Fiearius leaned back in his chair and swung his arm over the back of it. The joking and mockery disappeared from his face as he spoke briskly, “Six cases, standard artillery. Fine grade stuff, recent models, Riolan made. Virgin heat. Asking 10k.”

Solon too had shed any mask of friendliness as soon as Fiearius had switched his own attitude. He was listening intently. Almost too intently. His eyes trailed downwards to his hands, clasped together before him on the surface of his desk, and he stared at them thoughtfully for some time. Until at last, he looked up. “What’s the catch?”

Fiearius’ head tilted innocently. “Why do you think there’s a catch?”

“Because 10k is about what it’s worth,” Solon pointed out, unweaving his fingers and letting them tap together thoughtfully instead. “You always ask for more.” He smirked gently. “So I ask again. What’s the catch?”

Fiearius returned his smirk with one of his own. “They’re marked,” he admitted, sounding reluctant to do so. “Paulos Torian.”

Solon’s brows raised thoughtfully at the name, his eyes still hanging around his patiently drumming fingertips. Again, he fell silent before finally deciding, “I’ll give you five.”

“That’s not enough,” Fiearius replied promptly.

“Well it’s what they’re worth,” Goddora shot back, equally as unhesitant.

“They’re worth at least six five,” Fiearius told him matter-of-factly, to which Solon shrugged.

“Fine, six five, then,” he said simply. “Saviano, make the arrangements–”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” Fiearius said calmly, raising his hand to interrupt the order. “I need ten.”

“And why would I give you ten for something you just admitted wasn’t worth anywhere near ten?” Solon counter-pointed, narrowing his eyes at his opponent.

“Because you like me,” Fiearius replied with an unmatched calmness. “Or because it’s an investment. Or because I said pretty pretty please? I’m sure we can work something out.” Fiearius gave the man a knowing look that clearly stated that something else was available to be put on the table which was just enough bait to interest Goddora.

He leaned forward on his desk and met Fiearius’ eyes rather intensely. “I thought you didn’t do that type of work anymore,” he remarked, to which Leta sent Fiearius a curious look.

“I don’t,” he said absently, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, not usually anyway. We can talk about that some other time. But for now, I’ve got a better idea. Who’s critical?”

Solon raised his brow again, looking ever more curious as to what the crack captain of the Dionysian was up to. “Sorry?” he asked, confused.

“You said someone was still critical,” Fiearius said bluntly, nodding at Saviano. “Who’s still critical?”

Solon fell silent for a moment, then admitted, “Roman. You’ve met him. My right-hand man. A good man. A family man.” He seemed genuinely sad about the state of affairs he spoke of, his eyes downcast and his tone grave as though the man were already dead. “Shot in the stomach a few days ago. And you know how doctors out here are. No matter how much you pay them, they don’t get any better at their jobs.”

His sight went from the floor to the door Saviano had come from, lines of anger creasing his face before he let it go and glared back at Fiearius. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Fiearius began, standing up to his feet and striding toward Leta’s chair. “I happen to have with me a seasoned trauma surgeon with a decade of experience and mighty fine alpha planet medical training.” He dropped his hands on her shoulders. Leta tried not to wince in distaste. Instead, she maintained a half-smirk of her very own. That’s what these people did, didn’t they? If she wanted to make it out of here alive, she supposed she had a part to play too.

“She’s pretty good with gunshot wounds,” Fiearius went on, his voice smooth and confident. “And by all means, about a thousand times more capable than any of the failures you’ve got here.” Abruptly, his tone dropped to seriousness as he said, “Ten if she can fix him.”

Across the desk, Solon also stood to his feet. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the two of them, not liking the way this was turning out. Mistrust glinted in his eyes as he glanced at Fiearius, then down to Leta. “If,” he repeated skeptically.

Fiearius shrugged. “Can’t promise anything,” he admitted. “But it’s worth a shot isn’t it? At least let her take a look.”

