“They don’t have to be special to be deserving of mercy,” I reply, gritting my teeth. “And what, you’re going to murder Reed’s wheelchair-bound wife?”
Taylor cocks her head to the side, like a dog that’s heard a whistle. “Of course. Alexandra Reed inherits the region upon the death of her husband. Nothing about her disability makes her incapable of running a government.”
“I realize she’s capable. My point is it’s morally reprehensible to murder a woman in a wheelchair,” I say, voice rising in exasperation.
Taylor pauses for calm consideration. “So, I should consider her able enough to run a region, but not able enough to be a threat?”
“A woman in a wheelchair is not a threat.”
“Sure she is. No part of her being paraplegic renders her unable to fire a gun or give an order.” Taylor puts her fork down. “The thing about war, Miss Piccolo? Everything is a weapon. Empathy, vulnerability, strength, weakness, even your own humanity can be exploited and turned on your enemy. So, we must be careful with mercy, because it can be used against us too.”
4
“You are not concentrating.”
“Not with you shouting at me, no.”
“I am not shouting.”
“If you shouted less, I would miss less.”
“If you missed less, we would be done already.”
Target practice is my least favorite part of the day. No matter how much Taylor drills into my head that mastering the weapon will make me more at ease, I still hate holding a gun and firing at the pathetic mannequins down the field. Even many days in, I’m queasy with a gun in my hands.
She claps her hand over my pistol. “Stop. Breathe. Remember the technique I taught you?” I nod. “Okay. Fix your grip, take a breath, and try again.”
Adjusting my grip and aiming down my sights, I focus on the target ahead of me. It has only one hole in the left shoulder; the other bullets probably lodged in a tree somewhere. That’s actually the only shot I’ve made and I made it on day one. By accident.
I inhale three steadying breaths. Firing off four bullets in succession, I empty the chamber into the mannequin four times,mostly in the chest. Normally I’d celebrate, but Taylor’s gun rules are rooted in my brain and I don’t want to blow my face off showboating a minor accomplishment.
I take my finger off the trigger. I point the gun in the direction that is safest—toward the mannequin—and eject the magazine. Pull back the slide and eject any cartridges. Rinse and repeat. Then, I place the gun down on the table in front of me and remove my protective earmuffs.
“Good.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. That was better than good. I hit it four times. Four shots could kill someone, for sure.”
“You succeeded four times in a controlled environment, after wasting several dozen bullets with your sloppy form and lack of focus. You did well, that is all.”
“A little praise wouldn’t hurt,” I grumble, tossing my ear protection onto the table.
“Neither would a little humility. I want you to be comfortable with a gun, not cocky.” Taylor packs the firearms for another member to use. “Let’s eat lunch. If you want, Claire has consented to letting you loiter in the kitchen for an hour after lunch.”
My mood brightens in an instant. “Really?”
“Yes. I told her if you hit the target at least three times, I would agree. Once the hour is up, Mason will bring you to the obstacles. Would you like to do that?”
I’m filled with puerile joy at the prospect of normalcy. “Yes. Thank you.” Once the adult part of my brain catches up with my squealing inner child, I stop. “How did you know that?”
“How did I know what?”
“That I like to sit in kitchens.”
Taylor turns and raises an eyebrow. “You know by now the ball was not the first time I saw you or was inside your house. I gathered information from people in Leader Piccolo’s employ.”
I blink. “You interrogated my servants?”
“Your servants are Underclass, Miss Piccolo. It was not difficult to get them to talk to me. I’m Underclass too.”