Murakumo stirs and opens her eyes, blinking in the face of blinding hazy morning light. Rubbing her eyes, she finds a blanket covering her on her lowered truck seat that she does not recall sleeping with when she first fell asleep. She is about to raise the truck seat and stretch her arms when suddenly -

PA-OOOOOOOOOOOOON!

"Eeek!?" Murakumo yelps out of reflex in reaction to the extremely loud gunshot that she has not heard before. Granted, she has only heard the pops of AK-47's and M16-A2's and the strong thumps of Damon's MK-14 Rogue Chassis, but this gunshot is more destructive and ear-shattering than any she has heard before. She peers out of the truck windows, trying to focus her slightly blurry vision in the hazy morning sunlight, and she can make out the sight of Damon kneeling behind one of the supply boxes that they were sitting on for dinner last night, peering intently through the scope of the AMP DSR-50 bullpup sniper rifle propped up on its bipod and sitting on top of the supply box. Murakumo watches as Damon slowly pulls back the bolt and ejects the spent .50-caliber casing, catching it in midair before ejecting the magazine, sliding the bolt closed, and putting the safety back on.

Murakumo exits the truck, leaving the blanket on her seat and closing the door after her as she approaches Damon, who begins packing up the DSR-50 rifle.

"What were you doing? That last shot of yours scared the crap out of me," Murakumo asks. "Don't tell me you were trying to use that as an alarm clock to get me to wake up..."

Damon frowns at her, not interrupting his progress. "Do you know how expensive of an alarm that would be?"

"Expensive?"

Damon shows her the casing that he caught, holding it by his thick fingernails so that his skin wouldn't get burned by the intense heat still packed within the metal of the casing. "In a world like ours, where any and every resource is valuable enough to the point where people would fight and kill each other to have, fifty-caliber bullets like these are hella expensive to buy, let alone produce. If I really wanted to wake you up, I would just shake you or something."

"Then what were you doing?"

"Test-firing." Damon closes the lid to the DSR-50's weapon case and pats it. "The only other opportunity I've had in using military hardware of this scale and high-techness was when I flew as a passenger in one of the cockpit of a Russian MI-24 that a Russian pilot that defected over to American soil brought with him after the nukes dropped. That guy's fuckin' rich as hell - you wouldn't guess how useful his helicopter became in transporting random cargo..."

"So what's so special about this thing? Aren't all guns the same? You use them to shoot and kill people, right?"

"The base purpose of a gun is to kill people, yes," Damon nods. "But just like how there's an infinite amount of ways to kill a human being, there's an infinite amount of ways to build and configure a gun and its purpose to tweak how it goes about killing someone." He taps the case containing the DSR-50 again. "This is a sniper rifle - it's meant to shoot people from a very far distance, typically a distance where your target won't know that he or she's being targeted until they're already dead. This sniper rifle is also specifically modified to hold and fire the fifty-caliber cartridge, which can also heavily damage vehicles if you know where to shoot - not to mention whatever human being you shoot can basically be counted as deader than dead."

Damon grabs the AK-47 that is standing on its wooden stock against the side of the supply box and tosses it to Murakumo, who catches it. "You're going to be practicing with that AK so you know how to shoot a gun."

"E-Eh..." Murakumo looks awkwardly down at her Russian assault rifle. "...but I've never shot before..."

"Which is why I'm going to have you learn right now. There's a first for everything, and some are bound to happen, like firing a gun. Soon, you'll know what it feels like to kill someone, too."

"That second part is something I don't want to do, after seeing what you did yesterday."

Damon sighs. "You're a destroyer ship. I don't want to be told that - your whole existence revolves around the destruction of other ships, and with it, the killing of lives as well. Don't give me that bullshit."

Coming close to Murakumo, Damon reaches his arms out to guide Murakumo's arms, but she recoils away quickly.

"W-What do you think you're doing? Don't touch me!"

"Murakumo," Damon says sternly. "This is an order; I'm having you learn the basics of marksmanship. Now do as I say."