Solon watched the smiling egotist across from him for a long moment. The seconds dragged on and Leta was certain they were about to be thrown from the office.

“If I may ask,” he finally stated carefully. “How did you happen across this decade-experienced, alpha-planet trauma surgeon?”

Fiearius pulled his hands away from Leta’s shoulders, stood up straighter and offered casually, “Kidnapped her.” Saviano made a murmur of amusement across the room. At Solon’s subtly astounded expression, Fiearius smiled and added, “A man has his vices.”

Head shaking, Solon rolled his eyes and sat back down at his desk. “Take her to him,” he ordered Saviano, waving his hand as though to get the whole stench of this mess out of his office.

Goddorra’s building did not resemble a criminal headquarters, at least not in Leta’s eyes. It was several stories high and looked like it had once been a sprawling, elegant hotel, but now suffered from age and decay.

Ahead of her, Fiearius pushed through tarnished double-doors without hesitation. Leta followed and got one glimpse of the circular, red-carpeted lobby before there was a flurry of movement and noise.

In a flash, at least ten men were on their feet, guns cocked and lifted to their faces. Leta, who came to a sharp halt, felt her blood go cold and heart stop in her chest.  For a moment no one moved. No one breathed. Then —

“Wow,” said Fiearius. He sounded amused. “Definitely upped the security lately, huh?” He regarded the men only distractedly. “Relax, boys, I got business with the fine gentleman upstairs,” he continued, and then gestured toward her. “And the kid’s with me.”

Mercifully, the men relaxed. The tension thinned from the air. Nonetheless, it was only when they had crossed through the lobby and slipped inside the elevator that Leta managed to take a deep breath.

“Fucking shit,” she hissed under her breath, wondering wildly what she had just gotten herself into it. But — perhaps the worst was over. Perhaps now she just had one quick job to do. Exhaling slowly, Leta spoke as calmly as possible to the person at her side.

“So,” she said pointedly, “what exactly is your ‘plan’ — “

“Your hair’s too neat,” said Fiearius suddenly, swinging his hand around and ruffling it atop her head, much to her chagrin. More seriously, he said, “Slouch more. Don’t smile. Don’t be nervous. He can smell fear. Don’t look him in the eye. Don’t look him anywhere. But don’t look away either.” His expression went suddenly grave. “And don’t say a word or you will die a quick but painful death.”

Feeling unnerved, Leta stared at him for a moment before he broke into a grin and said, “I’m just messin’, kiddo. You’re fine,” and reached to cheerfully mess her hair again.

This time, Leta grabbed for his wrist, groaned in embarrassment and looked away. “Don’t call me that,” she muttered, shoving him off a bit harder than necessary.

With that, the elevator gave a friendly ding and the doors slid open. As they stepped out into the hallway, they were greeted, once again, by a circle of men with guns in their arms. They seemed to be guarding one singular door in the center of the hall.

At her side, Fiearius groaned in annoyance before shouting, “Solon, I swear, I’m getting fuckin’ tired of this.”

Not a moment later, the door swung open and man’s silhouette filled the space it left. The figure stepped out and Leta’s eyes narrowed.

So this, she thought, was Solon Godorra. A slave trader and master weapons dealer. He was thin and tall, dressed in a fine patterned suit. Leta guessed he was somewhere probably in his sixties, with silver hair and sunken eyes they were currently fixated on Fiearius. It wasn’t his strongly-armed crew that made Leta feel nervous. It was this single man. She could only imagine the horrors he’d inflicted, directly and indirectly, into the lives of women and men everywhere. The prickling on the back of her neck was indication enough that this was a person Leta shouldn’t have been near, now or ever.

“Fiearius,” Solon stated, the name sounding rather bitter on his tongue. “Funny. I had a feeling I would be seeing you sometime soon.”

“You subscribing to that weird psychic religion stuff again?” said Fiearius. Leta kept her eyes on Godorra, but she could feel Fiearius smirking beside her.

