"No – hell no. Don't you fucking dare start with me, Cassandra." Ethan pointed an accusatory finger at Cassandra and growled, "I'm not your goddamn plaything, so count me the fuck out."
The brunette on the other side of his cell door only tilted her head at him. She shrugged her shoulders, and took an innocent, confused tone as she asked, "Start with you? Whatever do you mean, Ethan?"
"The last time you said that, you sent me on that fucking wild goose chase and nearly got me killed. You nearly killed me yourself," Ethan reminded her, his tone sharp as he gestured towards the dungeons. "Or have you already forgotten that game of yours, or how you threw me over the fucking railing and beat my face in?"
Cassandra raised an eyebrow and chimed, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. The games I have in mind are perfectly safe."
In spite of the show of ignorance Cassandra tried to project, Ethan could make out a crack in her façade – the smallest smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
She was fucking with him. She absolutely knew what she was doing by opening up with that line.
"I see what you're doing. Very funny, Cassandra." Ethan crossed his arms with a huff. "Veeery fucking funny." He frowned, and more seriously now, told her, "If it's anything like the last perfectly safe game, count me out."
Cassandra watched him for a moment, her façade of indifference and ignorance giving way to the smile she'd been hiding. She shook her head, placing a hand on his cell door. "Nothing at all like that. Come along." Cassandra gave the door a tug, allowing it to swing open. She stood to the side, giving him space to move. With a smirk, she told him, "I think you will enjoy yourself."
If nothing else, Cassandra was a woman of her word. She was many things – and many of them far from good – but Ethan could at least count on her honesty. Ethan brought his hands up to rub his face, taking deep breaths and counting them out – doing his damnedest to banish the irritation. While he didn't appreciate Cassandra making light of that game, he did know her intention today had been harmless. This was just her messed up sense of humor at work. It paled in comparison to actually sending him out on another suicide mission.
A sharp exhale into his hands, and then Ethan nodded. "Fine."
"Be a good boy and come along now," Cassandra cooed, patting the side of her leg as she stood by the mouth of the dungeon hallway.
Ethan slipped out of his cell, a half-hearted sneer on his face. "Not your damn dog, Cassandra."
The wicked, teasing smile persisted on Cassandra's face. He'd been around that look long enough to sense the follow up on the tip of the brunette's tongue.
But you are Bela's puppy, yes?
Ethan clenched his jaw, eyes tightened into slits as he glared at her up close – daring her to open her mouth.
Cassandra's expression fell away. The thin, quirked eyebrow reset, as did the dastardly grin. She offered a far friendlier smile when she told him. "It really will be safe, okay?"
It was an attempt at reassurance if Ethan had ever seen one. Rich, coming from Cassandra of all people, but he could respect her attempt. The fact she cared at all about his distrust spoke volumes.
Ethan supposed seeing Cassandra in her dark dress again was part of what set him off. He'd grown so accustomed to the casual sportswear, while the ominously dark dress only had very negative, very violent memories associated with it. At least the gloves and the hood were gone, making Cassandra's appearance a notch less sinister.
He had to wonder why the necklace with its yellow pendant was missing, though.
With a shake of his head, Ethan belatedly responded, and began walking, "Okay."
"I was going to wait for you to arrive," Cassandra began as she took the lead. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Ethan. "But you were running late, so I decided to come get you myself."
Ethan picked up on the unspoken implications Cassandra highlighted – that this was his first time to be late to their nightly armory sessions, and being late was in neither his nor Bela's character.
"Yeah," Ethan mumbled. "I was just about to head topside to go see you."
Cassandra only hummed in reply, sounding vaguely contemplative in her tone. Bela's absence was impossible to miss. It appeared Cassandra was just deciding against pointing it out for the time being. That was just fine by Ethan. He wasn't really in the mood to try and explain why Bela was ghosting him now. Cassandra would be sorely disappointed by the utter lack of explanation he had, anyway.
"No matter," Cassandra paused by a three-way junction in the dungeon corridors. Flickering torches lit the path to the right – the path to Bela's room and the stairs leading up to the ground floor. Nothing but pitch blackness befell the path leading straight forward. The air itself was stale, causing Ethan's nose to twitch even just as they stopped to stand in the path's crossroads. The only sign of life down that hallway was the distant groaning of the Moroaice.
Cassandra tilted her head in the direction of the unlit hallway. "Picking you up myself saves you the back-and-forth trip."
The dread started rumbling from Ethan's stomach, mounting and piling up until it reached his chest – his heartrate all but doubled, pumping precious blood through his veins in anticipation of the running and the fighting to come.
Cassandra pushed ahead into the dark, leaving Ethan no choice but to fall in step behind her. The fine hairs on the back of his neck were already prickling up as he spoke up, his tone sounding almost like he was bargaining, "Wait – wait a minute." His eyes shot around the dark space around them. "Where are we going?"
"Patience, Ethan." Cassandra looked over her shoulder just to roll her eyes at him. "You'll see soon enough."
Ethan fell silent, eyes restlessly scanning his surroundings, and ears straining to catch the slightest sound. The path was foreign and unfamiliar. Even during his mad dash in the dungeons, searching for the path to the lower level, he hadn't gone down this turn. Or at least – Ethan didn't recall taking this turn. Things happened quite quickly that morning. His memories of that day mostly focused on his fight to survive in the dungeons, and later his balancing act to avoid pissing Daniela off in the library.
The distant, idle groans of the Moroaice did nothing to soothe his steadily mounting paranoia. Cassandra's lack of transparency as to where they were going similarly only poured fuel onto the flames of his unease.
The complete absence of light forced Ethan to stick barely a step behind Cassandra – lest he lose track of her in the dark, and miss a turn. Even if the Moroaice were all caged up (to his knowledge), spending the night lost in the labyrinthian dungeons was not Ethan's idea of a good time.
"Are we playing hide and seek, or what?" Ethan broke the silence – if for no other reason than to ease his own nerves. "Because if we are, you win, coz I can't see shit."
"Keep up," came Cassandra's usual tone – issuing him a command and ignoring his attempt at an icebreaker. "Don't expect me to hold your hand so you do not get lost."
"Is that the reason you're not holding my hand?" Ethan swallowed down his fear of the inky darkness around him, in favor of jabbing at Cassandra, "I thought it was because you were afraid you'd like it too much."
"Disgusting," Cassandra remarked. "You are disgusting, man-thing."
Ethan laughed softly and maintained his one-to-two feet following distance. It wasn't something he'd thought of in a while now, but he was reminded of the first jaunt through the dungeons with Bela. The way they'd linked their arms together as a precaution, in Bela's words. She wasn't just messing around, or referring to only the Moroaice.
The darkness was as big of a threat as the ghoulish maids. Without his arm around Bela's, they could have easily gotten separated in the pitch blackness – especially if they ever lapsed into silence, robbing Ethan of the chance to follow Bela by her voice. Relying on the echo of footsteps alone couldn't cut it. The countless turns and dead ends caused sound to bounce off the walls unpredictably and unreliably. It really was a maze down here, and Ethan was willing to bet that was a safety measure in and of itself. Add the Moroaice into the mix, and the dungeon was a self-sustaining death trap, keeping prisoners in, and intruders out.
