You couldn't call yourself a sharpshooter—not in the professional sense, anyway—but you liked to think you had the spirit of one. A hobbyist’s pride, maybe.

Sure, your aim could use some work, but the thrill of lining up a good shot in a video game felt sublime, really.

Getting the permit, though—that had been a nightmare. An unbelieavable amount of paperwork, fees, and more waiting than you thought humanly possible. At one point, you were convinced New Eridu officials were actively conspiring to stop you from holding a license. “Recreational!” you’d barked at the clerk, who’d stared as if you'd requested permission to juggle grenades.

...Nevertheless, persistence paid off!

After a few months, you were the owner of a card that declared, in very tiny print, that you were, in fact, a law-abiding citizen with the perfectly reasonable right to perforate polymer silhouettes in the name of sport.

Victory.

---

The range you chose wasn’t glamorous—wedged between a Chinese restaurant and a pawnshop, but pragmatism won out: why trek across the city when you could blast off stress a block from your home?

You shouldered through the entrance, greeted by the staccato symphony of gunfire. Your rented pistol—a boxy CZ-99—felt clunky, its grip chewing into your palm.

Whatever!

You slammed the mag home with peerless gravitas.

Click. Poetry.

You squared yourself in Lane 7, assuming an isosceles stance—a YouTube-certified technique—and squinted at the target far away.

Steady. Breathe. Squeeze—

"That's a miss."

You flinched, finger freezing mid-squeeze.

From behind, you saw a woman slouched against the partition, obsidian aviators gleaming against the indoor light. Her rifle—a monstrosity about half her height—rested neatly against her shoulder. Seriously, wasn't that heavy?

“You’re wringing the grip,” she drawled, her voice somehow making it past the gunfire. “Loosen your support hand. Trigger finger's independent. Squeeze like you’re crushing something. And use ear protection—unless you want tinnitus."