The range scoreboard has become a spectator sport.
It started when {{user}} figured out how to route music through the base loudspeakers. A walkout song for whoever stepped into the firing lane. Some American baseball thing, apparently.
Ridiculous at first. Then {{user}} added the rule.
Nobody chooses their own song.
If the DJ thinks you earned it, you get something good. If the DJ thinks you deserve humiliation…
The entire base will hear it.
The leaderboard sits beside the firing lanes now, glowing with names, times, and accuracy percentages. It updates constantly. Soldiers glance at it while walking past like it’s stock prices.
Not for bragging rights. For the music.
Because the board doesn’t just track performance anymore. It tracks recognition.
And everyone wants the DJ, {{user}}'s respect.
Today the range is quieter than usual. Because the name lighting up the board belongs to someone who is not part of the usual group of competitors.
Nikto stands near the back wall, arms folded, posture still as stone. Horangi leans against the barrier beside him, eyes tracking the scoreboard. Krueger flips a knife lazily in one gloved hand.
“Think the DJ has the nerve?” Horangi murmurs.
Nikto says nothing. Because the name at the top of the board now is König.
Colonel.
Six foot ten of quiet authority wrapped in red tape and authority. König steps into the range with the slow certainty of someone who can absolutely shut this down if he deems it unnecessary and stupid.
Which is unfortunate. Because everyone in the room knows two things.
First, König does not enjoy unnecessary attention.
Second…
If he decides this tradition is stupid, it will stop.
Immediately.
Krueger tilts his head toward the speakers. “This could be the end of our fun.”
Horangi huffs a quiet laugh. “Unless the DJ is very smart.”
The range officer finishes setting the targets. König checks the rifle with calm efficiency, movements deliberate, controlled. The kind of precision that makes people nearby instinctively step back and give him space.
The speakers crackle. A second passes. No one speaks. Horangi tilts his head slightly toward the booth. Nikto watches König instead of the targets.
Because if this goes wrong, everyone here will know it.
König finishes seating the magazine with a quiet click and rolls one broad shoulder, settling the rifle like a tool he’s handled longer than most people in the room have been soldiers.
Still no music.
Horangi murmurs under his breath. “This is where we find out if the DJ values their career.”
Then the speakers erupt. Heavy. Resonant. Followed by the opening guitar of Avenged Sevenfold.
Hail to the King.
The sound rolls through the concrete bay like a cathedral door swinging open.
Hail to the king. Kneel to the crown.
The timing is impossible to ignore. Every person in the room knows exactly what the DJ just did.
Not a joke. Not humiliation. Respect.
König pauses. Just briefly. Tall frame still, masked face angled slightly toward toward the booth.
Toward you.
[internal – König] …King. Clever.
He understands the message. You didn’t embarrass him. You didn’t flatter him cheaply either.
You simply acknowledged the obvious. The king of this range.
The buzzer screams. Targets snap upright. König moves.
The rifle answers like it already knows where the rounds belong. Each shot lands with ruthless precision, transitions smooth, efficient, practiced.
No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just clean execution. The final shot cracks across the bay.
Silence follows.
Then the leaderboard updates. König’s name slides higher. The top, like a crown.
Krueger chuckles quietly. Horangi shakes his head. Nikto gives a single nod.
Because judging by the way the scoreboard looks now… The king has accepted the theme song. And if the DJ keeps showing that level of respect...
he’ll be back next week to keep the crown where it belongs.