For a moment, it seemed Solon was unresponsive. His eyes narrowed, his stance hardened. His men picked up on the body language and they too were changing the grips on their guns. But then, unexpectedly, the powerful weapon’s dealer smiled genuinely and swept his arm towards the door.

“Good to see you again, old friend. Please,” he offered. “Step into my office.”

In spite of her every instinct telling her not to, Leta followed after Fiearius to the door, feeling many pairs of eyes pressing onto her as she did so. She knew she must’ve looked out of place. She was out of place.

As the door fell shut, Leta swept her eyes quickly around the office. It was large, circular and lavish, its windows  covered in heavy drapes. Leta thought of what funded this sort of living and felt another twist in her stomach. These people were sick. Godorra was sick.

And, horribly, Fiearius was treating him like an old buddy.  She watched as Fiearius dropped into the chair and swung his feet up on the desk between them. Tentatively, she took the other seat.

It was then that the other set of doors across the office opened a crack, and another man slid his tall frame inside. He, too, was dressed sharply in tailored clothing. His deeply tanned, narrow face was lined with age, but his grey eyes were strangely piercing, as he sent a look toward Solon.

“He’s the same,” he said gravely to Solon, indicating toward the room he had just left. “Still critical.”

Pulling the door shut behind him with a snap, he looked up just then to the other arrivals. “Soliveré,” he greeted. Something close to a smirk touched his eyes. “It … has been a long time. Care for a drink?”

“When do I say no to a drink, Saviano?” said Fiearius, waving his hand in the air in mock-aristocratic fashion.

The man called Saviano went to the small bar in the corner, crowded with glinting crystal. He lifted a decanter and filled rocks glasses, then turned and offered them out to everyone except Leta, raising his eyebrows as he did.

“And what’s this?” he wondered, a little unfavorably, as he flicked his eyes toward Leta and rested them there. Instinctively, Leta narrowed her eyes. After a moment, Saviano smirked and mused grandly, “You know, slave trading season is over, Fiearius.”

The innocence in his voice made Leta’s feelings of fear fade away. Now she felt something else. Now, she felt anger. Apparently the lone female in the room wasn’t even worthy of an introduction, let alone a name or a title.

“That’s nice to know,” she put in suddenly, mockingly matching Saviano’s tone of innocence. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as she finished coldly, “I’m not up for trade.”

At her side, Fiearius had paused, his glass halting halfway to his mouth as he glanced sidelong to her for a moment, then looked up at Saviano.

“Now now, you know me,” he said at last. “Crew, not captives.” He smiled and reached over to gently pat Leta’s hand. Discreetly, Leta slid her hand away.

“Except for one,” Solon pointed out from across the desk, tilting his own drink back.

“Well,” said Fiearius in surprise, “a man’s allowed a few vices, right?” He shrugged his shoulders and then downed the liquid in the glass in one shot.

“I’d say you’re a man with more than a few, though, wouldn’t I?” said Solon.

Here, Fiearius smirked broadly. “I didn’t come here to talk about my bad habits, Solon,” he told him frankly, skidding his empty glass across the man’s desk. “Though if you’re really that interested, take me out and buy me a drink,” he laughed. Solon chuckled an airy laugh in turn.

“Yes, well, I’ll think about it,” he remarked absently, clearly uninterested in continuing down Fiearius’ slippery path. This wasn’t a negotiation, Leta realized, as much as it was a pissing contest. She was torn between apprehension and, actually, rolling her eyes. Thankfully, Solon seemed ready to call it to an end.

“Business then,” he said briskly. “What have you got for me this time?”

The bang was decisive and satisfying — like a stream of controlled, sharp wildfire, before the bullet embedded swiftly into the wall. As she shot, her shoulders were tense — too tense, really, and full of anticipation for the kick-back. Surprisingly, the kick wasn’t nearly as strong as she imagined. It was more of a fluid jerk. Her own reservations had halted her more than the gun. Lowering the weapon back to her side, she narrowed her eyes and scrutinized the wall.