After a few more turns, Cassandra came to an abrupt stop. Ethan bumped into Cassandra's back, sending her stumbling forward with a grunt – knocking into the surface in front of her. It produced a wooden thunk against Cassandra's hands – hinting that they'd arrived at a door.
"Watch it," Cassandra grunted.
"I'm walking blind here, Cassandra – I can't help it." Ethan grumbled back as he took a step away, giving her space. "What did you expect? You want me to start screaming like a bat and using my echolocation or something?"
Standing this close to Cassandra in the dark, Ethan could see the roll of the eyes she shot him. "Funny. Maybe I should have let you go first. You can smash your face into every wall in sight for all I care."
"You won't be laughing when that racket wakes up the Moroaice." Considering all Ethan had to do was trip over a rusty chain last time, the ghouls were quite sensitive to sound.
"Yes, yes." Cassandra shook her head in dismissal. "Lucky for you, the range is lit."
"The range?"
Rather than answer the question verbally, Cassandra simply opened the door. She stepped into the dark room, and Ethan could just make out her silhouette – raising a hand to the wall. With the flip of a switch, fluorescent light flooded the room.
"Fuck," Ethan cursed, raising a hand to cover his eyes.
"You don't like the dark, you don't like the light – honestly, just make up your mind, man-thing."
Ethan squinted his eyes to glare at Cassandra. She smirked, the satisfaction plain on her features. It was second nature by now to try and wipe that look off Cassandra's face. But Ethan's corneas were too busy burning for him to think straight and wittily. He settled for flipping her off, drawing a small round of laughter from Cassandra.
Blinking a few times and scrubbing his eyes helped, and soon Ethan was able to survey the nearly blindingly bright room they were in.
The room opened up to the right, with a wooden waist-high divider bisecting their side of the room from the open area of the right. The expanse on the right side ended with sandbags lining the stone wall. In the space between the sandbags and the divider – easily twenty meters or so – were over a dozen steel shooting targets of varying shapes and sizes, and positioned at different distances. A couple towards the end of the range, right by the sandbags, were small and circular in shape – a test of marksmanship. Majority of the steel targets were shaped into humanoid silhouettes, and outfitted with metal boxes at each of their bases – probably housing the motor, or whatever was used to drop and reset targets when shot.
The targets were well-worn from use, with pockmarks and dents scarring each one. Layer after layer of spray paint appeared to have been applied to the targets over the years – covering up the scuff marks, and making them nearly good as new for the next round of shooting. The new coats of paint made it easy to see where fresh shots were landing; it prevented confusion between old hits and new ones.
Ethan even counted one hybrid target. Sticker paper adorned the unique steel silhouette. Printed on the surface was a man in a balaclava, holding a pistol in his hand as he used a hostage as a human shield – the goal of shooting the target being to kill the gunman without hitting the hostage.
To Ethan and Cassandra's left, metal cabinets lined the walls, and undoubtedly housed a collection of firearms, and all the ammunition they could ask for. Steel drawers and workbenches joined them as well, being a tad reminiscent of Chris' workshop. Back at base, they had all the tools at their disposal to disassemble, modify, and reassemble firearms. Though it did give Ethan pause to see a large sword on Cassandra's workbench, with a used rag lying by its side.
As if Cassandra's personal shooting range wasn't enough, Ethan then noticed the far end of the room had been fashioned into a den. In line with the metal cabinets and drawers stood a tall refrigerator, which uttered a steady, low hum. A kitchen counter continued along the side, complete with a sink, and a stove. Glass cabinets hung above the counter, filled with mugs, glasses, and plates alike. A dark leather couch occupied the wall opposite the entrance – just big enough to take a catnap on. A short distance away from the couch was a tall table with a white surface, and four retro-looking red bar stools around it.
The place was nothing short of a home away from home. A little shooting getaway, right in the underbelly of the castle.
It was only after half a minute passed that Ethan realized his mouth was slightly agape. He licked his lips and voiced his awe aloud, still scanning the room, "Hot damn."
Electricity in the castle was still a thing Ethan wasn't too used to seeing – so it was fascinating to see the wiring, as rudimentary as it was. The wires ran from target to target – and to the small, white-painted metal control box on the divider, which was just wide enough to set weapons down on. They similarly traveled along the corners, hidden by the shelving, until they reached the appliances at the far end of the range. A few conduits to house the wiring (and prevent rats from getting into them) would not be amiss, but Ethan assumed this wasn't exactly a professional installation – even if it was a decked-out range.
"Who built all this?" Ethan asked, but already anticipated the answer. The lack of gold trim and ceramic screamed that this wasn't the castle matriarch's doing.
"I built this range years ago with help from the Duke's men, for a," Cassandra raised her fingers to form air quotes, "small price."
Ethan walked further into the range, eyeing the table and the four stools. "You ever bring your sisters down here?"
Cassandra paused, gripping the sleek handles of a metal cabinet. "I haven't."
But she wanted to.
Ethan stared at the dusty chairs for a beat longer.
She wouldn't have brought as many seats down here if she never wanted company.
Cassandra glanced at Ethan, meeting his eyes for only a split second. Her change in topic was as swift as her combat prowess. "I thought we could do something different tonight." Shoulders raised in a shrug – a show of nonchalance. "Consider this a day off for your pathetic muscles."
"Hey," Ethan protested.
Cassandra chuckled to herself as she opened the cabinet, and began to go through its contents. "No need to thank me. I am aware of how gracious of a host I am."
Ethan suppressed his eyeroll and drew closer to get a better look inside the cabinet. As he did, the underlying message of Cassandra's last poke at him gained clarity. This was her way of being considerate. She knew he was sore, and one bad workout away from straining his shoulder. This was her way of being nice, as unthinkable as it seemed.
He shook his head slowly, a hidden smile tugging at his lips. The lengths Cassandra went to appear indifferent and uncaring could be astounding.
Stopping behind Cassandra, Ethan got an eyeful of this cabinet and let out a low whistle. A dozen pistols hung off the rack within the cabinet; Glocks, Berettas, 1911s, a few revolvers – this cabinet was overflowing with sidearms. Towards the bottom were countless boxes of ammo, and several spare magazines for each gun. Joining them were miscellaneous shooting accessories, such as shot timers and protective equipment. At the very bottom, clear plastic boxes were filled to the brim with empty casings glinting in the light. Cassandra turned just enough to extend her hands to Ethan – to hand him the two sets of earmuffs and eye protection.
Ethan picked up on the silent command. He took the protective gear in his hands and walked the short distance to the divider, which doubled as a table. Ethan set one pair down, then began donning his own pair. The glasses slipped into place, but Ethan stopped to inspect the ear protection. His brows raised when he recognized the brand and model of Earmor he held, undoubtedly supplied by the Duke. His finger turned the small knob on the side, and he pulled the earmuffs onto his head.
Just like his pair back with the Hound Wolves, Ethan was met with the familiar white noise. He raised his hand in the air, snapping his fingers once.
As he'd expected, the sharp sound was amplified – just like the idle noise Cassandra produced as she retrieved boxes of ammo. He grinned to himself at the odd sense of nostalgia the sound evoked. These weren't just noise cancelling headphones that would block out gunshots. These were the swanky ones like he'd used training with Chris. They also amplified quiet, sharper noises. Footsteps crunched audibly, clothing rustled loudly, and every movement to manipulate a gun – pulling a bolt, releasing a magazine, switching the safety off – were magnified to be crisp and clear.
