The basement smelled of damp earth and machine oil, though the air was lighter now that the floodwater had been completely pumped out.
Shadows of unfinished chambers stretched across the concrete walls, while the echo of hammering and drilling filled the underground space.
Two chambers stood completed: a shooting range and an aircraft hangar, each gleaming under the stark white glow of overhead lights.
Beyond those spaces, workers in identical uniforms bustled about, their tools clinking as they erected walls and laid wiring for the other chambers still under construction.
Inside the shooting range, Ezra stood in silence, a faint tang of gunpowder already lingering in the air. Through a wide observation window, his eyes locked on an unusual sight.
Pungkas and Carina crouched near a mound of clay-like dirt mixed with water, their hands methodically shaping and sculpting the material.
The texture gleamed faintly under the overhead lights, soft and malleable like freshly mixed terracotta.
He watched as their hands gave the figure a face—sunken eyes, a narrow nose, and a neutral mouth—and carefully smoothed out the limbs.
Suddenly, the terracotta shimmered faintly, the dull earthen tones replaced by the healthy hue of living flesh. The inert figure slowly stood up and opened its eyes.
Ezra’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the creature—no, the worker—rise to its feet like a marionette suddenly cut free of its strings.
It took a few experimental steps before seamlessly joining the other laborers.
It moved naturally, just like normal humans, then picked up a hammer and swung it to the unfinished walls while talking briefly to another worker nearby.
For a moment, Ezra stood frozen, his reflection faintly visible in the window. His mind struggled to process what he had just witnessed.
A living, breathing worker… spawned from dirt and water.
He sighed.
Turning back to the task at hand, Ezra focused on his pistol, its cold metal grip grounding him. He pulled back the slide, checking the firing chamber.
The faint mechanical clink was satisfying, almost comforting.
He reached for the ammo box beside him, selecting three magazines.
The click of the first magazine snapping into place resonated faintly in the quiet room.
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Ezra flicked off the safety, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand as he pointed it downward, his fingers steady.
Ezra’s boots barely touched the ground as he lunged forward and slapped the timer button on the wall.
The sharp beep that followed echoed through the range, signaling the countdown.
Without hesitation, he sprinted into position, his pistol already raised.
The first room presented three static targets—two placed evenly on the left and right at shoulder height, and a third higher in the center.
He steadied his breath, his sights aligning rapidly as his finger squeezed the trigger.
Bang. Bang. The left target shuddered.
Bang. Bang. The right target jerked.
Bang. Bang. The top target splintered.
Ezra pivoted without pause, dashing into the next room. Two targets rose and fell rhythmically, like taunting pendulums. His eyes tracked their movement as he fired.
Bang. Bang. The first target jolted, its surface splintering.
Bang. Bang. The second target staggered mid-rise.
His slide locked back—empty. In a fluid motion, he ejected the spent magazine, letting it clatter to the floor as his fingers pulled another from his belt.
A swift click signaled the reload before he was off again.
The third room was tighter, forcing him to duck low as he moved.
Without breaking stride, Ezra lunged forward, slamming the barrel of his pistol into the dead center of the closest target.
Bang! The force of the shot sent shards of wood flying, and the bullet tore through to hit the next target beyond it.
He scaled a low plank wall with a grunt, the coarse wood scraping against his gloves as he vaulted over.
Targets popped in and out of view unpredictably, their movements erratic. Ezra fired rapidly, adjusting his aim on the fly.
Bang. Bang. Miss. The sound of a stray bullet ricocheted off the rocks behind.
Bang. Miss. Bang. One target shattered; another escaped untouched.
With only one magazine left, he rushed into the final room, his pulse pounding in his ears. Twelve targets erupted simultaneously, their positions scattered like a beehive.
Ezra pivoted, his body twisting with practiced precision as his arms rose and fell, his aim darting between targets.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Some targets splintered.
Bang. Miss. Bang. Others stood mockingly, unscathed.
The sharp metallic click of his gun running empty broke the tension.
Ezra exhaled heavily, lowering the smoking pistol as the last target wobbled and fell with a hollow thud.
His chest heaved as he glanced at the timer on the wall—01:12:93.
He surveyed the aftermath, his eyes scanning the perforated targets.
Of all the holes he’d made, only one hit dead center—the target he’d struck with his pistol barrel. The rest?
Sloppy. Mediocre.
Ezra sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked out of the range.
The automated arms inside whirred to life, pulling down the damaged targets and replacing them with fresh ones, ready for the next round.
The acrid smell of gunpowder clung to the air as he holstered his pistol, leaving the room behind.
Ezra squinted at the leaderboard, his name glaring at him from the very bottom like an embarrassing stain.
The list read:
Carina - 00:28:35 - Colt M1911
Adit - 00:32:02 - FN Five Seven
Franklin - 00:39:50 - Glock 18
Senu - 00:43:12 - KSG-12
Favian - 00:45:12 - Glock 18
Ezra - 01:12:93 - Glock 19 Gen 5
XXXX - 00:00:00 - XXXX
XXXX - 00:00:00 - XXXX
XXXX - 00:00:00 - XXXX
XXXX - 00:00:00 - XXXX
His brows furrowed as he muttered under his breath.
“Damn, Carina only took less than half my time.”
He rubbed his temple, his pride taking a hit.
“And with a Colt M1911, no less…”
His eyes flicked back up to the fourth name on the board. Senu – KSG-12. He frowned.
“Wait, is a shotgun even allowed here?”
***