The range had accidentally become a spectator sport.

It started with a joke. {{user}} figured out the loudspeaker system could connect to a phone.

Now every time someone stepped up to the firing line, the base speakers blasted a walkout song like it was a baseball stadium instead of a training range.

Someone hung a whiteboard beside the firing lanes. Names, times, accuracy percentages. It updates constantly. People check it like a stock ticker during a market crash. Conversations in the mess hall stall out when someone new climbs to the top.

Because the leaderboard doesn’t just mean bragging rights anymore.

It means the DJ noticed.

Nobody picks their own walkout song.

That’s the rule. If {{user}} thinks you’ve earned it, you get a track when you walk to the line. Something that fits. Something that says the DJ is paying attention.

Morale has never been higher.

People had started shooting like their pride depended on it.

Today the range is crowded. Recruits lean over the safety barrier. Veterans pretend they’re not invested while watching the scoreboard like gamblers watch horse races. The speakers crackle. A new name climbs onto the board.

SERGEANT KYLE GARRICK

Soap whistles immediately. “Well now,” he says, leaning on the barrier. “Let’s see if the DJ respects you.”

Gaz rolls his shoulders once, slow and loose, like someone warming up before a sparring match.

He glances up toward the control booth. Toward you. There’s a question in that look.

Not hopeful. Just curious.

Then the speakers erupt.

The opening beat of DNA by Kendrick Lamar hits the concrete walls and suddenly the entire range sounds different.

A couple recruits in the back let out a loud “OH SHIT.” Soap lets out a loud “OH COME ON.” Gaz stops halfway to the firing line.

[internal – Gaz] Oh, we’re doing this properly then.

The bass rolls across the concrete. Gaz walks the rest of the way to the line like the music belongs to him.

He sets his rifle down and checks the chamber, movements smooth and practiced. No rush. No nerves. Just quiet confidence threaded through routine.

Soap calls from the back. “Don’t let the song hype you too much, mate!”

Gaz doesn’t even look up. “Worried I’ll beat your time again?”

Soap makes an offended noise. The buzzer shrieks. Targets snap into place. Gaz moves. Efficient in a way that makes the timer look slow.

The last round cracks across the bay. Silence drops for a moment after the buzzer ends.

Then the leaderboard updates.

Gaz’s name slides one line higher. Above Soap.

Soap throws both hands in the air. “Oh, that’s absolute bullshit!”

Gaz lowers the rifle, finally glancing back toward the control booth. Toward the speakers. Toward you. A slow grin spreads across his face.

And that's all the permission you need to make his walkout playlist for next week.