It also made it easier to hear Cassandra when she told him, "Put these on the table."
Ethan accepted the boxes of ammo, transferring them to the table. As he opened the boxes, the oddity of it all dawned on him all over again – that a daughter of House Dimitrescu – Cassandra fucking Dimitrescu, no less – was trusting him to be around loaded weapons. Sure, he didn't know if he was doing any shooting, or if he was just here to be Cassandra's range assistant.
Or a moving target.
But still, he was standing in the castle's modern armory and being handed live rounds. It would be so easy to grab a gun, load it, and raise hell.
Of course, there was still the matter of the sisters' invincibility in the absence of the cold. That was probably what emboldened Cassandra to allow him into this range in the first place. Even with a gun in his hands, he was as good as unarmed, unless they were blasted with the cold.
Cassandra arrived by Ethan's left, holding two pistols. The first was the old, reliable 1911. The second, Ethan took a moment to realize was his LEMI, free of blood and dents.
The delay in his realization was due to the fact the gun was almost unrecognizable. The rough, filthy leather strips wrapped around the handle by the old man from the village were gone. During the very brief downtime Ethan had, he'd unraveled the leather, only to return it. The grip was apparently wrapped to protect his hands from the jagged metal. It appeared to have been gnawed on by a lycan, or some other ungodly monster. Now, the pistol's grip looked good as new, whether replaced or simply filed and sanded, Ethan wasn't sure.
The rest of the gun had been given a good polish, and nearly all the prior scratches were gone, including the teeth marks from his last adventure in the cellar. A recoil compensator had even been secured to the muzzle, improving the weapon's stability. The giveaway that this was the same pistol he'd used, and not simply the same model, was the discreet etching on the slide – the initials G.S.
Ethan had barely given the etching more than a second glance in all the time he'd had the gun. But that was considering the pistol was in as rough a shape as it was when he'd received it, and there was next to no time to really admire the gun. That morning of his frantic run through the village, and subsequent capture by Bela was the most fast paced morning of his entire damn life.
Next to, perhaps, Cassandra's game.
"Let's start with the 1911," Cassandra declared as she put on her Earmor and her eye protection. It was a nearly alien look on her. All but immortal and indestructible, yet still mindful of her personal protective equipment. Cassandra set the guns down to her side, out of Ethan's reach. She slid Ethan two magazines, while she took two of her own. "Load these."
"Sure." Ethan did as instructed, plucking bullets free from the box. With practiced hands, he loaded the rounds into the first magazine.
You need to load your mags as fast as you reload your gun.
The deep baritone of Chris Redfield's voice filled his head yet again.
There's no telling what you'll face out there. No telling if the ammo you got is enough. That's why you pack extra, and you better be damn ready to load your mags if you got even a minute of spare time. I've seen too many people kick the bucket thinking they got enough shots, only for the BOWs to prove them wrong.
It was one of those things Ethan didn't think he'd actually have to do. Yet lo and behold, Ethan had scrounged for spare boxes of 9mm rounds in the village, and had frantically reloaded his mags several times on the go. Let it never be said that Chris, as much of a piece of shit as he was, never taught him anything useful.
Ethan set the loaded magazine aside, picking up the next one. A glance at Cassandra, and Ethan's brows bobbed up to see her keeping pace. She was in the midst of putting her first mag aside as well. The mystery of Cassandra's firearm handling resurfaced in Ethan's mind as he worked on the next magazine.
He'd seen the way she handled his gun on the morning of her game and dreaded her every move. The way she kept the muzzle clear from either of them the entire time. The way she inspected each weapon with an uncanny familiarity. Even the way she'd unloaded his LEMI and unchambered the round while she pinned Ethan down – those were all movements too keen and comfortable for someone with even beginner knowledge of guns. The speed at which Cassandra loaded her bullets was only further evidence of how accustomed she was to handling weapons.
With the magazines topped up, Cassandra loaded the 1911. A sharp tug on the slide, and the gun was hot and ready to fire. Ethan took a step to the side, giving Cassandra the breathing room to shoot. Curiously, Ethan watched her, and noted that she didn't touch the control box to the side. The targets would, presumably, stay up the entire time, and she was using them statically for now.
Cassandra rolled her shoulders once, eyes darting from target to target. Once they were each marked for death, she raised the gun up. The first gunshot rang out, and the electronic earmuffs canceled out the resounding bang. They did, however, allow the sharp ping of the bullet striking its target to be heard. Ethan noted a fresh indentation in a steel target about halfway down the range.
The succeeding gunshots blasted out in quicker succession without so much as a blink or a shred of hesitancy from Cassandra; she only stopped when the slide locked back. Cassandra ejected the magazine onto the table, eyes still fixed onto her targets. She grabbed a fresh mag and slammed it into the magazine well by muscle memory alone. She gripped the slide with one hand, tugging it back in a power stroke to disengage the lock. With the weapon live once more, Cassandra extended her hands forward and spewed .45 rounds downrange.
Ethan took that time to dutifully recover the dropped magazine, and begin reloading it. He watched Cassandra's shooting as he worked, noting the tight grouping of her shots.
A reload later, and Cassandra switched targets, aiming farther downrange. Ethan observed her accuracy beginning to dwindle as lead flew out just as quickly as they had earlier. Once Cassandra's slide locked back again, Ethan took that time to ask, "We here tonight to blow off steam, or are you working on your grouping?"
It was better to ask and be sure, than to just offer his unsolicited advice.
With the fresh magazine loaded into her gun, Cassandra looked at Ethan. Shrugging, she pushed down on the slide stop, chambering the next bullet. "A bit of both." Her fingers flexed over the pistol's grip, and she asked, "Why?"
"The .45 is a bigger caliber. At this range it's good to slow your shots down a little. The recoil makes it tough to stay on target this far out." When Cassandra's stare lingered, Ethan shrugged back, and continued reloading the magazine; rather sheepishly, he added, "Just a tip."
"Are you saying you could do better?" Cassandra's tone had a tinge of accusation to it, but the small quirk of her lips told a different story. There was a challenge in her eyes, and one Ethan wasn't keen on backing down from.
"I wasn't, but…" Ethan gave Cassandra a smirk reminiscent of her own signature brand of cockiness. "I can."
Cassandra leaned her head back – looking at Ethan from down the tip of her sharp nose. She released a soft huff then placed the gun on the table, safety on. She nodded towards the gun. "Prove it then."
"Gladly."
Ethan secured the 1911, taking a beat to enjoy the satisfaction of holding a weapon in his hands again. Handguns were a dime a dozen back with the Hound Wolves, and they trained with every pistol imaginable for the general familiarity of the weapons. But even then, the 1911 was Ethan's weapon of choice. The superior caliber made up for the gun's lower magazine capacity, and he knew the weapon as well as he knew himself – with this pistol in hand, he was unstoppable.
Ethan's hands went through the motions automatically. Just feeling the weight of the 1911 was enough to trigger the muscle memory. A press of the mag release ejected the magazine into his hands. A visual check and his thumb glossing over the round at the top verified it was ready. He slid the magazine home into the well, flicked the safety lever, then gently tugged back on the slide to check the chamber. This breed of 1911 Cassandra had – the Kimber – tended to jam on the first round. Ethan was pleased to see the bullet had fed properly.