And then, unable to help herself, she grinned.

“Okay,” she admitted, half-laughing. “I guess I can see why you like this.” She turned her wrist and examined the gun, surprised by it all over again. She had anticipated the weapon to feel too heavy in a single hand, or awkward to grasp in her slender fingers. She didn’t expect it to fit naturally like an appendage.

As she looked up at Corra, though, reality kicked in once more. “But I’m still not going to use it,” she said, her grin fading off her face.  “Cyrus told me you’re smugglers. He didn’t tell me why the hell Fiearius would need me on this job. Because I’m not shooting anyone. He knows that right?”

For all of Corra’s cheeriness and apparent pride at her pupil’s first shot, the moment the name Fiearius slipped into the room, all of that joy rushed away. The frown returned to her brow and the tiniest of pouts creased her lips as she looked away from Leta suddenly and grumbled, “Who knows? Probably. But since when does he give a shit about what other people want or don’t want? All he cares about is his damn self.” She let out a sigh and lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. “He probably just wants to cause a stir by taking you instead of, no offense, someone who’s picked up a gun before. To piss people off. Namely, me. As if I wasn’t already pissed enough as it is.” She sneered unpleasantly at the empty doorway.

Leta would have liked to sympathize, but at the moment she was too alarmed at the fact that Corra was angry all over again at Fiearius. Fiearius, whom Leta was supposed to go do some kind of job with? By herself?

“I’m not shooting anyone,” said Leta again, more conviction in her voice now, though her anger was not directed at Corra. She sighed. “And you know I’d gladly trade places with you. Why’d you want to go on this job so badly? What is it?”

Corra broke away from the doorway and met Leta’s eyes more than a little sadly. “It’s not the job,” she explained shortly before wandering over to the wall of guns and absent-mindedly picking a small pistol from its rack. “I don’t care about the job,” she said, her grip tightening as she turned it over in her hand. “It’s who the job’s with.”

“Godorra?” Leta wondered quietly.

A pair of cold eyes gazed at her, filled with pain, sadness and fury. “Yeah,” Corra muttered, her knuckles turning white as her grasp on the gun’s grip continued to tighten and she spat out as though the word disgust her, “Goddora.”

Leta was starting to feel foolish for how little she knew about the people that seemed to infuriate Corra. But her curiosity was powerful — especially if she was about to meet this person. “Who is he?”

“He’s a big time weapons dealer,” Corra said, her voice full of venom. “But weapons aren’t his only specialty.” She sighed, as though to relieve some of the vicious anger in her, though it didn’t seem to do any good. She was just as bitter as she growled, “He’s big in the slave trade too. Buys up all the arrested kroppies.” She said the word as though it tasted foul on her tongue.

“Kroppies,” Leta repeated, almost to herself. She thought she knew what that nasty word meant, but she wanted to be wrong. “Doesn’t that mean … “

“Yeah,” Corra confirmed before she could finish. “The poor, homeless, unwanted people who, what is it? Don’t belong. Aren’t welcome on nice, civilized planets. They dirty up the skylines so they round em up for doing nothin’ but tryin’ to live and sell em off to scum like Goddora. And then he puts em in his complex. Prunes em, sells em for ten times the price and buys some more.” She stared at Leta squarely for a moment, the corners of her eyes creased in distaste before she looked away suddenly.

“I used to be one of his,” she explained, her voice harshly quiet as she gently lifted her hair out of the way to reveal that the top portion of her left ear was missing, clipped off. “Til Captain Sonofabitch bought me,” she added with a growl, glancing up at the ceiling as though Fiearius were standing above her.