Murakumo grinds her teeth and hisses as Damon guides her arms to a proper firing stance, but she does not resist.

"I don't have time to teach you the full course on basic firing etiquette, even though it might be a good idea to go through it later when we get the time...though I highly doubt it," Damon says. "There's a few basic principles that apply to all guns. Don't fire guns from the hip unless you really have to, because then you won't hit a goddamn thing. Always aim down the sights if you want something killed or downed, like this. Can you see the sights on the gun?"

Murakumo's ship nature, along with her built-in targeting system, naturally and intuitively locates and perfectly lines up the iron sights of the AK-47, and Murakumo perfectly holds the weapon, ready to fire.

"Good, looks like your ship's targeting mechanism also helps you with small firearms like these. Next, check that your safety is off if you want to fire. It's on the right side, see where it covers the bolt lever channel? On the AK, if it's up like this, that means you can't fire it. You have to set it down like this to be able to fire. Whenever you're not in an imminent combat scenario, always have the safety on. You don't wanna be flinging around bullets just because you accidentally pressed the trigger when your safety was off. This is the select fire mechanism, where you can switch from full-auto to semi-auto. Semi-auto lets you only fire one bullet per trigger pull, while full-auto lets you dump as many bullets downrange as long as you hold down the trigger. Don't use full-auto unless you really need something dead, like I said before - otherwise, it'll only be a waste of ammunition. For this model, you can fire it up to 400 meters, if you can calculate that. Because I'd expect that you'd have internal distance calculation and measurement tools of some kind, I bet you can fire it more accurately than that. Remember that the AK holds thirty shots, so count them; it should be easy for you. If you reload a magazine without shooting all thirty shots, remember that it'll still have one bullet chambered in the barrel, so you'll start with thirty-one bullets instead of thirty. Do you see that tree out there?"

Damon points off into the distance, and Murakumo tracks his target and instantly finds it.

"You mean that tree with the broken branches on the right?"

"That's it. It's the only tree out there anyway. That should be, let's say, around a hundred meters away. I want you to put some rounds into it so you can get a feel for how shooting a gun works. Remember: take off the safety, check fire mode, and shoot. And always make sure to keep your finger off the trigger until you know what you want to shoot or if you're in a close-quarters situation and you need to be able to shoot right away. That's called trigger discipline, something not enough people have these days. On my mark: three, two, one, mark."

Murakumo does as she is told: she flicks down the safety catch, sets the fire mode to semi-automatic, acquires her target through her iron sights, and takes a deep breath before pulling the trigger for the first time. The heavy recoil of the AK-47 kicks against her shoulder catches her by surprise.

"Shit, I forgot to mention that the gun has a pretty good kick if you're not used to it," Damon mentions, his hand against Murakumo's back to help her regain her stance.

"It's nothing, I was built to handle the recoil of 12.7cm guns for shit's sake," Murakumo mutters, suddenly determined to conquer the beast of the gun known as the AK-47. "Just watch..."

Sure enough, Murakumo, true to her claims, fires the rest of the magazine perfectly without any trouble, and all twenty-nine bullets rip into the tree in a neat circle.

"Awesome," Damon remarks, noting the tight circle of bullet holes in the tree through a pair of binoculars he fetched out of his backpack. "Your tree-killing skills are remarkable."

Murakumo glares at him wordlessly at his blatant but nonchalant sarcasm.

"And lastly," Damon continues, taking the AK-47 from Murakumo's hands, "you'll need to know how to reload a gun. A lot of these aspects a different from the gun to gun, but for the AK, watch me."

He presses the magazine release lever behind the magazine and simultaneously pulls out the empty magazine, grabs a fresh magazine he had stored in his jeans pocket for the demonstration, and inserts it in again until the magazine clicks.

"After you do that, pull back on the charging handle all the way to make sure the first bullet locks," Damon instructs. "If you've spent all thirty shots, then you'll have to do this. You don't do it when you haven't fired all the bullets, because you'll be loading two bullets into the chamber, and bad things happen when you try shooting two bullets at once, so don't do it. Try it."