Satisfied now, Ethan held the pistol in both hands, lined up the sights, and acquired his targets.
"Firing!" He called out.
The pistol barked back in reply, sending .45 bullets down range and pinging into the steel targets. Within five seconds flat, the magazine ran dry, and a new collection of tightly grouped pockmarks marred the steel silhouette halfway down the range.
Ethan went through the familiar range protocol. He ejected the magazine into his hand, thumbed down the slide stop, and pulled the trigger – resetting the hammer. He set the unloaded 1911 and the mag down on the table, then faced Cassandra. He raised his brows in a silent query for her thoughts.
The woman in question had her arms crossed, and leveled her familiar glare at Ethan. "If you expected me to be impressed, you are dead wrong."
Ethan simply laughed. "I wasn't. Besides, that was nothing. You should see my team shoot."
Even as the words left his mouth, the bitterness and anger filled Ethan all over again. The trust they had forged during training was absolute. Live-fire drills in close quarters necessitated that sort of trust. When actual bullets were flying around mere inches between one operator to another, it was quite literally do or die. Ethan had trusted them with his and Mia's lives, and what had they done?
They stomped Mia's life out like she was nothing but a cigarette under their boots.
Ethan shook his head to clear the thoughts. He turned the conversation towards Cassandra instead. "You're not a bad shot yourself." His eyes went downrange to the tight grouping of her shots. "I wouldn't wanna be on the receiving end of that. How long have you been shooting?"
Cassandra's eyes flicked downward. Like clockwork, her poker face came on, and she made the effort to keep any emotion from leaking out. Her pointer finger tapped over her crossed arms for a beat – and then as if to keep busy, she retrieved the 1911 on the table.
With an even tone, Cassandra admitted with an overly casual shrug, "I figured out I had a knack for shooting about ten years ago. That was when I built the range with the Duke's men." Cassandra loaded the gun and racked it. She raised it up to eyelevel and added, "I only come down here once a week or so, though." She idly nudged an empty casing on the stone floor with her shoe. "Cleaning up all the spent brass is a pain."
Ethan was about to ask why she didn't just have a maid do it – and then it dawned on him. If the maids knew where all the castle's firearms were stored, it risked an uprising, if anyone got any bright ideas. The sisters were fast and brutally efficient if need be – but all it took was one bullet through a window to send their world crumbling.
This whole trip to the range in the pitch dark, through the winding passageways – and with the Moroaice shambling in the background – that was all to keep the maids out if they ever got gutsy. Yet here Cassandra was, trusting him with the range's location.
Though to be fair, she probably thought he was completely in the dark over the path they took. Unbeknownst to Cassandra, he'd already mentally mapped out the route. All he needed to do was confirm the mental notes he took once they began the return trip.
Not that he had any plans to use the stock of this modern armory with any ill intent.
Cassandra began to fire shots at the same target. Taking Ethan's earlier tip, she fired slower – allowing a second to pause between each shot so her aim was properly recentered. Before long, the gun was empty, and a new tight group of dents in the target were visible.
Ethan let out a low whistle. "Not bad at all." Her once-a-week sessions clearly paid off. He had to wonder, though… "You ever do any shooting outside, when it's warm?" Hopefully not targeting innocent villagers. "I dunno, maybe hunt deer or something?"
It tugged a little smile to Cassandra's lips. She ejected her empty mag into her palm, then began to load fresh rounds in. "In the spring, mother allows us to go hunting. Deer, bucks, even bears…" A wince quickly substituted her grin when Cassandra recalled, "The lycans tend to spoil the hunt, though."
Ethan curiously tilted his head. "Ever think about hunting the lycans instead?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." The sly smile returned to Cassandra's features. "In the old days, Bela used to insist it was a waste of time. I begged to differ." A casual shrug as she continued loading bullets into the mag. "Cull the lycans, protect the livestock."
Livestock?
…
Oh. The villagers.
That was a fucked up way to look at it – but one could not deny the good Cassandra did if she was reducing the number of feral wolfmen prowling the countryside. It kept people safer, if only for a moment, before the Dimitrescu sisters came calling.
Ethan turned the topic to safer ground, that would not refer to human beings as livestock. "Who taught you to shoot?"
It wasn't Bela, that much Ethan knew. He could still recall Bela's mention of her fractured memories – how she remembered her father teaching her to shoot, yet failing to recall the actual act of it.
To top it off, Cassandra had mentioned the infamous frame of time once more – ten years ago. That was when Bela regained her memories, and apparently put a hard stop to actively bonding with Cassandra. It couldn't be Bela who passed on the firearm training to Cassandra.
So, if not Bela, then who? What the hell happened ten years ago? How did Bela get her memories back anyway?
The same mask of indifference was set into place when Cassandra shrugged one shoulder. "I trained myself."
That must have been some hell of a self-training binge if that were true. Though considering guns wouldn't hurt her or the other sisters, then Ethan supposed there really wasn't any danger to experimenting and self-studying the act of shooting. What would happen if she messed up? She'd shoot herself in the foot? Then what? Emptying all the ammunition in this room into Cassandra would do little more than slightly irritate her. There was no risk to teaching herself how to shoot.
Ethan allowed himself a healthy amount of doubt for the time being. Cassandra was opening up at an incredibly slow speed, and so patience was paramount to getting through to her. Like Tatyana had said, Cassandra was a very private person. Being up and abandoned by the only other sister who truly understood her tended to do that. Having a nightmare for a past life similarly did nothing to encourage Cassandra to be a more open person.
If she remembered something – anything – but didn't want to share it just yet, then that was fine. He would pry carefully and subtly, and back off as needed.
Not too discreetly, Cassandra changed the subject, signaling the end of that conversation. She picked the LEMI up and placed it in front of Ethan. The mags and the box of 9mm rounds were similarly slid over to within reach. Shedding her poker face, Cassandra offered Ethan a small smile. "Join me. Have a little fun."
Ethan's eyes snapped to the pistol, then back to Cassandra. The little smile persisted as her invitation remained open for the taking.
"For real?" Ethan had to ask.
"Yeah, be my guest." Cassandra nudged the pistol an inch closer to Ethan, as if to cement the offer. "Besides, it's refreshing to have a partner to shoot with."
Partner?
"Well, who am I to say no to a generous offer like this?" Ethan flashed Cassandra a grin, even as he ran the word over in his mind again – and just how odd it was for Cassandra to be taking him in like this. Like all the recent developments with her, it was by no means a bad thing.
Just strange. Unexpected. Unfamiliar.
In no world did he envision Cassandra ever referring to him as her partner in any shape or form – even in something as innocuous as being shooting range buddies. But after their violent and painful history together, it felt like a good change. Almost heartwarming, if Ethan was honest with himself.
While Ethan loaded the LEMI's magazines with 9mm rounds, Cassandra took her time reloading and picking her next target. She went for the small round targets at the very end of the range. Shot after shot would ring out, followed by dull thuds and puffs of sand. Every few rounds, the metallic ping would cut across the range, indicating Cassandra was on target.
Ethan had loaded his third mag by the time Cassandra glanced at him – as if sensing his steady gaze alternating between her and her target. With just the slightest tinge of annoyance, she rolled her eyes and ordered him, "Spit it out."
