I was awakened first by a low droning noise, overlaying a garbled conversation which sounded vaguely like English, but upon listening closer was completely incoherent. Eyes closed, I scrunched up my face in annoyance as I stretched a bit, before opening them to wipe a bit of crust from my eyelids.

The television in the corner was not on, but it soon would be. I have a bit of a habit of turning on the news each morning to get a sense for world events. The downside of course, is that I get woken up by my future actions. My power tries to fabricate something like a news report, but without any real information, it has to scrap together an incoherent amalgam of the most common phrases used in the morning broadcast.

Its worth noting that my abilities tend to be very mentally driven. If I am not focusing specifically on using them, they tend to take a shotgun approach, and predict everything in my range of perception within the next few minutes. If I am thinking about something, or focusing on it, they can extrapolate further out with more sophisticated lines of prediction, but with the caveat that everything else tends to fade away.

If anything, I have to suppress them most of the time. Hearing noises that haven’t happened, and might not happen at all, seeing actions before they occur, tasting things before I eat them. The latter is actually quite obnoxious when I am hungry and haven’t been able to pick up lunch. The point being that my power tends to hijack my senses in order to manifest. Which makes living in the present distracting at best, and impossible at worst.

Sighing, as the muffled garble of the television got louder, I picked up the remote and clicked it on, before working to suppress my precognition so that I didn’t have to listen to the future news anchor talk over his present self.

“Up next on the 7:00 news hour, a local warehouse fire in the Karsten County area claimed six lives, with twelve injured. After that, more discussion on the rumored move of Labyrinthian Alpha to the Riford Arcology. What that means for the local crime scene will be discussed, as well as interviews from local citizens. Closing the hour off, we will have more coverage of the Balkan conflict.”

I clicked the television off. There didn’t seem to be anything world-ending in the news, at least for me. Labyrinthian moving was an interesting one though. As one of the few on the PRA’s hot-list whose identity is publicly known, and a villain to boot, he was a rather high profile entity. It is pretty well known that he tends to settle down, and is generally averse to moving, much to the chagrin of the city officials who have to deal with him.

I swung my body out of bed, landing on the floor in a crouch, before straightening up and pulling on some clothes. I popped into the bathroom to freshen myself up, casting a critical eye at my appearance. Nothing really interesting to speak of, to be honest. Generic white boy, I thought to myself sardonically, as I brushed my wavy, somewhat auburn hair. I suppose the hair works to frame my face, and it isn’t that bad given how it matches with my eyes. Still though, its kind of a moot point. Precogs, real or otherwise, don’t tend to have great dating prospects.

Exiting the bathroom, I sauntered into the kitchenette that was provided with college housing. My roommate Thomas was lounging on the couch, legs crossed as he sat there eating a bowl of cereal.

“Morning,” I said dully, as I opened the cabinet and extracted a packet of spicy ramen.

Thomas grunted in reply, but didn’t say anything.

I proceeded to snag a bowl from the drying rack which seemed clean enough, before dumping the noodles in, and then sprinkling the flavor packet over it, before filling it with water from the sink.

“Yo, can I get a tap on this?” I asked, glancing over at Thomas. He grinned amicably, before shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He then set down the bowl on his lap, and formed a finger gun with his right hand, before miming shooting my ramen bowl. Steam began rising as the water flashed to boiling, a stray spatter or two coming close to hitting me, foiled by my all-powerful ability to dodge hot water.

“Thanks bro,” I said, nodding at him.

“Ayo, I keep getting your trashy ramen ready for breakfast, when are you going to win me a lottery or something?” Thomas asked playfully.

“How about when you stop leaving streaks on the dishes,” I snark back. Thomas reeled back dramatically, clutching his heart as if wounded. “Also dude, first off, its the kind of illegal that gets you prison, and me executed. Second, its good practice for your thermokinesis, you have tolerable power and range, you just need some control. And third, the fuck you saying, calling my ramen trashy? This is some good shit, I will have you know. You can only get this stuff at the Asian market a couple blocks from the mall, its not in any of the other local grocers.”

“Boy, you boutta die of malnutrition eating that stuff,” he said. “Eat a goddamn fruit, I swear to god. I got a pack of clementines in the fridge, snag one of those.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am heading to the library and then the gun range. You interested?” I ask, blowing off his concern. I knew perfectly well that it would take several months of prolonged malnutrition to cause noticeably effects, and besides, I usually just eat a couple vitamin gummies whenever my power says I am getting close to that line.

“Nah, I am busy. Seriously though dude, you gotta improve your diet. I can see the news story now. ‘Local college idiot dead from scurvy after not eating any fruit for months’. Save for any hot dates you pick up, wink wink.”