“But as much of an asshole as he is, I still got damn lucky,” she added more softly. “Most who get sold off don’t end up free and master of a hefty armory.” She gestured to the wall beside her. “I think it’s my duty as the lucky one to go back and give that bastard what he deserves, don’t you?” She raised the gun in her hand to admire it more closely and feigned aiming it at an unseen target kneeling before her. “A bullet right in the head.”

For a moment, Leta was too stunned to speak. And she wasn’t sure what to say, anyway, as she tried to understand: Corra had been in a slave complex. She’d been enslaved.

Logically, reasonably, Leta knew slave trading was still active in some far reaches of the span. But it was barbaric, ancient; it was supposed to be a dead industry. It wasn’t supposed to actually exist. Staring at Corra now did not make it any more fathomable. “Fiearius — bought you?” she asked quietly, feeling a bit sick.

Almost as though surprised to hear Leta’s voice, Corra dropped her arm and looked over at her, eyes slightly widened. “Yeah,” she answered, tentatively. “Almost three years ago.” She let out a short, sick laugh. “I’m technically a Soliveré too, if only by paperwork.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Lucky me indeed.” She paused momentarily before shrugging. “Although not anymore, I don’t think. I’m not sure what happens when you burn the deed.”

“Well … I’m glad it’s been burned,” Leta muttered, but she wasn’t sure if she was relieved just yet. Her mind was still struggling with what she’d said. Fiearius, at one point, had owned her. And before then, Corra had belonged to Goddorra. She could imagine what happened to enslaved women and she could hardly stomach the thought.

Leta picked her eyes up, suddenly, as it all clicked. “And now Fiearius wants to do business with Goddorra? The man who owned you?”

“Aw, chika, he’s been doing business with Goddora long before and long after he dragged me away from there, kickin’ and screamin’,” she told her a little grimly. Utilizing perhaps the most foolish, wish-washy voice she could conjure, she mocked with a distorted expression, “He’s a good contact, we need his support for the business, he’s the only one who’ll trade for this.” She snorted in distaste and dropped the act. “Same excuses every time. Frankly, I’m getting tired of hearing them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Leta snapped, her voice cracking like a whip through the room. Suddenly, she felt enough roiling anger to pace the room, though she settled for a snarl of disgust. “I’m not helping him. And I’m definitely not helping him do business with Goddorra.”

“Don’t blame ya. Let him stew in his own muck. He wants to deal with that prick, he can deal with him alone,” Corra remarked bitterly as she finally placed the gun in her hand safely back on its rack. She let out one more long sigh, this time more successfully shaking off her tension as she ran a hand through her bangs and actually smirked at Leta, if a tad mischievously. “Tell ya what, though. I know you say you don’t wanna shoot anybody, but if Cy-cy can’t get you outta this, do me a favor and put a good one right here.” She placed two fingers right between her eyes and chuckled lightly. “Seriously. Do it and I’ll give you this whole damn armory.”

“Honestly? I’m tempted,” Leta said, mustering a small, bitter smile.

“Well then,” Corra said proudly, putting her hands on her hips while sizing up Leta. Finally she smiled and gestured towards the bullet-riddled wall again. “Best get practicing.”

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –

Spending the rest of the morning in the armory with Corra  — target-practice and talking — was almost enough to make Leta forget her worry and her anger. Almost. It was a few hours of welcome distraction, at least, when they took a break from sending bullets into the wall (Leta thought she was starting to get rather good at aiming — or better, at least), and finally slumped onto the couch.

“It really is a beautiful place,” Leta was saying as she sank back comfortably in her seat. She was trying to explain Vescent; Corra had been curious about where she’d grown up and she was trying to indulge her curiosity as best as she could. These days, it was hard to discuss Vescent without sounding bitter, but she purposely avoided politics. “The planet’s almost completely ocean. And the main city is rather small — but really beautiful. Stone architecture and beaches … ”

“It looked beautiful,” Corra admitted, leaned back on her arms and smiling up at the ceiling wistfully. “From the brief moment I saw it anyway.” She let out a disgruntled sigh and muttered, “If only I were on a ship not run by wanted criminals…”

Leta smiled weakly. “I doubt I’ll be make it back there anytime soon.”

