After ten relentless days of training, she was starting to seriously doubt that guns were the right weapon for fighting beasts that could move faster than thought. Oh sure, in theory, a firearm sounded great. A little point, click, bang. But in practice? Well, when you're being hunted by creatures that defy the laws of physics and logic, the idea of relying on a gun started to feel... ridiculous.
No amount of firepower could compensate for the fact that the beasts moved like shadows, their speed making even the most advanced weaponry look like toys. She had been through every gun imaginable in the past few days—pistols, rifles, shotguns, and even a flamethrower, which, admittedly, was kind of fun. But for every round she fired, the beasts would have had time to circle back twice and order a coffee.
She found herself in a squad of no less than ten people at any given time, often double that, and each of them armed to the teeth. The agents would fire at moving targets, reload in record time, and demonstrate their skill in ways that should've impressed her. And it would have, except that, in the back of her mind, she kept thinking about how the last time they'd faced the beasts, none of that had mattered. Twenty agents with guns might as well have been a parade of ants for all the good it did them. Even when they were fully prepared, the creatures were faster than anything she had seen. Faster than the technology the agency was so proud of. And faster than she was—at least, in a way. Because even though she had her own edge—her speed—she couldn't outrun bullets, and her speed couldn't change the fact that guns had one huge flaw: limited ammo.
As she stood on the range one afternoon, reloading her weapon for what felt like the thousandth time, she found herself getting increasingly irritated. Fast reloading was all well and good, but it didn't matter if the gun was empty, or if the enemy had already closed the distance by the time she could fire again.
The more they trained, the more doubts crept in. She could barely hit moving targets in simulations, let alone in real life when the stakes involved staying alive.
Mr. B, with his cane and air of mysterious indifference, had once mentioned that guns were "just tools" and almost made her doubt if choosing the guns was the best option. She could still remember his smirk, like he was in on some cosmic joke no one else could understand.
One afternoon, after a particularly brutal training session that left her arms numb from the recoil of the guns and her head aching with frustration, she spotted Mr. B leaning against the wall, watching the agents with that same inscrutable look. She decided to approach him, wiping the sweat from her brow.
"Mr. B," she began, her voice a mix of exhaustion and irritation, "you once said guns were tools, right?"
He didn't even look surprised that she was asking, his eye patch giving him an extra layer of inscrutability. "Indeed," he replied, in that calm, slightly condescending tone he always used.
"Do you ever wonder if maybe… I don't know, they're the wrong tool? I mean, we're out here playing target practice, and those beasts are faster than anything we can shoot at." She gestured back toward the range, where agents were currently reloading for the next drill. "It feels like we're throwing rocks at a tornado."
Mr. B tilted his head, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk. "Ah, the student questions the master. Very good."
"I wasn't—" she started to protest, but he cut her off.
"The issue isn't whether the gun is the right tool or the wrong one," he said, tapping his cane thoughtfully on the floor. "It's whether you've learned to use the tool properly."
She crossed her arms, not buying it. "So, what? You're saying I'm just bad at this?"
"No," he said smoothly, "I'm saying that every weapon has its use, but no weapon is effective without strategy. You've been thinking too much about firepower and not enough about how to control the fight."
She stared at him, waiting for more, but of course, Mr. B never gave a straight answer. He was like Master Oogway but she wasn't sure she could be Po. He just nodded to her and wandered off, leaving her with more questions than before.
The conversation left a sour taste in her mouth. Guns, strategy—it all sounded great, but out there, when claws and fangs were coming for your throat, the last thing on your mind was strategy.
Eventually, the time came to revisit Cawel Castle, the site of their last deadly mission. They had insisted on her going back, though her or no one else seemed particularly eager. But something was left unfinished, she was sure of it. Maybe it was the lingering connection with the black beast, or maybe she just needed answers.
The castle itself stood as it always had, looming in the distance like some ancient sentinel, but this time, it felt hollow. She wandered through the crumbling halls, each step echoing in the silence. The walls were damp, and a faint smell of mold clung to the air. She felt a strange unease, as though she were walking through a graveyard rather than a castle.
After taking samples of whatever she could find—though nothing really seemed unusual anymore—she decided to head out toward the forest surrounding the castle. If there were any clues, they wouldn't be in the open. The forest was thick and overgrown, with trees that seemed to tower over her, their branches knitting together above like a twisted canopy.
Her thoughts drifted back to her family—people she hadn't seen in what felt like a lifetime. She wondered if they even knew she was alive. If they did, would they understand what she'd been through? Somehow, the thought of explaining all of this to them felt even more impossible than fighting the beasts.
After wandering aimlessly for a while, she stumbled across something she hadn't expected: a small, abandoned cottage nestled between the trees. The roof sagged, and the windows were covered in grime, but it looked like someone had lived there at some point. She approached cautiously, her heart racing with the strange sense that she was about to uncover something important.
Pushing open the creaky door, she stepped inside. Dust filled the air, and the floorboards groaned under her weight. The cottage was small, just a single room with a fireplace that looked like it hadn't been used in years. A few pieces of broken furniture were scattered around, and in the corner, a worn leather chair sat facing the window.
There was something eerie about the place, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Maybe it was the way the forest seemed to press in on all sides, or maybe it was the silence—the kind of silence that felt too deliberate.
Her gut told her there was more to this cottage than met the eye. She just wasn't sure she was ready to find out what.