Murakumo takes back the AK and repeats the process, but she makes sure to secure the charging handle to load the first bullet.

"Once you get the hang of it, you can reload it in different and more efficient ways, but it'll be up to you to find them. Now try using this." Damon hands her the MP5-K submachine gun from his backpack. "It's got an effective range of only a hundred meters because it's a submachine gun - more meant for close quarters stuff."

Murakumo takes the submachine gun as well. "Admiral, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"I'm a ship girl. What's the point of me learning how to do this? I mean, it feels like this kind of stuff is innate, and I know how to do it just fine, but this isn't what I was meant to do."

"I get that...I was wondering when you'd ask me something like that, actually," Damon says. "But in our world of today, ships are too niche of a role to fulfill everything that I want to accomplish. There'll be things that I need to do that involves your help that would require that everyone know how to fight in ground combat, even if it's not optimal to your skills. Still, it's not like it's clearly bad for you to fight like this. I know you're a ship girl, but in my eyes, you're also a soldier, and I want my soldiers to know how to do everything I know how to do."

Damon pulls out his Glock 37 from his holster, aims with his left hand at the tree, and fires a single shot. The bullet dinks the tree right in the center of Murakumo's AK-47 bullet grouping.

"You're a machine in a human body. Thus, I expect that you'll learn everything that I teach you really quickly. And if you expand on them like I want you to, you'll know how to survive in a world like this a lot better than I ever could, because in the end, there are things that machines can do that humans can't. Now pay attention here..."

Damon teaches Murakumo what he knows about firearms for the next hour.


After that hour, Damon and Murakumo sit cooped up in the utility truck as he drives eastbound along the same highway. Fortunately for the survivors of the war in the United States, the vast majority of the nation's highway systems escaped debilitating damage from the earthquakes, though in some places, scars left behind by the quakes still mar the earth and bar drivers and vehicles from passing over safely without detours. After about seven hours of driving, only interrupted by bathroom and food breaks, their utility truck rolls into the former city of Mobile, Alabama.

After the outbreak of World War III, some American Southerners saw and seized the opportunity to carve out their own familial kingdoms that only they held sovereignty over. Within a few years after the bombs fell, there were at least four dozen separate such entities of local power holders squabbling over one another for control over local resources and the ability to tax people who had no choice but to live under their "protection". Some who were wealthy enough had quickly bought their own radiation cleaning equipment and supplies, but most of these power holders, even though some of them had the money to buy such equipment, chose to hide in underground bunkers and facilities and simply wait for federal and volunteer radiation clean up crews to do the dirty work for them. On top of which, after their areas had been cleaned up enough to live above-ground safely, those people and their followers forcibly drove out the volunteers, oftentimes violently. The death toll never became significant enough to call for governmental or an otherwise coordinated action against these Southern power holders, but it cemented their reputation across the rest of North America as general scumbags waiting to take advantage of anything and anyone to protect their "sovereignty", a reputation that certainly held true for the most part.

Now, the number of sovereignties has decreased from four dozen down to only six, located in the cities of Little Rock, Nashville, Mobile, Atlanta, Orlando, and Charlotte. Such a political division of power can harken back to the days of the American Civil War, reminiscent of the old Confederacy. However, this time, these six municipalities are all vied for competition of any kind and are more than willing to wage war over the smallest and most trivial reasons in the name of maintaining sovereignty.

"So in other words," Murakumo mutters as she munches on a granola bar, "they're like kings in a medieval society."

Damon glances over at his companion in surprise. "You know about medieval societies?"

"For some reason I have a backlog of historical textbooks in my central memory database. I'm guessing whoever was in charge of my development project was a history professor or something."

Damon shrugs. "They were all scientists, so it's not surprising. The people who built you and the other ship girls had to be proteges and people who were probably decades ahead in technological intelligence and development. Otherwise, your production would've never been possible, even for the technology that we had back then. I'd imagine it wouldn't have been too difficult for them to pick up multiple Ph.D's in different fields."