The magazine in his hand came up in a gesture of surrender. "Spit what out?"
"Don't play dumb." Cassandra jerked her thumb towards the targets. "Whatever tip you have to correct my aim at this distance. Spit it out already."
Ethan supposed his staring had not been that subtle. That was on him.
"Well," Ethan licked his lips, eyes going to the target. It took only a moment for him to rack his brain, processing the shots that had landed, and those that had missed. "Try easing up on the trigger. As the saying goes, 'squeeze, don't pull.' The missed shots are pulling to the side because of that." A pause, and Ethan reached out to his range partner. His palm met the warm slide of Cassandra's 1911, gently correcting her stance. "The other misses are high. You're not consistently aligning the sights at eye-level." He drew his hand back as he concluded, "At close to mid-range, that doesn't matter as much. But this far out, it's critical."
Cassandra's scrutinous eyes bore into Ethan, prompting him to add, "Don't get me wrong. Anything you've been shooting at would be as good as dead. You're a great shot." He offered a small smile. "But you can always do better."
The little tension in Cassandra's frame eased away with a sigh. Then she bobbed her head with a firm nod, determination set into her face. Ethan stepped back, giving her the clearance to take aim. Seconds passed, and he noted the rise and fall of Cassandra's chest before she squeezed the trigger. The telltale ping of a bullseye was music to his ears.
One by one, the bullets flew down range, with far less rounds striking the sandbags this time around. When the 1911's slide locked back, Cassandra set the gun down, turning to Ethan to gauge his reaction.
"Much better," Ethan remarked with a nod. "The importance of your fundamentals really comes out when your target's that far back." He scanned the hits and the tight grouping a while longer. He could blink and see moldy silhouettes and wolfish features instead of blank, faceless targets. Ethan muttered, "Trust me on that. Got a lot of experience there."
Cassandra's eyes remained narrowed in that not-quite-a-glare of hers. "Exactly how much experience do you have with firearms, Ethan?"
Ethan looked down at the fourth magazine in his hands – now loaded, as he'd been absentmindedly sliding bullets in as he spoke. With a shrug, he replied, "That's… kinda hard to quantify."
"Try," was Cassandra's command.
Ethan drummed his fingers over the magazine for a beat. "If you've been training on-off for ten years, I've been training constantly for three years." Practiced hands loaded the mag into the LEMI. A tug on the slide, and the gun was hot. "I don't think I ever went more than two days without shooting a gun…" Ethan shrugged, eyes dipping downward at the callouses on his hands. He faced the range, holding the pistol in a low ready position as the thousands of hours of training flit past his eyes. "At least that's how it was at the height of my training, anyway."
A sharp gesture to the nearest target towards the right side of the room, and Ethan added, "I'll sweep from close," he pointed long, "to far."
From Ethan's left, Cassandra took a step to the side, crossing her arms and waiting wordlessly.
"Firing."
Ethan raised the gun up, keeping it close as he shifted his stance – ready for close quarters fighting. The bullets cracked out in tight bursts of three – two to the body, one to the head, just as Chris taught him. As easy as breathing, Ethan fell back on his training, switching from target to target, progressively gunning farther and farther back. He adjusted his body's position as he went, returning to a traditional squared stance when he acquired targets in the distance. Magazines were ejected seamlessly onto the table, and a fresh replacement would be loaded barely a second later.
And just when Ethan was prepared to commend Cassandra's handiwork with maintaining the LEMI – the gun jammed. Yet even this, Ethan could overcome with nearly automated movements. Repetitions and drills under Chris prepared him for such hinderances. Without a pause in his movements, Ethan ejected the magazine into his hand and then racked the slide twice – clearing the jammed casing. The magazine was slammed back in, and a fresh round was chambered within moments.
By the fourth magazine, Ethan had reached the targets at the far end of the range. With five bullets left, he took a second to acquire each of the four small targets. One by one, four metallic pings echoed throughout the range.
The silence settled for all of two seconds before Ethan glanced at the hostage-taking target. He raised the LEMI once more, and squeezed the trigger.
A loud ding rang out, and a fresh pockmark marred the hostage-taker's forehead.
The LEMI's slide locked back a final time. Swiftly, Ethan went through the motions of ensuring the chamber was cleared before setting it on the table. He looked over at his targets for a second, then nodded to himself in satisfaction.
Still got it.
When he looked Cassandra's way, he found her brows all but reaching her hairline.
"What?" Ethan asked, rubbing his now gunpowder-stained hands against one another.
"You did not miss a single shot." Cassandra's tone rose in pitch by just a fraction.
Ethan shook his head. "Shooting's like any other skill. Just takes a lot of practice and a good mentor."
There was some willpower needed to avoid bringing up the Hound Wolves further when deflecting Cassandra's shock. Ethan had only become this proficient because of them, and he still felt they were a league ahead of him. Those live-fire kill house drills still made Ethan antsy – all the more when they took turns using each other as the simulated hostages in their training. As utterly dangerous as it was, he could not deny the results.
Pinpoint accuracy became paramount when the risk of shooting a friend in the head was the penalty of failure. Ethan often thought such measures during training were insane. He soon learned this was just par for the course in the spec ops community.
As Chris would always say, if they wanted to be the best when facing BOWs, then they needed to train like the best. This only went hand in hand with how they recruited the most insane from the top tiers of the spec ops community – because you had to be at least a little crazy to sign up to specialize in killing unspeakable, mutated biological horrors.
"You know…" Cassandra started, as she began loading her own magazines. "When we played fetch, I expected you to simply bypass all the threats." Her eyes focused on her bullets as she loaded one after the other. "I thought you would shoot a few bullets here and there, grab the wine, and slip out." Cassandra glimpsed Ethan once, before her gaze darted back to her magazine. "I did not expect you to dismantle the Moroaice like it was nothing." It almost sounded like admiration in her voice. "You dispatched them all without missing a single shot, and then when your gun ran dry, you used your knife to tear them apart."
Ethan's pulse picked up in pace. He felt the heat pooling in his face – and the throb of his pulse beginning to build up in his ears.
It all flashed through his mind – visceral and raw – it flooded in, a raging tidal wave that lodged his breath in his throat and shook his knees. Growls – hungry, so, so hungry for his blood. Flesh tearing, copper in the air, in his mouth. Tinnitus setting into his ears – just ringing. Nothing but ringing as the muzzle flashes of his pistol whited his vision. His hands, slippery – small cuts between his fingers and along his palm. Blood, blood everywhere – slick underneath his skin as bone shifted and muscles ripped with each swing of his knife.
The glint of rose gold under the lamplight. The small sparkle as his daughter's etched name stared up at him from the bracelet.
And finally the anger – the white-hot rage that bubbled from his chest and sent him swinging at Cassandra.
Ethan unclenched his jaw, barely aware of how hard he'd been grinding his teeth.
"Fetch," Ethan repeated in a scoff. Without consciously meaning to, his voice picked up in volume. "It wasn't nothing. I was fighting for my fucking life down there." With the can of worms now open, it was impossible for Ethan to reel it in – and he was done holding back over her fucking game. He extended his left arm out, palm up, so that the jagged scars he had from that day were plain and visible. Ethan tugged his headset down around his neck as he snapped, "They tore my goddamn arm open and nearly bit my fucking neck to pieces. I had to kill Zoria, but I'm sure you don't even know who that is. You think that was nothing? Back then, and until now – you talk about that shit like it really was just all a big game for you."
