The bang echoed throughout the large, concrete room, the expansive tunnel beyond Charles’ booth singing the gunshot an octave lower. He lifted his finger away from the trigger and inspected the rifle - a sleek, black, polymer chassis fitted with a small holographic optic and large flash suppressor at the end. The recoil was heavy, but the punch was heavier. The cardboard target had a large hole ripped through its heart; the singed edges still steaming slightly.
“What?” Sam inquired. “Is it the weight? Handling? It’s a seven-six-two by thirty-nine which is a bit bigger than what you may have used before, but it sure does hit hard.”
“Bigger.”
“I’m sorry, did you say bigger?”
“Yes. Much bigger.”
“Uhhh, right.” Sam turned to a large aluminium closet bolted onto the wall and unlocked it with a key which he produced from his pocket. He plunged an arm into the container and rummaged around, causing several loud clanging noises as metal and wood clashed together. Eventually, he pull something out:
“Now this… this will pack a serious punch and even hole in anything you will come across!”
“Isn’t that just a regular m4?”
“Nope. It’s a .50 calibre semi-automatic rifle. 16.5 inch barrel, .50 Beowulf tank break and ambidextrous controls.”
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“Maker?”
“Uhh, we usually scratch out the serial numbers so I can’t remember, but I can assure you, this will quite quickly remove someone from the mortal plane.”
…
POW. The gunshot was deafening, to the point that the onomatopoeia had to be put in bold.
POW. The stock slammed into Charles’ shoulder.
POW. The gun threw Charles’ forearm into the air.
POW. The gun’s muzzle smoked and Charles smiled slightly.
“How is it?”
“Brilliant.”
The rifle fit snugly in the case which Sam had given Charles, allowing for safe storage underneath his desk, the ammunition stored beside the firearm.
“Well, seems like someone’s been busy.” Harry said, barging into Charles’ newly renovated office.
“Everyone has been recently.”
“That’s fair.”
“Is the house normally this rowdy after an incursion?”
“Not really. The hostiles just decided to be really annoying and brought an unholy quantity of explosives with them.”
“I believe that is called hypocrisy.”
“In my defence, I did make a really cool entrance,” Harry responded, attempting to defend his overly-zealous entry-way. He resorted to plan B: changing the topic. “So anyway, you’ve gone for a slightly more rustic aesthetic, haven't you?”
“If you are referring to the corrugated iron and cinder blocks, then that is just a consequence of the current shortage of materials for me to secure the furniture down with.”
“Right, Christopher is the one who normally orders most of our building stuff so you’ll have to talk to him.”
Charles made a pained expression towards Harry.
“Christ isn’t that bad…”
Charles raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, I’ll admit it, he’s pretty sour but you’re going to have to talk to him sooner or later.”
Charles sighed.
“Try not to be too stubborn with people. It’s either you change, or they change and we both know that one of those two options is far easier than the other.”
Nevertheless, Charles could not change Chris.