“Well. That makes two of us,” Corra pointed out with a cheerful grin and an invisible toast in Leta’s direction.

Just then, Corra looked past her and noticed a figure that seemed to have been standing in the hallway for the past few moments. Corra frowned, concerned, until she realized who it was and simply smiled. “Cy-cy,” she greeted happily as the engineer awkwardly hovered just outside the threshold to the armory.

“Sorry,” Cyrus muttered. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” Leta wondered how long he had been standing there, waiting for his chance to make his presence known. He did not look all that pleased to be there. His eyes refused to meet theirs for more than a second and his fingers were anxiously drumming the doorframe. Corra apparently noticed as well.

“How’d it go?” she asked, although the tone of her voice gave way that she already knew what he was going to say.

“Not…so well…” Cyrus responded quietly, definitively looking elsewhere now.

“He’s still being a dick?” Corra assumed bluntly, casting him an annoyed glare.

“Something like that,” the young man replied with a stiff shrug. “He says…that he needs a doctor. That it’s non-negotiable. And that the only doctor aboard is…well.” He looked to Leta finally. “You.” Cyrus frowned at her before looking away again. “He wouldn’t explain why. I tried. It must be for his arm though? Don’t you think? It still looks pretty gross. And I can’t think what else it would be.” Half-heartedly, he gave her an apologetic smile. “But at least you’re not meant to be a gunhand?”

“I wasn’t going to be his gunhand regardless,” Leta growled. Now she felt more anger than worry: the captain seemed to think she owed him something, which could not have been further from the truth. “Because I won’t be shooting anybody,” she added forcibly. “And why the hell does he think I’ll just go and help him and that slave-trader — ”

Abruptly, Leta broke off, and fell into an urgent silence. She could feel a pair of curious looks upon her, but she ignored them as her mind started to work. Now, she wasn’t thinking about Fiearius and his ridiculous request. She wasn’t thinking about Goddorra, either, even though she already hated him.

She was thinking about Ren. About getting him back.

When she looked up at Cyrus, her expression was considerably lighter.

“So if I do help Fiearius,” she ventured cautiously, “what’re the chances he’ll help me too?”

Cyrus’ mouth was already open, as though with a response ready, but the question Leta asked didn’t match the answer on his lips. His jaw snapped shut and he regarded her uneasily.

“If there’s one thing my brother is, it’s serious about his debts…” he said knowingly, glancing toward Corra, who only cocked her head quizzically. Cyrus looked back to her and added, “Favors don’t go unnoticed. You want his help, giving yours is your best shot.”

What choice did she have then? Leta could hardly believe her own ears when she glanced toward her gun, now shelved back on the wall, and she muttered in defeat, “Then I guess I’m going with.”

“Sorry, I didn’t–” she muttered awkwardly. “I mean, that wasn’t about you. It was just–” Her frown returned suddenly, directed passionately at the floor before she forced it out, tilted her head to each side and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Look, ya want a lesson, I can give ya a lesson. Specially if he’s serious.” One of her brows raised curiously. “Nice alpha planet doctor like you musta never even laid hands on one of these.” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at the armory door. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ hurt out there on account of that asshole. I’ll teach ya everything I know.”

As Corra forced a kinder smile, Cyrus added helpfully, “She won’t need it. I’m gonna talk to him. I’ll get her out of it.” He grinned in a manner he probably thought was encouraging. The result was a bit creepy. And before anyone could speak, he turned and rushed away.

Corra’s eyes had gone slightly wide at his proclamation. For a long moment, she stared at Cyrus’ retreating back. “Yeah,” she decided at last, looking back to Leta as she turned around, “you’re definitely gonna need lessons. Come on in.”

