for ten minutes before he heard shouting from the hallway."

I frown. "Did he tell you this?"

"No." She looks at her feet as she hides one behind the other. "I was there when it happened, too."

"Where were you?"

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out of her hesitation. Her sights remain on her sneakers. "With Brayden." She finally looks up at me. "Don't say a word to anyone, got it? All anyone knows is that Brayden was going to the bathroom or something when Otto was killed. As far as they're concerned, he and I were never together. I feel bad enough already, bringing Brayden away from his post. The last thing I need is everyone in my class to hate me."

"Wait, if this is the case, why doesn't he blame you? I have never heard him complain to you about what happened, only me."

"He was the one who wanted to abandon his station. He met up with me; he takes the blame for that. As for the murder itself, he sticks it on you because," she whispers, "he doesn't want it to be all his fault."

"I can understand that," I confess, standing firm. "But it still doesn't excuse him hating me."

"I know, and I'm sorry. For him."

"Corporal, don't apologize for him. None of this is your fault. This issue is his and his alone."

"I know, Slater, but-"

"Corporal, I mean it," I stammer, breaking away from her. "Not to sound rude, but this isn't your problem. Let Sergeant Lee and I figure this out on our own, okay?"

Along the fence to the shooting range, Lee rises to his knees and looks back at Porter. His rifle lays idle on the ground where he once laid. "All right, Alex, it's your turn. That gorgeous piece of battered woodwork out there is all yours when you're ready."

She steps toward the fence, bouncing between the Sergeant and me. "If that's what you think," she mutters before turning to her superior.

It's a dismissal of complete guilt. Sergeant Lee was absent for the death of his best friend, and he refuses to take responsibility for his momentary departure. So instead of splitting half of the hatred onto me and himself for making a mistake, he placed the full culpability on my shoulders. Of course, it makes sense to blame the murderer for a homicide; someone's death is no one else's fault but the one who kills him.

But it's the way that he treats me that makes this partition so filthy. And it's the reason I don't like him, either.

For a moment, I consider the idea of questioning Colonel MacTavish tonight during my swordsmanship training. But I remember the pace at which the Imperial Guard reached a decision about my fate the morning of my arrest, and the thought is shot down. Ever since MacTavish stuck his neck out for me in front of his colleagues, Lee has not spoken to him, so there was no opportunity to inform his old mentor about the events of that night.

Then again, the Colonel still knows Lee as a person better than anyone else I could talk to. Even if MacTavish denies my request to learn how to swordfight, although I don't know why he would, the least he could do is tell me how to dig into Sergeant Lee and get the blame off of me. I don't wish to divide the responsibility of Otto Meier's death, but all I want is for Lee to understand that it wasn't fucking me.

My mark flashes gold. My right hand jolts over the tattoo and the light flickers between my fingers. If Lee sees this shit, he'll rip that gun right out of Porter's hands and turn me into one of those practice dummies out on the range.

It's your anger, Slater. Take a few deep breaths and calm yourself; it should go away.

I clasp my hand around my arm, my knuckles protruding against my skin. I open my lungs and allow them to expand with the air coming through my nose. I expel what I draw through my mouth. Following five rounds of that rhythm, I release my forearm.

Good. Don't let that happen again. You're allowed to be angry but watch yourself. If you aren't careful, the power Roarke gave you may spring out when you least desire.

"Well, while you're here, Grayson," I utter to myself, hardly vocalizing above mouthing the words, "I want to know what you think about this situation with Sergeant Lee. He's the blond one over by the wall of the nest."

He's a baby. He cannot put the past behind him. At least Major Talbot could be a man about it.

A smile streaks on my face but it switches downward. "You're technically the one who killed his friend, not me. What do you have to say about that? You put me in this position."

Maybe he should have thought about his loyalty to his friend before he went off to mess around with the Corporal. He should take responsibility for what he did. Me, I just did what I was told. Unlike him.

"So you have no remorse? You, the murderer, will not admit you killed his friend?"

I killed him all right. But this could have been avoided if he was there. He's not willing to accept the guilt. You know, Slater, if you want, I could pay him a visit and straighten him out for you.

"Please don't, Grayson. I can do this myself."

Fine, I'll just sit here in this nice little corner in your head.

A laugh breaks through me. "Yeah, whatever, man."

"Tross!" Sergeant Rory shouts from her shooting nest to my right. "Are you just going to stand around like an imbecile talking to yourself, or are you going to do as you're told? You could at least pretend like you're observing the other classes."

"Sorry, Sergeant," I apologize. "I'll get moving." I stride down the row of shooters, inspecting each subsequent nest for no particular person; just to keep the Sergeant off my back.

I look out to the range once again and see the wasted mannequins that once appeared to human-like. The bullseyes on their chests are riddled with holes, and some, like the ones Sergeant Lee shot, have their heads blown off clean. I have also noticed that the left arm on each of the targets was vaporized by bullets.

My own M shudders at the sight.