The utility truck drives to a stop before a heavily stacked barricade reinforced with electric fencing and barbed wire. Two wooden deer stands loom behind the armed barricade that restricts the highway's access into the rest of the city, and a night shift guard, armed with a simple .22 hunting rifle and a .357 Magnum revolver on his hip, gets up from his chair and waves at Damon, who rolls down the window to talk to him.

"Ay yo, brotha!" the guardsman yells in a slightly intoxicated southern accent. "Ya plannin' ta stay da night in dis here town?"

"Yeah, we're looking for a place to stay," Damon replies. "Think you can open the gate for us?"

"I will, but Boss's regulations say right he-ah dat all visitors gotta pay toll tax!" The guardsman lifts up a small leather-bound book and waves it around.

"Then how much is it?"

"If yer got cash, gonna be twentah a soul 'n fortah a car, but seems he-ah dat you gotcher-self a mighty fine roadsta! Dat's gonna cost ya extra, let's see...dat gon' be sixtah, mister!"

Damon reaches back into his backpack in the back seat and fishes out some twenty-dollar bills, then exits the truck to give the money to the guardsman who has climbed down from the tower.

"Thank ya, thank ya," the young guardsman says as he pockets the money. "I'll open up dis he-ah gate, so sit tight, ya hear?"

"I appreciate it," Damon replies. "But it's rare for people to be taking paper cash as money these days. Your boss have a use for it?"

"Oh ya, you betcher three best cattle he's got somethin' to get wit' all dat paper cash!" the guardsman hollers back as he climbs back up the tower to open the barricade.

"Is that information classified, or may I ask about it?"

"Oh, sure, you kin go 'head 'n ask 'bout it! Boss's collectin' some funds ter pay fer sum big ol' guns!"

"What kind of guns?"

"Dem big guns!" the guardsman cackles madly as he punches a small button in the control panel in his deer stand tower. The ground rumbles slightly, and the reinforced barricade splits apart in half and makes way for the rest of the highway so that the utility truck can pass through. Damon hops into the driver's seat and gives the guardsman a quick two-finger salute.

"Tell your boss he's a good man," Damon calls out to the guardsman. "It's not everyday people in his position let strangers into their territory just for a fee."

"Yeah, we all pretty lucky we got a man like him ta bring in da honest folks!" the guardsman calls back, lifting his whiskey flask in response to Damon's salute. "Tell ya what, why don'tcha head downtown? Boss's a real nice guy, y'all kin even talk ta 'im!"

Damon rolls down the window as the truck keeps rolling on down the highway for downtown Mobile.

"Just how bad is it, exactly?" Murakumo asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, you talked about how Southern United States is broken up into six municipalities, right? During the ride here. It seemed like by the way you were talking to that guy, this place is better than the others."

"That's because it is," Damon replies, twisting the end of another lemon cigarette and enjoying the fresh fruity taste. "This stronghold down here in Alabama is surprisingly chill when you compare it to other strongholds across the South, because the 'Boss' that the guy on the tower was talking about is a man by the name of Baxter Harrison. I hear the locals call him 'Pops' 'cause he's a really chill guy who isn't a selfish prick like the other 'Bosses'. After the world got nuked, he was the one who brought together the survivors down in the South that didn't like how people were always fighting for power and control."

"How much land does this Mr. Harrison control?"

"Basically, from that barricade all the way east to Tallahassee in Florida, and north til Birmingham, if you can imagine that."

"A pretty big state, all things considered."

"I suppose, but when you compare the size of Harrison's state to the other states, it's average, if not on the smaller side of things. And lately, I've been hearing that this place's getting attacked more 'n more frequently by the neighboring rival states. Probably why that dude at the gate said Harrison was planning to buy some big guns."

"What did he mean by 'big guns', anyway?"

Damon scratches his chin. "I'd say artillery pieces. I hear that some of the southerners are blacksmiths who used to forge small cannon pieces for rich antique collectors and historical filmmakers who needed, like, Civil War-era or colonial era cannon or stuff like that. They can still be a pain in the ass to deal with if they're used properly, so I'm guessing that's what Harrison's trying to buy."