Ethan turned to face Cassandra fully as she continued to load her magazine, eyes fixed on her handiwork.
"You know that wasn't a fucking game to me, right? That was a fucking deathtrap you sent me into – that was just suicide with a few extra steps, just to fuck with me even more – and all for what?" Ethan shrugged, letting out a hot scoff. "Was that really all just for your amusement?"
Cassandra didn't reply. The only movement she made was to begin loading the 1911's next magazine. Her face was set into the familiar emotionless mask as she glared at the rounds in her hand.
Ethan took a step closer tilting his head to the side to try and meet her gaze. "Was that game of yours just an extension of all that shit you pulled on my first night here? Like – like taking my fucking finger?" Ethan extended his right hand, flexing his fingers. He blocked Cassandra's line of sight to her 1911's mag. "Was that all just a fun game for you too?"
It was a tipping point Ethan was perched on the precipice of. He'd been able to reconcile his newfound buddy-buddy companionship with Cassandra up until this point. Compartmentalizing had been easy the past few days – especially when Cassandra was as un-hostile as she was. Even friendly.
But all that compartmentalization crumbled to dust in the face of Cassandra oh-so nonchalantly mentioning the living hell she had made his life on those two separate occasions, like it was some perfectly normal thing for her. Ethan couldn't just sweep all that under the rug when Cassandra dared to call that bullshit a game – when she had the gall to be amazed at how well he'd killed the ghouls, even if he'd been a misstep away from death the entire time.
Without Cassandra rising to meet his rage with her own fury, Ethan felt himself deflating. It was like yelling at a brick wall and expecting something – anything to react. His voice came out hoarse and tired when he asked, "Is that really all there is to you?"
Finally, Cassandra put the magazine and the single .45 round down on the table. She turned to face Ethan, crossing her arms over her chest. For a beat, she was silent, save for the discordant tap-tap-tap of her pointer finger against her arm.
"Ethan," Cassandra began, her tone perfectly flat and neutral. "It was never personal."
"How was that never personal?" Ethan asked, his face scrunching up in frustration. "How is eating my finger, torturing me, sending me to your cellars to die, and, and – and threatening my daughter – how is all that not personal? That's very fucking personal, if you ask me."
A crack in the poker face, and Cassandra opened her mouth, where the words stalled. She uncrossed her arms, hands coming up in the air to hover – as if meaning to take hold of Ethan's shoulders, before she just as quickly reeled her hands in. She clenched her jaw shut, and she pulled her own headset down to her neck; her hands fell to her sides, where they balled into fists. Her eyes remained fixed to the floor.
"I…" Cassandra started, but lapsed into silence. She drew in a deep inhale, letting it out slowly. "I was only doing my duty to the House Dimitrescu."
The incredulity couldn't be kept from Ethan's voice now as he asked again, "How the hell was all that your duty?" When unanswered, Ethan raised his voice in a snarl, "How is threatening my daughter your fucking duty?"
"Ethan," Cassandra tried again, her pitch rising – almost like she was pleading. "You have to understand." Slowly, she pulled her eyes back up, where she could meet Ethan's gaze. "When you first arrived in this castle, you were the enemy."
Ethan's throat bobbed with a gulp. He clenched his fists tight – tight enough to dig his nails painfully into his palms. His blood pumped frantically in his veins, and the warmth pooling in his face had gotten downright hot – but he waited and listened.
"Mother does not tell us much, but she did tell us this: there is a baby in the castle, who is very important to Miranda." Cassandra gulped, and her tone gradually reset – returning to the perfectly rehearsed neutrality. "Her father is coming to get her back, and he must be stopped. No matter the cost." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming into Ethan's. "She said that Ethan Winters is going to destroy our home and stop at nothing to get the girl back. And… any enemy of Miranda's is an enemy of House Dimitrescu, so…"
Cassandra spoke slowly and clearly – ensuring not a word would be misinterpreted. The smallest smile tugged on her lips when she began, "Daniela has never been one for the hunt; so, I don't blame her for avoiding her duties." Cassandra's tone grew embittered when she went on, "This used to be Bela's specialty, but she has not joined me in a decade. Who do you think that leaves?"
Wordlessly, Ethan nodded his head towards the brunette before him.
"Exactly. All the weight falls on me. The responsibility of defending this castle is mine." Cassandra's fingers fluttered at her sides as her eyes never left Ethan's. "You were the enemy, Ethan." Her hands came up, and this time Cassandra didn't second guess herself before setting them on Ethan's shoulders. She squeezed him, as if for emphasis, "It is my duty… my obligation to defeat my mother's enemies." Her throat quivered, and quieter than the grave, she murmured, "Whatever it takes."
Ethan's lips parted – and he felt the need to point out that what she'd done to him was far more than defeating him.
"It is not enough that the enemy is merely… physically defeated. They must be destroyed." Cassandra tilted her head down, well and truly looking Ethan in the eye as she spoke softly. "Mother counts on me to break the enemy's body, mind, and soul. Only then are they no longer a threat to the House Dimitrescu."
Ethan shut his eyes. Quietly, in nearly a whisper, he asked her, "What about the sick pleasure you find in that?" He expected Cassandra to tighten her hands around his throat any moment now for speaking out of line. "Not a goddamn ounce of remorse, no nothing. Is that your obligation to your family too? To enjoy it? To laugh like a psycho while you're torturing the enemy?" Ethan swallowed hard, and waited for the strike that never came. "Answer me, Cassandra."
He opened his eyes to find Cassandra licking her lips, eyes fixed to the hollow of his collarbone. Her thumbs brushed over his shoulders – an idle, nervous motion. Her voice was grim and rough, but still just as quiet. "I could go on for hours about everything mother and Bela tried to instill in us. Of higher and lower forms of life. Predator and prey. Hunter and hunted. Humanity as nothing but cattle for our family, and you do not shed tears for cattle." Cassandra's eyes were distant – glazed over, and as hollow as her voice. "But I'm sure you do not care to hear that sort of talk…" Her brows pitched together softly in a look that might have been a sad one.
"Maybe I learned to enjoy my duties too much. Playing second fiddle to Bela for so long does that to you. It has been an insanely long winter in isolation, trapped in this castle, and I…" She shrugged one shoulder, shaking her head. She wiped the emotion from her face and reset her tone. "As I was saying, I was only ever doing what was expected of me. You and I were soldiers on two opposite sides of a war. It was never personal between us, Ethan…" Cassandra clenched her jaw for a moment, and added, "Not until the Great Hall – then you made it quite personal."
Ethan frowned, and his kneejerk response was to ask, "What? What are you talking about?"
Cassandra's previously neutral expression gave way to a glare, which lasted all of two seconds. Then, she sighed, and her hands dropped from his shoulders. Cassandra shook her head, turning her attention back to the guns on the table. She pulled her headset back on, muttering, "Never mind."
The clarity struck Ethan like a kick in the gut as his words from that day echoed within his skull.
I bet you without those powers, you're nothing.
You're nothing, Cassandra – you're a goddamn disappointment. Give me a fair fight and I'll put you in the fucking ground.
I told you, but you won't listen – you're nothing.
