Turn in for the night and get some sleep.

“Have a good night, Clova.”

Her red eyes open and stare at you, almost as if she predicted you to bug her. She smiles, pleasantly surprised. “Sleep well, Warren.”

You go to the second room. A king-sized bed greets you as you step out of your clothes and climb under the covers wearing nothing besides your underwear. The busy day that drained your energy allows you to fall asleep as soon as your eyes close.

…

…

One week later…

At this point, your relationship with Clova had turned into a solid one. You and she truly accepted each other as partners. So even though she was showing no sign of opening up to you, you figure it was just a matter of time before she started to admit some of the more personal aspects of her life and what happened to the other members of her unit.

Clova had a sugar tooth which was usually treated with a lollipop. She carried a whole sack of them. Cherry, blueberry, and soda-flavored suckers filled the bag. You knew she liked you when she offered one of from her stash. You ate together. You slept in the same space. You even shared packing and hunting advice.

You forgot the last time you worked with someone that you liked being around this much; even if Clova’s sense of humor was dry, she almost always cracked a small smile whenever you said something smart-ass-like.

A week after you met each other, you woke up to the sound of knocking. You stir out of the sheets and answer the door, not bothering to put on your clothes.

Clova stands on the other side, dressed in jeans and a gray short-sleeved shirt, but she was layering now. You saw black sleeves passing the gray of the shirt and figured she had some kind of thermal wear too. Her eyes dart down to your torso and exposed legs before she looks up and arches her brows in tired confusion. “Get dressed. We’re gonna go out shooting today.”

A yawn leaves your mouth and leans against the door frame. “New guns?”

“Marksmanship test,” she says. “Need to make sure you can shoot straight.”

“You know I can handle my rifles. We went shooting two days ago. All alpha’s.” Honestly speaking, the weather outside was becoming less than desirable to be in. Two nights ago, it snowed. You’re pretty sure it snowed last night even.

“We’re using handguns today. Rifles are a platform you train your kids on. Handguns are an experts tool.” She sniffs and looks down, clearing her throat. She looks up and stares at you intently. Her expression was almost entirely vacant of life. “So, you getting dressed or not?”

“Give me a few minutes to brush my teeth and to get dressed.”

“Don’t worry about brushing,” Clova said. “We’re getting coffee.”

You realized how dark it was and side-stepped her. The sky was a distant blue, and the clouds were covering the sun. “What time is it?”

“5 AM,” Clova says. “Best time to get coffee from the local stores. Freshly brewed and the first one of the day.”

You retreat to your room and nod. You knew Clova enjoyed her coffee, and you weren’t going to be the one to keep her away from that, so without much ****, you agreed to all her terms.

About an hour later, you were walking outside the gates of Deadwood beside Clova. Coffees in hand, dressed in jeans and gray shirts. The weather outside was nippy, and the landscape was brown, speckled with white patches. The sky was painted with different shades of dark blue. You both had your pistol belts weighted with handguns and loaded magazines. Clova insisted you carried a 45. Caliber pistol while she hauled a blocky black Austrian gun, apparently made primarily out of plastic.

Around your shoulders were duffel bags: extra ammo, tools, and paper targets. Your support hands were gloved and motionless to your sides, but your bare hand gripped the hot coffee as it lightly steamed from the drinking port.

Clova drank and sighed. “Shit, that’s good.” Clova also insisted you get the coffee black. The coffee here had a hard kick that snapped you out of any drowsy mood. It hardwired you for the morning and made it easy to focus on whatever task was on hand.

“Thanks,” you sip the dark liquid and feel new energy shoot through you. “Not sure if it’s good, though.”

She replies with an “mhm” and then doesn’t say anything until you make it to an opening. Where you had practicing and training for an entire week. Spent brass litter the ground. There’s an old picnic table you lay your bags on.

Pressure checks. Little banter. Practicing your draw and presentation. You’re both a bit stiff from the cold, but the more coffee your drink and the more you warm, the less rigid your motions are.

You put on your hearing protection and check your magazines on your belt and pistol. Clova cranes her neck jogs to warm up. “The first guy I killed was an intruder in my house.”

“No kidding?”

Clova nodded. “Blew his fucking head off with my daddy’s shotgun. Never forgot the splatter my mom had to clean that night. I was 14 at the time.”

She was so casual about it you didn’t even realize that she just admitted a close-range kill. The closer the target was, the more intimate it became. You had your fair share of shotgun kills, human and not. In a way, it bugged you to see her so indifferent to the experience.