Murakumo nods and gazes out the window. But she then snaps her gaze back at Damon soon after.

"Wait a minute...when did you get that much money?"

"Wages I've saved up from odd jobs I've worked over the years," Damon says. "Most jobs usually just paid in meal vouchers at CCPL cafeterias or random junk shit that occasionally turned out to be useful or interesting, but every so often I'd get a job that paid cold hard cash. Normally in a post-apocalyptic society, the currency prior to a disaster goes out of commission, but it seems like people still like using the dollar 'cause it's just convenient, and trade hasn't stopped enough to where people can't use their paper money any longer, so why not."

"...what the hell are these...'CCPL' things...? You keep talking about them, and I think I know what you mean, but..."

"Sorry, that's my bad. CCPL stands for Cleaned Centers for Protected Living - basically government-established communities for American survivors in areas where radiation levels have been cleaned to the point of human habitation. It's just that everyone knows what it means, so I forgot that you weren't aware."

"So are these Southern states CCPL's?"

"No. They're independently ruled and owned factions that operate out of American government jurisdiction, so they don't have CCPL status and thus don't get government aid."

"Then why doesn't the government do something about these factions?"

"Too busy maintaining what they already have control over in what used to be known as the United States of America. The Feds want to concentrate on protecting what CCPL posts they already have, cleaning up more places with high levels of radiation, and making more CCPL posts. Once they can get a strong enough military going to reclaim what used to be the US, then they'll start cracking down on these independent factions."

Murakumo narrows her eyes. "And you're planning on doing exactly that, aren't you?"

Damon nods. "If I use you ship girls to accumulate a military strength powerful enough to take on these factions and destroy them, then the Feds will owe me one giant fucking favor that I can use to my advantage. I'll take control of America, then move on elsewhere...probably Europe, is what I'm thinking."

"Tch. So much ambition in one person," the ship girl remarks.

"Ambition?" Damon gazes at Murakumo. "This isn't ambition. This is revenge."

"Huh...? Revenge? Another cliched story device? On top of which, you just pulled that out of the blue, didn't you?"

The utility truck rolls into Tillmans Corner. "Confucius once said that living well is the greatest revenge," Damon cites. "You can say I modified that just a bit. You'll learn what I mean...eventually."


Another half-hour later, Damon and Murakumo arrive in the busy city landscape of downtown Mobile. Survivors of all nationalities and ages lounge about on the lazy, easy-going streets, socializing, laughing, and drinking.

"Seems like a really nice town," Murakumo murmurs, looking around from inside the truck as Damon carefully navigates the streets for a place to stay for the night. "Not all of these factions are like this, right?"

"Well, if you're just talking about the general atmosphere, I wouldn't know - I'm only slightly familiar with Mobile, and not really much of the other ones because the bosses of the other factions are generally dickwads - that, and I hear Mr. Harrison here is a nice guy, nicer than the other ones, at least. But yeah - you wouldn't think that people would be so laid-back and chill in a world where just 'bout everywhere else there's radiation still floatin' around. Kinda incredible, if you ask me. Then again, I grew up in more confusing and hectic environments, so I can't be one to judge. It's a bit different for me too."

"There's not a lot of other cars or ground vehicles like ours," Murakumo also notes, noticing that many of the pedestrians are looking at their utility truck with some curiosity.

"Yeah, cars and other vehicles are pretty rare for normal survivors to own, since maintaining vehicles is really expensive. But the main problem is fuel - fuel is top tier when it comes to trading goods and stuff. Some survivors used to risk their lives wandering into high-radiation level areas to loot gas stations and other places with a lot of fuel that was abandoned when the bombs fell and people started to get evacuated, it's that valuable now. At least, when I was growing up, it was that way. Now that the Feds are starting to stabilize fuel supplies and making sure that people aren't ripping other people off big time for gas, prices for fuel have generally gone down a bit, but it's still pretty valuable. Enough to trade for stuff with people who have cars, anyway."

