My fondest memory was when my father took me to the city-guard’s shooting range, the scent of gun-powder and oil and burnt circuits lingered heavily in the air. It was the exact same scent the gun-shop carried with it, and it bolstered my otherwise frayed mood.
I was going to finally buy my first “proper” gun!
It was like stepping up to a candy vending machine with a free-item coupon. Except I had tens of thousands of credits and a burning desire to get something that would make the Quantex weep and shrivel up in shame (as it rightly should). Yes, I was aware I should keep SOME restraint, I shouldn’t blow up all my funds on a firearm. Even if getting a good enough loadout could make it likelier I got jobs that would pay well. Really, it was just investing in myself. The more I paid…
No, no, I had to keep a cool head about this.
Three thousand had to be the hard limit. Anything above that would be wasteful.
“Welcome to Bang-Bang for your Buck-Buck, where we make every credit count.” The clerk drawled, rolling her eyes as I marched up to the counter.
“I’d like to purchase a box of cred-chips, and if you have a shooting range, I’d like to rent it out and test a few handguns.”
The older woman sighed, taking a long drag of her cigarette as she passed over a box of empty cred-chips. “The range’s only for plat customers, you don’t look like…” I took one cred-chip, plugged it into the tablet, loaded it up with 10K, and then passed it over. The woman blinked, then brightened with a dazzling nicotine yellowed smile. “Shooting range coming right up. What are you looking for?”
“That’s the down payment.” I pointed out. “I’m looking for a handgun, preferably rated for E-class monsters.”
Benny (it’s what her nametag read) nodded. “Merc work or solo?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Merc weapons assume you’ve got backup, so more room to maneuver and make a smaller caliber count.” She explained. “Solo is making sure it stays dead on the first round.”
“Definitely solo, then.” I paused in thought. “So… gun-range?”
“Right this way.”
With the press of a buzzer, the metal door next to her cabin opened up, leading into a concrete corridor with metal doors. One of them buzzed open, and inside was a small two by two meter cabin with a table and a closed window. I glanced around for a moment, then noticed the metal slot to my right open, revealing three guns.
Also a pair of special ear-protectors I put on.
The speakers crackled to life. “These are the Shirudo D34, the Mirajin, and the Bulstra 12.” She explained. “Power guns in their own right, take your pick.”
Starting with the smallest of the bunch, I got a closer look. It looked like an off-shoot of the older Glock models. Simple, semi-automatic, and there were some electronics in the grip.
“The Mirajin. It can handle both normal and smart-ammo.”
My brows creased as I returned the gun. As much as I had a healthy amount of respect for smart weaponry, I literally couldn’t use them. Paying for something I wouldn’t be able to put to full use anytime soon would be a waste of money. Smart-guns also tended to come with their own DRM, and I’d rather not wrangle with that. So I turned my attention to the heaviest of the three. It was a bulky piece of work, with a revolver cylinder that only had capacity for three bullets. Each hole was wide enough I could fit my thumb into it, so that had to be at least a .50 BMG. Looking the gun over, it was a solid piece of metal and devoid of electronics, robust to a fault.
“That’s the Bulstra 12, technically rated for unarmored D-class if you can afford the fancy ammo.” Benny intoned. “Three bullets, .507 caliber.”
“It looks like it could kill a car.” The beginning of a grin appeared on my lips. “Bullet please?”
The slot closed, then opened again, revealing a single bullet. At the same time, the window opened, a paper dummy appearing at the ten-meter mark. The whole ensemble felt a bit underwhelming, probably either less funding than the guards over at FC02, or maybe just more paranoid. Seeing how I’d been mugged upon my first day here, maybe the paranoia was warranted.
Cocking the hammer with my thumb, I took aim, slowly squeezing the trigger.
The ear-protection suppressed the sound, and though there was a definite kick to it, it had been way less than I’d expected. I glanced at the firearm, and then at the hole in the paper-dummy. This seemed like another consequence of my increased strength.
“How much does a standard round cost?”
“$45.”
I winced.
It was cheaper than I’d expected, but still painful.
But then again, it felt right in my hand. Granted, it had less heft than it should have, feeling closer to a normal gun, but that was the “I can splatter monsters with my bare hands” strength speaking. I also liked it because it was sturdy, enough I could probably use it as a hammer and never worry over its integrity (I’d never do such a thing to a gun, but that's besides the point).
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
This gun was made to last, just how much would I save on maintenance? It made my money-saving goblin brain squeal a little.
Right as I’d been about to call out, an idea struck me. “Quick question, do you do modifications?”
“Depends, what’re you looking for?”
“Can you increase trigger-pull weight and strengthen the hammer spring?”
The speakers crackled in silence for a moment. “By how much?”
“Enough you’d need a power-based cyberware to shoot it.”
If only I had the level of strength required to shoot the thing, then there’d be little to no risk of someone using it against me. Who needed ID-lock features anyway?
“Hm… doable.” She agreed. “Anything else?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, do you have anything that might be useful for non-lethal combat?”