“Funny,” I replied, rolling my eyes. Just because he could land a long term relationship, doesn’t mean all of us have it that easy. “I’ll catch you later.”

With that, I pushed my way out the door, and strolled over to unlock my bike. I mounted it, and pushed off, getting up to a respectable speed to make it easier for when I needed to climb the hill the library was sat on. I changed gears, and then after a moment of internal debate, flicked on the electric assistance. Don’t get me wrong, I like and prefer pedal bikes to fully electric, or god forbid motorcycles. But tapping on the electric motor to ease the strain of going uphill was honestly a lifesaver. I didn’t really feel like putting in the extra work today, especially with temperatures approaching the high eighties.

I lazily cruised up to the entrance, and parked my bike, before locking it. With that out of the way, I walked in, letting out a sigh of relief at the air-conditioned interior.

That relief came to an end, as I remembered what I had to do. I walked over to the front desk and pulled out my library card, making sure the big fat ‘R’ emblazoned in red was clearly visible.

“Anyone free to give me the standard library tour?” I ask sarcastically, tapping my card.

The students manning the desk glanced at each other, before a kind of butch chick with spiky hair walked over.

“Sure, uh, Ryan,” she said, glancing at my card. “My name is Alice, and I will be the one accompanying you. Do you have anything in mind?”

“Orwell predominantly,” I reply dryly.

“Yeah, you’re a regular comedian, I can tell,” Alice said exasperatedly, rolling her eyes at me. “Come on, we are already low on staff today, can’t we make this short and sweet?”

“Fine, fine, I have a couple titles I want from the physics section. I am having odd errors at the gun range, and I am hoping that I only need to review wind resistance to unravel those,” I reply, mildly put out. Its generally fun to snark at the librarians, but if they are having trouble, that doesn’t really put me in the mood to fuck with them. After all, its not their fault that a fair chunk of titles were censored for people with my power, or similar powers, and they tend to be marginally reasonable whenever we need to do this song and dance. It’s really just the bureaucrats I have a beef with, and I would never be allowed to interact with them anyways.

Rather than walking over to the gap in the desk, Alice firmly grasped the sides before smoothly vaulting over, albeit with a few ruffled papers. She gave a winning smile in response to my mildly impressed demeanor.

“Well then, lets head over. Any authors we’re looking for?” She asked, flicking her eyes to scan the stacks.

“Umm, let me check,” I say stalling, as I plan to check my phone. I squint a bit, pulling up that particular future, and read the names that I had typed into the note-taking app I was using. Having got the information, I collapse that particular future, no longer needing to check. Might look weird to Alice, but the type of people with restricted library cards are probably odd ducks anyway.

“Couple by Massaro, one or two by Carlucci and Jacobson. There is a forensics book by DiMaio, but I doubt that one would be as useful, and it might be restricted anyways.”

Alice shrugged in acquiescence and pulled out her phone, tabbing away from social media and into the library app. We made our way deeper into the stacks, finding that the further in we were, the more the noise seemed to fade. It was an eerie effect to say the least, and I was tempted to talk louder than normal to fill the silence. Not that I did of course. Bit rude to yell in a library.

Once we got to the shelves where the first books were located, Alice picked them up and scanned them with the phone, placing them in my hands once they came up as approved. This process continued until we had gone through the list, and checked a few books that weren’t on the list in case they had better information.

All in all, I made out well enough. I found two books by Massaro, and one by Carlucci, though the second had been checked out. The forensics book was a bust though, since it was indeed on the restricted list.

Alice started walking with me back to the library entrance, while I awkwardly placed the books in my backpack. That was one advantage of the restricted list of course, you get to skip checkout since it is done while you are searching. The downside of course is no reading in the library in case I try to circumvent the restrictions, and I have to be accompanied at all times.

“Hey, so when do you get off your shift?” I ask, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence.

“Listen, Ryan, don’t take this the wrong way, but no. I can’t date a precog, it isn’t happening.” Alice replied, a stern yet slightly sympathetic tone entering her voice.

“Whoa, hey dude, I wasn’t about to ask you on a date or anything,”I said quietly yet defensively. It stung a bit but I was used to it. “I was just going to say that I am heading over to the gun range, do some target shooting. Is that something you are interested in?”

Alice was silent for a minute, as she walked with me. “Which gun range?”

“Sr. Asno’s Shooting Shop and Range. It’s a couple miles north, a gun store with a donkey or ass holding a rifle on the sign. Its got a nice lot out back with targets for guns and powers, and a pretty sizable dirt backstop. The owner is a friend of my family.” I reply, trying not to come off weird about it. In complete fairness, I was really only interested in a bit of fun, not a date or anything, and Alice seemed vaguely like the type who would be interested.