Murakumo continues to gaze out of the window. She notices a common trait among the people that the truck passes by that she finds slightly unsettling.

"Hey, Admiral..." she calls quietly, "...why is almost everyone carrying around a gun?"

Sure enough, virtually every single adult on the streets is carrying some sort of gun. Pistols, civilian rifles, even military-grade firearms like submachine guns and marksman rifles - almost every single soul who looks over the age of eighteen appears to be visibly carrying a gun in plain sight.

"It's Mobile's most famous rule here," Damon says. "If you're eighteen or over, you're required to have a gun on you."

"Required?"

"You heard me right. Mobile's known as one of the safest places down in the south because of this rule."

Murakumo frowns deeply at Damon. "How does that make sense? Everyone is armed with a firearm, but it's safe?"

"Everyone here just wants to live their lives in peace without having to worry about worrying about how they're going to get their dinner for the day. So when he made his faction, Mr. Harrison wanted to make sure no dipshit assholes ruined his faction from the inside, so by making everyone carry a gun and know how to use a gun, he basically forced people who might become potential troublemakers think twice about fucking around in his territory. Absolutely brilliant, in my opinion. Can't rob a bank if the people goin' to the bank, the clerks at the bank, the security officers at the bank, and every single fucking person you see has a gun. Here's that hotel..."

Damon pulls into the slightly barren parking lot of the Battle House Renaissance Mobile Hotel and Spa. Before the war, this hotel was renowned across the country as a luxury vacation hotel, situated just across from the Tensaw River that runs through the city of Mobile. After the confusion of the war settled, Mr. Harrison ordered the Battle House to initially be converted into an emergency apartment complex, then changed it back to a hotel for passing travelers who needed a place to stay. After parking the truck near the entrance, Damon shuts off the engine and faces Murakumo.

"Murakumo, stay here and make sure no one comes along and starts screwing with the truck. The back is exposed, and there aren't any shutters that the truck has to close it off, so I need you to watch it for a minute while we get our keys."

"Wait, so what're we going to do with the truck once we get a room? Who's going to watch it? You're not expecting me to stay here the entire night while you get a nice room all to yourself, do you?"

"So you're looking forward to sharing a room with me? That's very sweet of you."

"W-Wha - " Murakumo blushes furiously. "D-Don't mix up my words, you bastard! That's not what I meant! ! !"

"I know, I was just teasing you," Damon says quickly as he exits the truck. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes, hopefully. There should be a separate underground garage beneath this parking lot where we can store the truck for the night and not have to worry about people stealing our shit."

Damon enters the main lobby of the hotel. Despite all the panic, horrors, and hardships of the war, the Battle House Hotel kept its luxury atmosphere intact through the years, and its calming atmosphere is very apparent to Damon as he walks up to the main desk. The hotel receptionist, a neatly dressed lady in a navy blue business coat and bunned hair, looks up at Damon and smiles. Damon notices that she is carrying an M-1849 Pocket Revolver in a leather holster on her right hip.

"Good evening, are you signing in for the night?" she asks with a slight Southern twang to her voice.

"Yes. I need a room for two, and a space in the underground garage."

"Okay. Please fill out this form here, and make sure to sign at the bottom. Do you prefer to use your Social Security number, or your CCPL identification number?"

"CCPL."

"Then please use that whenever they ask for an identification number. The logs we're using are still a bit outdated at the moment, so I apologize for that."

"Not at all." Damon takes the ballpoint pen that the receptionist hands him with the room application and quickly fills it out. As he hands the paper and pen back to the receptionist, Damon notices a few men in suits walking out to the lobby from his right. One of them wears a cowboy hat and a pair of sports shades.

"Excuse me," Damon asks the receptionist, "is that man in the cowboy hat and shades Mr. Harrison?"

"Yes, it is. He is here with some of his advisors regarding some financial decisions for the city. Here are your room keys, and this is the clicker for the garage. Please bring everything back by tomorrow morning at 11:00am at the latest."

"Thank you."