He had been verbally swinging below the belt the entire fight, in the effort to distract Cassandra and keep her off balance. It had worked, but now, looking back – it appeared Ethan had struck a genuine nerve. His smack talk must have been a sore spot for Cassandra, if that was what it took for her to consider their antagonistic relationship crossing a personal line.
Still, it didn't excuse anything Cassandra had done. All of that shit – her duty – had been done long before he opened his big mouth. Everything she had to say for herself was a lot to take in. Definitely more than he could have expected in a single sitting.
It wasn't an apology she'd given – far from it. Ethan hadn't been expecting one either, but the explanation shed a new light on every single one of their interactions thus far. The information gained was invaluable; the enlightenment was enough to defuse the mounting anger bubbling up in Ethan's chest.
What an odd bunch the Dimitrescu sisters were – yet, when it boiled down to it, they could be just like any other family. The youngest being apparently notoriously unreliable and carefree. The prized eldest doing everything perfectly and by the book, until one day she doesn't – and so it falls to the middle sister to pick up the slack, and she just has to turn that crank up all the way to eleven, to prove she's just as capable as the eldest. The family drama was almost laughable, if it wasn't so sad.
The idea of duty was a mixed bag for Ethan, too. It certainly explained a lot of things, but it was also a flimsy excuse at best. He didn't have to be a history buff to know that war criminals fell back on the 'I was just following orders' excuse when push came to shove at the Nuremburg Trials.
But Cassandra wasn't using this as an excuse. She wasn't apologizing for anything, or trying to excuse all she'd done to Ethan. It was presented as an explanation, no more, no less.
In a messed up way, Ethan could see where she was coming from. For the Dimitrescu Family, it was essentially the four of them against the world for decades now. All it took to end their whole world was a large enough uprising by the villagers during a cold winter. A few busted windows, some red-hot determination, and a couple of well-placed bullets, and it would all be over. It was normal that the Dimitrescu House would view the world against them as the enemy.
Granted, it was the family's fault to begin with – they were the ones who villainized themselves with the wanton slaughter to put food and blood on the table.
But in the strictest sense of us versus them, Ethan could understand. Chris had taught him the same, in a way. Destroying the enemy by any means necessary was just another Tuesday to Hound Wolf Squad.
Ethan could try to read between the cracks of Cassandra's poker face for days, but he wouldn't figure out anything conclusive. His guess was as good as anybody's whether Cassandra felt a smidge of remorse for what she'd done to Ethan, or anyone else that came before him.
But those cracks in her emotionless mask made Ethan want to believe the answer was a yes. A very quiet, very muted, very repressed yes – and feeling that remorse and admitting it were completely different things, worlds and worlds apart. Because if she ever admitted that to herself explicitly, out loud, and truly acknowledged her remorse – then that was that. Then would come the insurmountable task of reconciling her guilt, of which there would be a lot, if it would exist at all. That was why Cassandra had not crossed that threshold just yet, if she ever would.
She would, one day.
There was a growing certainty within Ethan, the more he turned the idea over in his head. Maybe it was a fool's hope. The latest symptom of the deep, underlying madness that had gripped Ethan in his three weeks in this castle.
But the more he got to know the person standing next to him, the more certain he was. Underneath all of Cassandra's layers was a sensitive, deeply wounded person, who lashed out at the world, and stood by her sense of duty, even to a fault – because she felt she owed it to her family – the only family she had in a cruel, unforgiving world – and maybe the only family she ever loved.
Ethan slowly turned his gaze over to Cassandra. The slightest frown set into her brow, and her downcast eyes fixed onto her hands as she mechanically loaded another magazine – much slower than before. Her shoulders carried a slump – nearly shrinking into herself. She looked so inexplicably small and alone in that moment.
Cassandra Dimitrescu, House Dimitrescu's most feared hunter, the breaker of men's bodies, minds, and souls – and she looked like she was using all her energy to put up a front of indifference – and for what? To show she cared not whether Ethan accepted her explanation? To show that a man-thing like him had no power over her and her feelings?
Ethan shook his head slightly. He looked towards the cabinets to the side, the doors of which hung slightly ajar for ease of access.
There was no 'apology accepted' to say to Cassandra, and Ethan didn't think there was anything more that need be said on the matter. She had explained herself and made her point – that was the end of it. He couldn't expect her to apologize when, in her perspective, she had not done anything wrong. She was doing her job, and it was never personal.
Ethan could live with that. If only just for the moment, it was enough. He could compartmentalize.
Opening the steel cabinets revealed the assortment of sidearms, boxes of ammunition, and other shooting accessories and peripherals. Looking around, Ethan picked up the shot timer he'd seen earlier. It was a small, simple dark steel device, with silver buttons and an LCD interface. Ethan had grown familiar with similar shot timers back with the Hound Wolves, so it was easy setting this one up for simple reaction drills.
Ethan came to a stop just by Cassandra's side; she remained thoroughly engrossed in the act of loading her last magazine – her last-ditch distraction to shut out the world around her. His hand hovered behind her back for a beat, until he thought better of it. After pulling his headset back up, he let his hand fall back to his side. Clearing his throat, he got her attention. "Hey."
With painfully neutral eyes and a tight-lipped expression, Cassandra craned her head to face Ethan.
"How about we shake things up a little?" The device – Ethan's olive branch – was raised into the air and given a little shake for emphasis. "I saw this shot timer in the cabinet. Thought you might wanna try some drills." Ethan smiled. "How's that sound?"
As Ethan had come to expect by now, Cassandra took her time staring at Ethan in silence. Those amber eyes, as guarded as they were analytical, bore into Ethan for a long moment. When she found whatever it was she was looking for, a small smile spread on her features – just enough for the dimple of her cheek to peek up at him. "Yeah," She cleared her throat, disguising the way her voice cracked. "That sounds good."
Cassandra racked the 1911 and assumed a low ready stance. "Which targets am I taking?"
"One, two," Ethan gestured to each target in turn, focusing on the mid-range steel silhouettes, "and three. Two shots, two shots, and three on the last." He pointed at the final target on the left with his hand. "Body, body, head. Got it?"
Cassandra pulled the slide of her 1911 back by half an inch. Verifying the round had fed properly, she gave Ethan a sharp nod. "Got it."
"Copy," Ethan replied, taking a step back. "On the buzzer."
With a press of the button, the timer, set to go off at random, was live. Ethan held the timer up to head-level and waited. He watched Cassandra's fingers flex over the 1911's grip for a split second. She took her breaths in evenly and deeply, eyes focused on her targets.
Beep!
Cassandra's hands shot forward, and the pistol erupted to life. Ethan craned his head to the side as a brass casing or two bounced off of his shirt. Within seconds, it was over, and Ethan had to squint over the din of fresh gun smoke to note Cassandra's groupings.
"Center mass…" Ethan glanced at the second target, pulling his headset down. "Center mass and shoulder." His eyes fell on the final target. Two dents marked the steel silhouette right by the bullseye, while the third shot clipped the target's head. "Center mass and… well, that guy's not wearing earrings again."
Ethan turned the timer over for Cassandra to see as he interpreted the results on the display. "Just over one second on the first shot. You could get that down to sub-one, easy." His finger slid down on the display to point out the final time. "And just a tad over four seconds for the last shot. Not bad, Cassandra." Ethan pursed his lips, giving a sincere nod. "Not bad at all."