You both set up the silhouette targets in silence and then return to the picnic table. There are about 20 yards of snowy ground between you and the targets.

“Alright, Warren. Your old outfit told you to stop shooting when they're down, right? Same here with the RTE.”

“Just get rid of the threat and assess what needs to be done,” you were comfortable and familiar with the process. “Waste of ammo otherwise.”

Clova draws and presents her pistol in less than 2 seconds, popping off five shots into the paper target and advances, slowly guiding the ****-end of her black beast as if guarding a downed enemy. Finally, she turns and cocks her head to the target behind her. “4 alphas and a charlie.”

You’re limited to about 12 rounds plus one in the chamber. So you’re still about five rounds short of Clova’s, but you figure the firepower you’re packing compensates for that.

You do copy what Clova did, half a second quicker, slightly blinded by the muzzle flash in the low light conditions you are practicing in. She cheers and nudges you. “3 Alphas and two Charlies. But, he’s dead.”

“Once I get more trigger time with the gun, I know I’ll be better.” So you say, not blaming the gun. “I’m used to the more…handier pistols.”

“It’s a mindset. Present, squeeze and suppress. You know all this already.”

You nod and check your pistol as she continues. “While in WRP, though, we do something different.” Her red eyes are dark in color, and she becomes deathly serious.

“I refuse to lose someone directly under me because of laziness or a false sense of security. If you put someone down, you don’t give them a chance to recover, OK? If they shoot us, they made their decision to attack us.”

Her voice started to waver as she continued. “You empty your magazine into the first guy, and you make your gun into something more than a paperweight right quick. I’ll show you what I mean.”

She holsters her pistol and exhales. She gets into a lazy stance, does nothing for a few seconds, and then snaps into action. Like greased lightning, she presents and points in a second and dumps the reminder of her bullets into the paper target. The shots slowly go down as she imagines someone tumbling down. She reloads and snaps to another silhouette target and does something similar but only spits off half her rounds. She holds her breath for a moment and puts her Glock back where it came from. She mumbled something and then turned to face you.

“I’m not working alone again, damn it. We fucking kill anyone who means us harm. It doesn’t matter if it’s a farmer, a bandit, a kid with a stick. Get into a mindset where everyone out here,” Clova shoots her hand to the gray locked forest. “Aren’t worth a damn compared to us. If you shoot, you’re doing it to kill. We won’t give them chances to hurt us!”

She pushes you back, sensing your lack of emotion and understanding. Her eyes are becoming puffy. She shoves you harder and then yells. “Do what I did but faster!”

You follow her example and do what she did, just a little slower. But she kept yelling at you and pressuring you. You weren’t sure how much of it was for training purposes or just venting without explaining.

So your guns don’t melt in your hands, you take a break and sit at the picnic table. The targets are punched with so many holes it’s hard to decipher where your bullets are hitting. The coffee is long gone, and all that's left is small talk, but it seems tainted by all the yelling and emotion Clova poured out early on in your training session.

You figure it must be nearing 7 o’clock because the sky begins to brighten. And when the sun is rising, the clouds turn pink and cream-colored. It’s silent. However, it’s like staring at a painting. The forest gently cracks as the trees sway. You lean back and look at Clova; she has her face turned toward the woods in the opposite direction, so you can’t see any of her features.

You dare to be brave and talk to her. “Are you doing fine, Clova? You got a little emotional back there.”

No answer. You chase. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but just tell me that you’re fine, even if it’s a lie.”

“I’m fine,” she Clova cuts in as soon as you finish. She sighs and then stands up. “We still have some practice ammo, don’t we? So let’s continue until it’s all used up.”

You get up too, but you close out relatively quickly to break off from your early morning practice. Clova focuses on her shooting and keeps talking to a minimum, but she still gives helpful advice and plans to act in stressful situations.

When you finish packing up, she cranes her neck and looks up at you. “I’m going to turn in for the rest of the day. I’ll see you again Monday. I suspect the up-and-ups will have something to do with you and me by then. My R&R is expired today, and they’ll be eager to test you.”

You remembered it was Saturday, and you wondered if you would be able to chat with Clova tomorrow. You thought this might be an excellent time to explore your boundaries with the Japanese, or maybe with just Clova herself. You both zip your bags and throw them over your shoulders.

If you’re going to make a decision, you realize now would be a good time to do it.