BIA Ch. 31

“Don’t close your left eye. Keep both eyes open. But aim only with your right, your dominant eye.”

“If you’ve aimed correctly, now hold your breath for a moment. Slowly exhale… Good, now.”

“Don’t pull the trigger with the middle joint of your finger! Extend your finger fully, and imagine pressing the trigger gently with the center of your fingertip.”

“Break the habit of raising your wrist when you shoot. Maintain your stance even after firing.”

Bran would nag Isaiah every time he fired the gun. It was practically one shot, ten nags. Later, he would scold Isaiah even if he just held the stance without firing. Finally,

“Grip it tighter. Grab it like you’re grabbing someone by the scruff of their neck. Like this.”

He even grabbed Isaiah by the scruff of his neck and shook him. Isaiah wanted to cry. Date or no date, he just wanted to get out of this prison. He now loathed pistols.

“You’re shockingly bad at this.”

The most terrible thing was his cursed shooting skill. He had wasted dozens of bullets but hadn’t landed a single decent hit. Even his best shots only grazed the target’s right arm or side.

“I couldn’t shoot this badly even if I tried.”

“I’m not trying to miss.”

“I know.”

Bran put down the gun he had been holding for demonstration and stood directly behind Isaiah.

“What, why…?”

Startled by the sudden proximity, Isaiah tried to move away but Bran held his shoulders, trapping him. Bran lowered his head to Isaiah’s eye level and whispered in his ear.

“I told you, right? Don’t look at the target when you’re aiming. Focus on the sights.”

“I, I tried, but then I can’t see the target clearly. It’s blurry…”

“That’s normal. You’ll never hit the target if you focus on it. You absolutely must focus on the sights.”

Isaiah followed Bran’s instructions and focused on the sights.

“You’ve got it.”

“Good. Now lower your shoulders, relax, hold your breath… Good, now.”

Isaiah pulled the trigger at the signal of Bran’s hand tightening on his shoulder. But he missed again. This time, the bullet went to the lowest part of the target, the thigh, a place he hadn’t even aimed at before.

“Are you trying to show me how far off you can shoot? Fine, next time try shooting your own dick off.”

Bran’s patience had finally reached its limit.

“No, it’s…, it’s because of you. I can’t concentrate when you’re standing so close.”

Finally, Isaiah swallowed his embarrassment and spoke honestly.

“Don’t make excuses.”

Of course, Bran was merciless.

“In a real shooting situation, it would be much more chaotic and confusing than this.”

But that wasn’t the problem.

“Focus.”

“…Yes.”

Right, if this were a real war, would he have the luxury of thinking about other things? Get a grip, Isaiah. The person behind you isn’t Bran. It’s one of his soldiers. And he is injured. So badly injured he couldn’t even walk, being carried on Isaiah’s back. If Isaiah couldn’t kill the enemy in front of them, both he and the soldier would die…!

“And remember this, if you extend the line of the sights and the barrel, they’re not perfectly parallel. The barrel is angled slightly downwards. So if you focus on the sights and aim at the target while holding the gun perfectly horizontal, the bullet will hit slightly below where you aimed. That’s why your shots keep hitting my elbow or side.”

The wounded soldier, using his last bit of strength, offered advice. Isaiah, focusing with all his might for this one shot that held their fate, listened intently.

“Raise the muzzle slightly. Just a tiny bit.”

Isaiah, heeding the wounded soldier’s dying words, raised the muzzle. Just slightly, a minuscule amount. The wounded soldier squeezed his shoulder, as if confirming the angle.

Isaiah, emboldened, held his breath. Then, focusing all his energy into the tip of his right index finger, he pulled the trigger.

Baang–!

The muzzle flashed, firing a bullet. Simultaneously, the slide recoiled, ejecting the hot casing from the barrel as if it were bouncing.

“10 points.”

Finally, Isaiah’s bullet pierced the center of the enemy’s chest.

“Alright, since you scored 10 points, today’s task is done.”

The once-injured soldier—no, Bran—patted Isaiah on the shoulder as if acknowledging his effort.

“Isn’t that the score you earned?”

“Yeah, which means my task is done.”

Bran practically snatched the pistol from Isaiah’s hand. He placed it in the locker, along with the pistol he had used for the demonstration and closed the door. The sound of the locker slamming shut, echoing loudly in the basement, suggested even he was now thoroughly sick of guns.

“Let’s go out and eat something.”

Isaiah had assumed they would go to a nearby restaurant but Bran, suggesting a drive, drove to Lynn Avenue, the city’s busiest street. He parked at a cafe renowned for its brunch menu.

Had the weather been nice, they would have sat on the outdoor terrace. However, it was somewhat overcast and windy, so they chose a table inside.

While waiting for a server, Isaiah perused the menu. True to its reputation, the cafe offered thirteen different brunch sets. After careful consideration, Isaiah ordered Brunch Set C, which included eggs Benedict, bacon, and butter-fried potatoes. Bran, without much hesitation, ordered the pancake set.

“Pancakes?”

Surprised by the unexpected choice, Isaiah exclaimed. Bran, sipping his coffee which had arrived first, calmly replied,

“Sometimes I want to eat them.”

“You like them?”

“Well, did I like them?”

Bran appeared to search his memory for a moment, then nodded.

“Well, I liked them when I was young.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I definitely liked them.”

Setting down his coffee cup, he continued.

“I did not have a mother. My father and I would do most of the cooking but we could never make pancakes well. Even using a mix, they would not rise properly.”

“You cooked…?”

“I had to. To avoid starving.”

His tone implied it was obvious.

“I suppose so.”

Isaiah chuckled, acknowledging his foolish question, just as their food arrived. Bran’s pancake set was more extravagant than expected. Four fluffy pancakes were drizzled with caramel syrup. On the side, a scoop of ice cream studded with nuts sat enticingly next to blueberry compote and grilled banana.

“Did I mention I was in a facility for a short time when I was young?”

Bran asked, taking a bite of the grilled banana before the pancakes.

“You did.”

“They would often serve pancakes but they were truly awful. Flat as if pressed by a hand and they tasted of nothing but flour. Well, I suppose that’s to be expected, since they’re made of flour.”

Bran’s grumbling tone was so amusing that Isaiah, in the middle of cutting his eggs Benedict, burst out laughing. He had never heard Bran complain so openly. The thought of Bran as a frank and endearing boy brought a smile to Isaiah’s face that he couldn’t suppress.

“They would serve it with maple syrup, the kind in those little packets. Probably just flavored sugar water, though.”

“Oh, I see there’s no maple syrup here.”

Isaiah looked again at Bran’s plate.

“They don’t offer it much these days.”

Bran said dismissively, proceeding to cut his pancakes into large pieces with a fork, not a knife.

“Anyway, there was this strange fellow at the facility. One day, he was squatting under a tree in front of the dormitory. I watched him, he was pouring the maple syrup that came with the pancakes onto the ground and watching the insects gather.”

“Why…?”

Isaiah asked, his eyes wide.

“Why would he do that?”

“I asked him the same thing. Why are you doing this?”

“And what did he say?”

Bran popped a piece of pancake into his mouth and shrugged. He chewed in silence for a moment, then, after swallowing, replied,

“Well, he said he just wanted to see it.”