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I walked out of the gun-shop with a modified Bulstra 12 holstered on my hip, 9x standard .507 bullets, 3x dum-dum bullets, 3x armor piercing, a very tough baton, a combat knife, a box with a few hundred empty cred-chips, and a good set of hearing protection. Benny didn’t have anything fancy like shock-weaponry, but I would’ve not been looking for it anyway because the whole package deal had cost me a little over 12K and that’d been well over the initial budget.
A part of me wanted to cry at how I’d just spent more money in one purchase than I ever have in any three places combined.
And then I’d rest my hand on the Bulstra’s grip and the voice would shut up.
I barely even cared that it was getting dark and the lights were flickering on here and there. I was practically humming a jaunty little tune as I skipped my way towards the bus-stop miss Benny had so helpfully pointed me to. Apparently I was in the second district. So of course I’d need some method of transportation to get beyond the second and third wall.
My good mood must’ve been contagious, because everyone on the way to ‘Motel 18’ had been quite helpful. The first bus driver had eagerly explained the trip I’d need to take to get on to another line that went over the third wall. And the second driver had been just as happy to explain the exact stop to get off of and how to get to my destination from there.
Definitely nothing to do with the three kilograms of iron strapped to my hip.
The wait between buses was long and boring, and the walk long and boring. I’d even taken the chance to make several stops at various vending machines along the way. I’d loaded myself up on non-perishable foods (the sort that’d grow mold after I was long dead), water, and clean clothes.
By the time I got off at the fourth district, my tablet said it was past midnight.
There was something about the place that… felt comforting. Unlike the second district, there were no looming mazes of platforms and tunnels, and unlike the third district, the buildings weren’t monolithic and imposing. The ground underneath my feet was as low as I could go, there were no suspended platforms overhead…
And there was graffiti.
Not some sort of hacked ad that’d been tweaked to display swear words, nor those black or white gibberish signatures. No. There were down and proper paintings on the walls of the buildings here. Sometimes they would be massive twisted words, other times images of mountains or guns. But always colorful and more often than not with parts getting covered by lesser pieces of graffiti.
That had to mean there were no ads out here, otherwise why bother painting the actual wall if no one, not even yourself, could see them properly? It was plastered all over the place, just about every large wall near the bus-station had something put into it. And it wasn’t like all of it was fresh, either, some of the paintings were showing clear signs of having worn off from how long they’d been up there.
The streets were also different here, the sidewalks were more smushed up and narrow, while the roads for cars occupied most of the space. There were barely any street-lamps, and there were also a lot less 24/7 shops or vending machines. Everything felt smooshed together, even at the loss of verticality.
After much walking and taking in the scenes like some sort of tourist, I eventually reached Motel 18. A brick building squashed between a whore-house and a pharmacy. Neon words flickered on and off at the entrance, a rusty door screeching to signal my entrance.
“Welcome to Motel 18! How may I be of help? You wish to spend the night? Would you prefer a room or a blowjob?”
The skinless droid behind the counter asked.
I blinked as the android stared back at me through empty cameras within the sockets of its metal skull. The mouth opened and closed, mimicking a lipless enunciation while the voice-box in the back of her throat projected out the sounds. The body was no less unkempt, an animatronic of pistons, gears, and cables hidden underneath an impeccable maid uniform.
There was a faded torn-up sticker on its (her?) forehead, a slogan of some sort reduced to the single word “grilled”.
“...room?” I tentatively asked.
It sighed, feminine voice crackling as the metal jaw opened and shut. “No one picks blowjob.”
“A friend of mine might have made a reservation? I’m Axel Garcia.”
The robot froze, unblinking cameras staring at me, the processing fans within its chassis whirring up to maximum speed. Dust scattered in every direction as it twitched once, then twice, a few lights in its chest blinking in and out in rapid succession.
“Confirmed.” Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, stopped. “Whoops! It is not time to clean yet!” She returned the firearm to its original spot, then pulled out a key. “Room 03, second floor. You are booked for two days.”
I carefully pulled my hand away from the Bulstra’s grip. “...thanks.”
“Remember, there’s no room-service.” She waved me off as I hurried along to the elevator.
The elevator was off.
I took the stairs, avoiding the soggy spots.
I then proceeded to ignore the very loud moaning that was happening in room 01.
The door to 03 was unlocked… and on second inspection, the lock was broken entirely.
Despite the moldy smell and boarded up window, the room was clean. Surprisingly clean, actually. It had a large double bed, some chairs, a table, a non-functioning mini-fridge (someone had torn out the back side), and a bathroom.
Closing the door, I propped the chair against it to make sure it couldn’t be opened.
Then went to check the bathroom, finding it so clean it was borderline suspicious.
But I couldn’t find anything off, no weird spy cameras, no secret doors, no bodies hidden under the floor or in the closet.
I spent a few minutes just taking it all in.
It was a plain and normal well-kept room.
With a bed that had actual sheets, ones that didn’t reek.
For the first time in years I had a room, not a pod that was a hole in a wall among dozens of others, a room. A fully loaded room. With my own hot shower, my own furniture. Even my own tiny closet!
Then I remembered I reeked to high heaven, that my clothes should probably be burned, and hadn’t seen warm water in days.
So off I went to give myself the scrubbing of a lifetime.
The shower didn’t even demand payment for the hot water!