“Hmm. My shift ends at 5:00, but I am busy this weekend. Sounds like an interesting place though. Maybe I will go on my own time. If we run into one another, we can chat then.” She said, clearly not wanting to be committal about the own thing. Which, you know, fair enough.

We approached the entrance, and I slung my backpack onto my back, before facing Alice.

“Hey, thanks for the help, I really appreciate it. Also, sorry for yanking your chain earlier, its just a bit of a sore point for me.” I said, a bit contrite.

“Hey no problem, that’s what I’m here for,” Alice said, clearly a bit nonplussed.

“I couldn’t imagine having to deal with your po-” Alice started haltingly, before cutting herself off before she said anything unwise. “I couldn’t imagine, I suppose.” She ended lamely.

I gave a strained smile at that, before walking out of the library, no intention of giving a response to that can of worms. Damn, now I am hoping she was just lying about being interested in the range. If that's the kind of awkward conversations I could expect, I would be better off just not seeing her. Preferably ever again, but I could be negotiated down to a few decades.

I made my way over to the range on my bike, dodging in and out of traffic with a practiced ease. Once or twice, some jackass driver tried to cut me off, but the precog factor means I am practically the safest person on the street ironically, save perhaps for people with durability powers.

I rolled into the shop, swerving to avoid a surprised customer before I hopped off, jogging a bit to bleed off the speed and then walking to the backroom, where I set my bike on the mount I installed a year ago.

“Oi Ryan, don’t be riding in here like that, you nearly ran over one of my customers you little shit!” I heard Gabe yelling from the from. Gabriel was a fun guy. He was a big dude, mixed race but clearly with a fair bit of Latino influence. Ironically, he was bulletproof, as his own ability. Chalk up another one for poterative determinism, I suppose.

Eh, that's not quite fair, I thought to myself. A lot of people with powers tend to go into jobs that synergize well. Construction workers with durability powers? They make big bucks, since they can do jobs that frankly, others can’t or shouldn’t. Helps that they don’t need insurance payouts nearly as often.

“Cool it dude, you know me. You got any interesting pieces you want me to work with, or are we just doing free time?” I replied, walking into the front of the store. The women who I dodged gave me a dirty look, but continued filling out paperwork on the tablet that was chained to the counter. Self protection, I would wager. Its not the worst area, but if you don’t have a good combat power, people tend to get nervous about encountering those that do.

Which again, determinism. Look at me, the precog, leaning on predestination to prove my point. Not that I was wrong of course. If you grow up poor, and get the ability to throw fireballs at people, odds are you are going to be more likely to join a gang over trying to scrap together money for college. Eh, comparatively though. The data is somewhat massaged. Truth be told, a lot of people down on their luck go for a number of different options to escape poverty. If they can avoid crime, most people try to. But if your power is throwing fireballs as opposed to making flowers grow, well, you don’t see the daisy boys robbing banks. Unless it’s the ecoterrorists, but they throw off all the metrics.

“Nothing for ya. A bit of after hours work, standard gig.” Gabe replied, shaking me out of my thoughts.

“Fair enough,” I said as I shrugged. “How about that Deus you got in a month ago, and maybe ninety rounds to work with eh? I recall last week you were saying that you hadn’t got much inquiries about that one, might as well get it set and reviewing.”

“Fair enough, wouldn’t mind someone taking it off my hands. Its a beaut, but takes up space nonetheless,” he said, as he pressed his finger print against a metal square on the counter. The biometric lock beeped and turned green, opening the back of the bulletproof glass display case.

Squatting down, Gabe fumbled around in the case before retrieving an elegant carbine. It was clearly a vanity piece, since it had a mostly silver finish, making it shimmer as light bounced off it. I wonder where he got it. I might assume estate sale of some local drug lord, but they tend to go for gold. Regardless, its probably why nobody has asked about buying it. It’s tacky as fuck, and visible from a mile away, making it useless for hunting, or less than legal activities. I like it, but no one has ever accused me of having good taste.

Gabe handed it to me, and I took it into the backroom as he waved me off, clearly looking to deal with the next customer. I set it on the table, and began the rigorous and less than glamorous process of inspecting it. Hey, its not my gun, and I don’t know where it’s been or what it’s been doing.

I first made sure it was unloaded, before stripping it down and inspecting the parts, piece by piece. It looked like it was barely used, which I rather expected, but its good to know these things. Bit of a scratch on the handle though, shame that. I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture anyways. Gabe probably knew, but I would let him know once I was done shooting for the night, and the time stamped picture would prove that I wasn’t the one at fault. Not that he is a hard-ass about it, but no need to make his life difficult.

With all that said and done, I began reassembling the gun, snapping each component back into place, before grabbing the ammo and heading out to the range.