The armory was a long, rectangular room with burnt brown walls. It was shadowy and dim like the rest of the Dionysian,except one wall, which glinted invitingly even in the low light. As Leta stepped inside, she saw why: it was lined, floor to ceiling, with weaponry of all sizes.

As Leta stepped toward it, the knot of worry in her chest loosened ever so slightly. In spite of it all, in spite of everything, some of her burning questions and unending nervousness was replaced with something else: interest.

Beside her, Corra took a deep breath and placed her hands squarely on her hips. “Alright,” she proclaimed, gesturing to the racks above their heads. They seemed to hold everything from the tiny, concealable sort that could be stuffed within clothing, to monstrous rifles that Leta could hardly imagine being able to carry. “First lesson, I suggest you pick one you can hold.”

Well, there was no reason not to accept the lesson, was there? She wasn’t going to help Fiearius, but equipping herself on a criminal ship didn’t seem like a bad idea. Nodding slightly, Leta stepped closer to the wall, her eyes traveling high and low along the racks.

Pressing her lips together in thought, she regarded a line of long, thin guns she thought must have been assault rifles. Her height may have afforded her the opportunity to hold the larger weapons, but she could not envision herself doing anything but fumbling with something of that size. Then, she quirked a brow at the set of bulky machine guns in the corner. At that, a wry smirked touched her eyes, before her gaze finally lowered to another shelf.

Tilting her head, she stepped closer, filling her eyes with the sight of a row of shining handguns. With careful surgeon hands, she reached to pull it from the rack, closing her fingers around the grip. She turned around again with the gun in hand, examining it. The grated metal weapon relaxed into her grasp — a small but steady fit.

“Like this one?” she said, looking up at Corra.

Despite her foul mood, Leta saw a small, almost indistinguishable smile run across Corra’s lips. “One of my favorites,” she commended as she moved over to another wall herself and began sorting through what appeared to be boxes of ammunition. “When you’re in the range, dare I even call it that, only use the FMJs,” she advised her a little absently as she held up a clip proudly. “Hollow-points have a tendency to split on impact which…well it does interesting things to human bodies, but if you’re firing into a bullet-proof wall? Ricochet. Bad stuff.”

Swiftly, Corra rejoined her in the center of the room and began fussing about with the gun in her hand. “So this is your clip,” she told her diligently as she reached to unapologetically grab for the weapon in Leta’s hand. “Release is here. Pop it out, pop another back in.” The gun clicked as Corra shoved the clip in her hand into it. “Hold it tight, but not too tight, like this, with what ever hand you feel better with.” She meticulously rearranged Leta’s fingers on the grip. “This is your safety,” she pointed out. “On. Off. Only take it off if you know you’re gonna need it off. Never put your finger on the trigger unless you actually aiming to shoot something. When you’re not.” She moved her index finger as well. “Rest it here.”

Satisfied, Corra stepped back and looked her up and down, her brow furrowed. “Shoulders back, feet apart,” she instructed, and Leta did as she was told, feeling somewhat bemused by the instructions, but not enough to interrupt.

“Know where your center of gravity is and keep your balance,” Corra went on. “Even little ones like that have recoil and if you’re not expecting it, you can get yourself hurt. Arm out straight. Don’t try any fancy shooting, not ‘til you’ve had more practice. The key for beginners is staying steady and keeping aim.” She nodded firmly and added, with a frown, “Also, don’t close your eyes. Either of them. People do that. I don’t know why, it’s the stupidest thing,” she muttered, but then she smiled up at Leta encouragingly and stepped out of the way.

“Go on,” she insisted, gesturing the the thick, black wall at the far end of the room, already riddled with caught bullets in its surface. “Give it a try.”

Hesitating slightly, Leta lifted her gun arm aloft as Corra had indicated. For a moment she did not recognize her own hand out in the air, her fingers grasped around the grip of a gun. A gun. She was holding a gun? She was an M.D. for crying out loud. But, before she could think more on it, she squeezed the trigger.