So. Here Kitty Pryde stood, a weapon in her hands, in the front of the group, a giant metal man standing to her side – or fleshy man, which at that moment he happened to be. In any case, as she stood, listening to the psionic mutants discuss a group of sitting zombie ducks, she tried to remember what she had been instructed to do. Shoot, but your gun won’t work if you defend yourself the way you’ve been taught. But if you do need to phase, phase. But try to shoot. And not your friends. Shoot the people who would try to eat you. The people who may be children, parents, the president of the United States. It’s okay, because they’re not actually themselves at this point in time, but shooting them with a weapon that would kill you or kill your friends, depending on the structure of their DNA, will return them to their former selves.
Okay, great.
Peter’s voice disrupting her ineffective attempt to make sense of the situation, she dropped her head slightly and shifted to look at him. She tried to smile out of appreciation, or even voice it, but she couldn’t. Instead, she looked at him with worry and hesitation pulling at her features. This mission was more than a supply run or even the Alcatraz defense. The X-Men don’t attack. They defend. Right? Now, they were just defending the world by attacking the world. Kitty didn’t even really attack anyone at Alcatraz, although she knew that Colossus, Beast, Wolverine, almost everyone else had; she saved a child. There were no children to save here. Only infected people to shoot. It could be said that by attacking, she was saving them, but that gap was far too much for her conscious to take.
This time, Storm’s voice pulled her out of her worry. Turning, she tried to pull on a brave face, something that at least removed the worry. No matter what she thought, Storm, Cyclops, and Xavier all thought that this was the best course of action. She trusted them. They knew better. She would do as she was told to do. They had given her the weapons, the briefing, the gun training, everything she would physically and mentally need to perform this task with flying colors. But not everything emotionally.
Nodding at Storm’s orders, she turned back to the front and took a stronger grip on her gun, something that up to this moment, she held with the very tips of her fingers. Taking a breath, she held it until Cyclops’ order. Exhaling quickly, she raised her gun, keeping her finger off the trigger as instructed, and followed orders. She moved in. She searched. She fired on sight. Once. Twice.