As I walked out, I grabbed a pair of noise canceling earmuffs, and a yellow tinged pair of safety glasses. It was pretty quiet today, only three other people. Rick, Gabe’s assistant, was on safety duty, and was walking up and down the line supervising, occasionally tapping someone on the shoulder if their gear wasn’t firmly on or they were standing the wrong way. God bless Hollywood for teaching generations of morons how not to shoot a gun.

I waved at Rick as I chose a station away from the others, and set up to shoot. I tapped the screen that was embedded in the rickety wooden desk off to the side, and selected my station, before setting up my targets. Four humanoid, moving, utilizing a carbine firearm, in four rounds of two minutes each. The computer works best when it knows what it is trying to score you on.

As I returned to the station, I saw four shimmering holograms appear from midair, resembling clothing store manikins. They tend to look that way for everyone, though I know that some of the lads after-hours like to hack in faces of political opponents or heros. Mostly heros actually. Must be something to do with the clientele.

I took a moment to figure out my posture, relying on my power to adjust and readjust with the feedback I was giving it.

Accuracy at 58%.

Accuracy at 64%.

I breathed in, and then out. In, and then out. It was a calming rhythm, and my hands grew steady, free of the barely perceptible tremors and movements that normally dominated.

Accuracy at 72%.

Accuracy at 74%.

“Cute. Computer, activate note taking, speech to text.” I said, breaking my concentration for a moment.

Accuracy at 68%.

“Yeah yeah. Just a moment.” I muttered, smirking slightly as my words scrawled across a smaller screen usually meant for keeping score. It would still do that in the background, but keeping notes on how accurate I could get these guns was useful knowledge to Gabe, and kept my sessions free and off the books.

I shook my head, and tried my best to get back in the zone. In and out. In and out.

Accuracy at 73%.

I moved fluidly, picking up the gun and flicking off the safety as I placed my foot in the marked spot, the pressure sensitive pad functioning as a button to start the simulation so that I didn’t have to take my hands off the gun.

Accuracy at 75%.

A grayish fog began covering the range, and resolved itself into phantoms of the holograms running, even as they only just now started moving, jittering back and forth as if to simulate dodging. Streaks of gray emerged from the barrel of the gun, like washed out tracer rounds pointing out exactly where to shoot.

I squeezed the trigger. A loud bang erupted, and the gun jerked against my shoulder, making me flinch a bit involuntarily. But I was expecting it, and squeezed the trigger seven more times, before stepping back off the pad and relaxing. The simulation froze, the holograms stuck in their tracks, having barely moved ten to fifteen feet from their starting position. They zoomed up towards the station, and were colored in red light where I hit. Chest shot, heart shot, chest shot, chest shot, shoulder shot, missed, torso shot, missed.

A tolerable record, considering I haven’t shot this gun before, but I was going for chest hits, so my personal accuracy estimation was a bit lower.

“Estimated accuracy 75% before round, real accuracy 50%. Targeting chest.”

Right then. In and out. In and out.

Accuracy at 63%.

I moved forward, pressing my foot to the pad and shot again. This time was better, with six chest shots, a miss and a shoulder shot. Which was back to 75%, and I said as much to the computer. In fairness, my power is never static. I have to present it as such, so that others can understand to the best of their knowledge, but the probabilities are constantly changing, accuracy chance spiking to near 90% when I was aiming for the closest hologram. As I become familiar with the gun, the chances increase.

“Computer, push out range by ten meters,” I commanded, and watched crestfallen as my accuracy chances sunk, and the holograms were moved farther out on the range. Fun times.

I spent the rest of the afternoon shooting, and making notes on the accuracy. The goal of course was to use the first few rounds to familiarize myself, and create a general baseline, and then once my accuracy is consistent, then test the limits of the gun.

I tend to be quite a good shooter. The ability to see what position gives me the highest chance of hitting an opponent tends to be quite good feedback, and I have been doing this for years, it being one of the few ways to entertain myself with my powers that wouldn’t get me thrown in prison. Like stock manipulation.

Regardless, once I have a sense for how I am doing, and if I am at my peak, then I push the range out to the absolute maximum. At that distance, while my skill as a shooter can do some mitigation, other factors begin really showing, such as wind and inherent inaccuracies built into the gun. Unless you manage to get your hands on a flash gun, or some other laser type of weapon, perfect weapon accuracy is impossible. My cute little trick, is being able to quantify that inaccuracy in a way most cannot. And then proceed to write educated reviews about them, which helps Gabe sell the guns, and he pays me a bit of commission on reviewed weapons.

I take a bit of time ending, needing to set the computer to export my ramblings into a graph so that I can collate the data later, and of course cleaning up and putting back the gun. After that, I wave to Gabe as I exit the gun store to pick up some fast food while Gabe closes the shop. And once I get back? It’s time for my after hours job.