Damon nods his thanks and pockets his new items in his pocket. He approaches the man in the cowboy hat as his advisors discuss their night's plans with one another.

"Mr. Harrison?" Damon asks for attention, and the suited man turns to him.

"I'm your man," a heavy, deep-set voice that is oddly devoid of a southern accent responds to Damon, and Baxter Harrison offers his hand to Damon, who politely shakes. "What can I do for you, son?"

"Not much, sir. I just wanted to thank you for making a place down in the South like this a safe place for travelers like me to come and not have to worry about the rogues wandering around the place."

Mr. Harrison chuckles. "My pleasure, son. It's for people like you who wanna live the free life out in the wilderness that I built this city after 'em nukes fell on our poor souls. There's gotta be at least one decent man in charge somewhere, and seein' the other folks who like to be in charge around these parts, I had to step up, y'know?" Then, Mr. Harrison stops chuckling abruptly, keenly peering into Damon's eyes, its sickening yellow hue staring back at him.

"Pardon my askin', son, but...you're not by any chance one of those unfortunate souls from that God-awful Genesis Thesis Project, are you...?"

Damon's eyes widen in surprise. "...how did you know?"

Mr. Harrison sighs. "It's quite the long story, son, but I happen to know about that Project through associates of mine that live in the CCPL posts up north in Yankee territory."

"So does this mean that you know me personally, Mr Harrison?"

"No, I don't. I only heard about you and the others that were...pardon my rudeness...'created'. I don't know the details...but I wish I never came to know. I'm sorry, son, for what they did to ya."

Before Damon can reply, a young man in a cowboy vest and a clean pair of jeans and cowboy boots barges through the front doors.

"Boss, boss! We got trouble! A pack 'a irradiated dogs got through the fences from the street up north! They're 'bout ta run amok out in the parkin' lot!"

"Ah, shit...that'll be the fourth time this month..." Mr. Harrison grumbles as he pulls out a .44 Magnum Revolver and spins the cylinder. "Gentlemen, we'll have to do some skeet shootin' before dinner, if you don't mind. Camella, you don't mind helping us shoot some varmin this evenin', do ya?" The hotel receptionist that Damon had talked to just earlier shakes her head as she, too, stoops quickly under her desk and pulls out a Ruger No. 1 Varminter Hunting Rifle, loading the first bullet into the bolt as she and the men follow the man in the vest outside.

"I'm sorry to ask this of ya, son, but you don't mind helpin' us out a little, do ya? You got guns, ain'tcha?" Mr. Harrison asks Damon.

"More than enough to light up a couple of rabid dogs, that's for sure."

"I'll take that as a yes. Go gear up, son, these dogs've been a major pain the fuckin' ass the past month, and it's 'bout damn time we put 'em down for good."

Damon and Mr. Harrison exit the hotel lobby, and Damon goes to his truck and opens Murakumo's door.

"You done?" the ship girl asks.

"Yeah, but they've got a problem. A group of irradiated dogs are going to come through this parking lot real soon, and they need our help. Grab your AK and toss me my rifle, and make sure to take a few mags. It's time to show me that you haven't been slackin' off earlier today during that training I gave you."

Murakumo digs through the back seats and tosses Damon his weapon and ammo before hopping out of the truck herself with the AK-47 and a few spare magazines in her pockets.

"I'm a ship girl - it doesn't matter whether or not I paid attention to you earlier today. I was built to shoot things."

Damon smiles a small, quietly satisfied smile. "Then show me."

They can hear the barking of the dogs off in the distance chasing a white pickup truck whose paintjob is severely worn out and is flaking off entirely in some places. The truck, whose driver navigated the vehicle to intentionally grab the pack of dogs' attention, roars into the parking lot from the north and zips through the parking lot as Mr. Harrison and his associates watch the dogs approach.

"So who's going to shoot first?" Mr. Harrison chuckles, and the suited men chuckle with him, because they are only armed with pistols.

Murakumo's AK-47 rings out in response, and the air cracks with the gunshot of a 7.62x39mm cartridge.