Cassandra appeared to bite down her smile – always so bent on minimizing any outward showcase of emotion. She busied herself following Ethan's earlier example after she lowered her headset. The magazine was ejected, the slide stop was flicked down, and she pulled the trigger, muzzle pointed downrange. With the hammer producing a sharp click, Cassandra pointed the 1911 down and looked at the targets – keeping her eyes anywhere but on Ethan.
"You seriously taught yourself all this?" Ethan asked, the genuine curiosity burning bright now. "You just… really look like you know what you're doing. You carry yourself a certain way, y'know?" He mimicked the stances and positions as he mentioned them, "You've got the moves down to a T. The low ready to firing – the high ready – it's all on point." He gestured to the timer, "Your numbers are great, too. It took me a while to get my first shot off sub-one, and to empty my mag that quickly. Took serious training for me to get to where you are now."
Cassandra fell silent. She remained where she was, facing the range. The last traces of her smile vanished, and her jaw tensed. Taking a deep breath, Cassandra picked a fresh magazine up from the table. She loaded it with ease, and a sharp tug on the slide chambered the first bullet. She thumbed the safety on, and her pointer finger tapped an erratic rhythm against the 1911's trigger guard.
Her trigger finger.
It was Cassandra's trigger finger that tapped restlessly whenever she attempted to appear apathetic.
Ethan nearly smacked himself upside the head – how had he not put that together sooner?
Rolando and Charlie had that same nervous tick. Even Chris occasionally had restless trigger finger syndrome. From what Ethan had seen, that was a common mode of fidgeting among veterans – or at least, people who'd been around guns a lot, and had come to rely on them in life-or-death scenarios. Hell – Ethan was aware his own fingers could do that from time to time when he got anxious.
Cassandra's stance, her experience, the way she carried herself – it all made sense, and it only fueled Ethan's current speculation further – that Cassandra's familiarity with firearms went way back – far back enough that she had lived with a gun in her hands for a long time. Long enough to trust it with her life. If Cassandra –
"I don't remember who taught me to shoot," the words came out calm and collected; but Cassandra still had to suck a breath in before she admitted, "but… shooting is one of the few things I remember." Jaw clenched, Cassandra gulped hard. "… from before."
Ethan had to make the conscious effort to not drop his own jaw. He slowly took half a step forward, trying to meet Cassandra's blank gaze down the range. He repeated, "From before… what else do you remember from back then?"
For an even longer moment, Cassandra said nothing. Her eyes stared vacantly ahead – where Ethan could only imagine what went on in her mind. The mad staccato tap-tap-tap of her finger picked up in pace – until she hurriedly set the gun down on the table, so she could clasp her hands together. A forceful shake of her head, and Cassandra snarled to herself, "It was a rotten life in a rotten world. I am glad I'm never going back to it." Deep breaths, and steely eyes. "I'm glad it's all gone."
"That bad?" Ethan asked in a soft voice – just above a whisper. "Nothing you miss from those days?" He thought of Bela's father, and his blue eyes, and his freshly shaved face – how he'd broken down upon seeing Bela and his wife. "People?" He thought of the beginning of Bela's love for food and cooking – all starting with her mother's love of seeing her father smile. "Experiences? Your family? Couldn't have been all bad, all the time, right?"
For a moment – just a moment – the mask broke. Cassandra drew in a shuddering breath, and she blinked back the glassiness forming over her eyes. Her hand trailed up, trembling fingers grazing the bare spot on her neck where her jeweled necklace used to be. "No." She shook her head, blinking furiously before shutting her eyes – then wiping them with the back of her hand. "Nothing worth missing from those days."
Cassandra craned her head to the left – away from Ethan, where she could give herself a second of privacy. She cleared her throat, and her hand continued to scrub at her eyes. God forbid that a single tear dared to hint its presence.
Not that Ethan could blame her, of course. After what he could guess was a history of abuse in her past life, and then all the complexities and abandonment issues in her present life, it was only normal that she was this wary of showing emotion – what she perceived as weakness – to anyone.
In an attempt at consolation, Ethan placed a hand on Cassandra's back, even as he stood a good foot away – still cautious of being in Cassandra's personal space. This was all murky ground he stood on. He was fully aware of this as he ran his hand up and down Cassandra's back.
Ethan maintained his soft voice as he said, "I appreciate the trust. With, y'know," he bobbed his shoulder with a shrug, "everything. I can only imagine that isn't easy for you to talk about." He continued brushing his hand against the textured fabric of her dress in broad, calming strokes. "If you ever need an open ear, you know where to find me, okay?"
Cassandra sniffled audibly, her face still turned away – but with just enough visible for Ethan to see the small smile at the corner of her lip. "In your cozy cell in the basement?"
Ethan chuckled. "Yeah. Cozy cell in the basement." He settled his hand on her shoulder to give a squeeze. "Just know you don't have to deal with this alone, Cassandra."
Another clearing of her throat, and Cassandra faced Ethan. Brows pitched softly together, eyes moist – it was the most vulnerable he had ever seen the castle's proud huntress. Her lips quirked into a slight smile as she sighed, "Just call me Cass."
The notion got the softest huff from Ethan, but he nodded and returned her smile. "Okay, Cass."
Cassandra took a small step to the side to gently free herself from Ethan's hand; he was just as quick to reel his limb in to ensure he wasn't making her uncomfortable. Cassandra tapped a finger to the display of the shot timer, which now rested on the table. Ever the master of discreet topic switches, Cassandra said, "I don't think you can beat my time, man-thing."
Ethan humored her. Retrieving the 1911 from the table, he winked. "Bet."
A/N: Thanks so much for reading! As always, be sure to hit those fave and follow buttons on the way out so you don't miss any updates!
I liked getting a gun back into Ethan's hands, not gonna lie, haha! It's fun trying to write a competent shooter at work, and same goes for Cassandra, as we explore her proficiency with shooting. That talk about the first "game" was a long time coming, but it had to happen now, and not earlier on. Any attempts to broach that subject earlier on would have just resulted in an all-out argument between the two. Now that the bond between Ethan and Cass is established, they can actually discuss what happened - or at least, Cass can explain herself, for whatever it's worth. (And she can care perhaps a little too much about how Ethan perceives her explanation).
As Ethan and Cass get closer and closer, there's a lot of fun places we can go from here, and I'm excited to share the coming chapters with you guys. We're past the halfway mark now for Cassandra's arc, and it'll only get spicier from here. Let's hope Bela can get her act together sooner rather than later, before someone steals her man, haha! Kidding, of course. (Or am I?)
Next chapter is slated to go up on the weekend of the 11th, but possibly sooner. We'll see. Got some cool stuff in store and I think you guys will like what I have up my sleeve.
As always, be sure to give the socials a peek before you dip out linktr . ee / sylvesterm . The Q&A for August went up, where I answered some fun questions, such as how the Duke's foresight works, what my plans are for post-BAW, and I even accidentally gave a 6 minute long lecture on Gachimuchi, but you can thank the question askers for that. So if you wanna give the podcast a peek and check out how else to support me, be sure to check the socials :)
That's it from me for now. Thank you all as always for all the love and support, and I'll catch y'all in a couple weeks. Stay safe out there!
