FIFTEEN, at the range, half-loaded revolver in hand. Sarah waiting in the distant booth. Watching, always watching, no imperfections allowed. Not even when she’s doing her best to distract me by talking on a JOYlink. She punches something on the wall and man-sized targets unfurl from the ceiling like a firing squad. Surrounding me on every side. Different classes, different poses, different patterns of movement. Duelist targets hold blades and circle like sharks. A Modd-affinity creature shaped like a black-chitin panther charges straight at me.
I swing from side to side and pop them one after the other, never missing, only stopping to reload. That’s when she chooses to hit the next set. Ki fighters, holographic blobs of human shapes that blink forward like they’re teleporting. It’s easy to know where they’re going when you know how they’re programmed. Real ones are harder. And I don’t fight for fun at the gyms.
My hands double their speed automatically. I’m still on my heels from the last set. Brain cataloguing the threat and responding while I’m catching up with my eyes. Lining up the shot, letting my instincts finish the reload. They’re too close. Right on top of me. Closing from three directions. I make my choice and feel Sarah’s smirk as I kickflip over a leg sweep and the world stutters for one-two-three muzzle flash frames while I twist through an aerial cyclone, fanfiring from the hip.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The 6-Teba’s still cooling when I saunter back to the booth. Smoke drifting from the barrel like a lighter tip. Sarah reaches for the shutdown lever and stalls when she sees something in the street outside. My eyes follow. Through a reinforced glass window, I watch as two street boys beat the shit out of a girl on the cracked steps of a derelict bar. They kick her so hard in the stomach that she vomits over their feet. Worthless credit chips spill out of her pocket.
My hand tightens towards a fist.
“The world might have put a gun in your hands,” Sarah warns. “But I taught you when to use it.”
They’re beating her.
“And what would you do about it? Track them down and shoot them in the back?”
I’d make it right.
“The city that made those kids was built on righted wrongs, Mori. Payback isn’t going to fix them. It’s not justice. It’s just revenge. And revenge only invites more revenge.”
It takes a minute for the boys to tire and leave. The girl cries against the concrete, clothes torn, soaked from runoff, dozens of boots flowing past, choosing to ignore rather than be caught in someone else’s eddy.
Motherly concern warms Sarah’s voice as she grabs a towel and heads out to help the girl into her shop. “If you don’t know when not to shoot, you’re not a Gunslinger,” she tells me. “You’re just someone else’s weapon.”