“Alright you punks. I don’t give a fuck about who you are, who you work for, how bad-ass you think you are. This is my gun range, and my word is law. What I say goes, or I throw your sorry asses out of here and then you can explain to Mr. Candyman why his goons can’t follow simple orders. Let me tell you, there ain’t no place for insubordination when you’re on his dime and on my time. You wanna fool around, pay the entry fees yourself when you’re off the clock. You understand me?” Gabe yelled at the pack of mutinous looking thugs.

After-hours work. I grimaced a bit. It paid well enough, and helped out Gabe, but helping the Candyman’s men always put a sour taste in my mouth. Still though, nothing for it. City like this, everybody is either running a protection racket, or paying one.

Candyman is a drug pusher, and at least with those you get an element of stability and predictability. Some gangs or rackets prize their pride and honor, some have ideals, and some are borderline, or full blown terrorists. God save us all from fanatics. No, Candyman is one of those assholes that I can understand, fundamentally. He just wants a place to push his wares, get paid for it, and dodge heros and police. Not that he is particularly nice about getting all of that. After all, here I am at the gun range, getting ready to give lessons.

Thing is, Gabe is in a bit of a special relationship with Candyman’s crew. He doesn’t make enough money to pony up for the ‘protection’ fee, not with the foot-traffic he gets, and with the debts he has to pay. So one day, Mr. Candyman comes to the store himself, a big honor supposedly, and strikes a deal with Gabe. The man wanted discounts for all his goons, 30% off any time. In return, he waives the protection fee.

Gabe ain’t stupid though, prices like that and he might as well give up on the range and get a fast food job with how quickly it would bleed his ledger. So Gabe countered, and offered 20% for a single gun for each of Candyman’s people. They want more guns, they pay full price. There was some back and forth reportedly, and the final deal was 20% for a single gun, and they need to turn that gun back in if they want 20% on a new weapon. And to boot, Gabe threw in free use of the range after hours, and a years worth of gun lessons.

Well, lo and behold, the year was up, and Mr. Candyman was happy with the deal, happy enough that he started paying Gabe for the bulk lessons. Which hey, if Candyman’s happy and Gabe and I are actually getting paid for it? No reason to rock the boat.

“Right lads, boring part first, and we get to the shooting in a couple minutes.” I say, after it’s clear that Gabe has stopped laying down the law. “First off, my name is Ryan. I will be the one instructing you lot. Gabe here owns the place and he will be on safety duty, making sure you don’t put your eye out with that this.”

“Yo, you’re just a kid! Why the fuck should we be taking instruction from some baby-faced little university bitch out here. I thought this was gunna be serious work.” One of the guys said, made distinctive from a tattoo of a snake curling up his cheekbone. It wasn’t a bad look, but this guy was being annoying, which cooled me right down. Sides, he was clearly new, I hadn’t seen him before and the veterans of our little shooting club knew better than to lip off.

“Yeah, I’m a kid. I am also one of the best shooters you’re liable to run into. I got a talent for shooting, full on mentalist shit. That’s why I am instructing. I tell you what, any of you lot can match my accuracy at the forty meter range, I’ll clap you on the back and tell Mr. Candyman he’s got an up and comer. Gabe here? Man’s bulletproof, so he won’t be at risk if he needs to yank your gun down. Best not to do that though, Gabe can be irritable at the best of times, and putting your buddies at risk at the gun range cause you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants tends to piss them off as well.” I said, staring at the snake dude. My gaze clouds with probability, trying to see if he reacts. I stare at him for another moment before breaking it off, satisfied that he isn’t going to cause trouble for now.

“Right then, all of you who are returning, you know the drill. Newcomers, we are going to do the most important step of all. Maintenance. Boring as shit, but when you’re in a firefight, you don’t want shit going wrong or your gun jamming just cause you were sloppy with the cleaning. Set the gun you intend on practicing with on the table, break it down for inspection. Give it a good clean, I don’t know where those things have been, and I don’t want to know. I’ll take a quick look over your shoulder before we get started.” I said, beckoning the crowd to start setting up on the tables in the backroom.

It was a fairly large crowd tonight, some twelve people or so. Usually it was Gabe, Rick and I, but seems Rick had to head home early. Which fair enough, but it did mean that Gabe and I would have to be working double time to get to everyone and make sure nobody fucked up. Which was kinda how I got sucked into this in the first place. Rick couldn’t make it one night, car crash heading back from getting food, and Gabe ain’t about to cancel last minute with this clientele. So he pulled me in, paid an even $500 for the night, and that's been the arrangement ever since.

I took a few minutes passing by the gangsters, checking their work. The regulars seemed to be mostly good, while the newbies had some more issues, but were receptive enough for now. We will see if they end up slacking next week, at any rate.

“Alright lads, y’all should already know this since you all have guns, but it bears repeating. Rules for guns. First off, all guns are loaded. Treat them as such. You can swear to me up and down six ways to Sunday that its unloaded, and first thing I do is clear it. I don’t trust you, I don’t trust Gabe, I don’t trust myself. You touch a weapon in any circumstance other than to fire it, you clear that shit. And even when you clear it, you still treat it as loaded.

Which leads me to rule two. Do not ever, point the gun at something you aren’t willing to destroy. Not kill, destroy. This sucker goes through doors, it goes through people, and if you shell out the money, it goes through armor as well. You shoot a pane of glass, be prepared to be cut. These are not flash guns, or any sort of laser type weaponry. These are lead slugs accelerated by explosives. You shoot someone or something, and you get a reaction.

Rule three. Finger off the trigger, and on the side of the gun. This one gives me the most problems each year. Trigger discipline motherfuckers. This ain’t Hollywood, and you aren’t some jumped up action hero shooting blanks at actors.

Rule four. Know exactly what you are shooting. What is your target? What is behind your target? What is behind that? As personal defense has been getting better, gun makers have been doing an admirable job of increasing penetrative power. To the detriment of everything behind whatever sorry unarmored target you are shooting at. We make it easy for you here at Sr. Asno’s. Its a long range, backed by an earthen berm that we hired a terrakinetic for. You are going to be shooting at holograms, that will be tracking your hits. If you want to shoot the further ranges, like if you came in carrying a proper rifle, we’ll setup targets, since our projector doesn’t go to the thousand meter range.

I also feel the need to emphasize powers here. Gabe here is bulletproof. What some of you lot may not know, is that there are multiple kinds of bullet proof. Gabe makes it easy. You shoot him, the bullet slows as if going through water and falls to the ground. Some people, are bullet proof in a different way. You shoot them, the bullet bounces off. Ricochets. Kills the shooter, kills random bystanders, kills friends and family. You run into someone like that, you don’t fucking shoot them. Am I understood?” I ask, glaring at the crowd. A chorus of affirmations echos out from the gangsters. Not that I believed them. Not yet.

“Right then. Here at Sr. Asno’s, we got a three strike rule. Three strikes, you’re out. You break any of the cardinal rules, you get a timeout. No shooting for the day, you sit in a corner, and clean your gun. Try again next week. Do it three times, and you’re banned from the facility. No ifs, ands or buts. Then you can explain to Mr. Candyman how you are such a fucking moron that you get thrown out. If he likes you enough, maybe he pays the extra money just for you to come slinking back. He hasn’t yet though, so I wouldn’t count on it. Remember. Each gun is loaded, no matter what. No pointing the gun at shit you don’t want destroyed. Finger OFF the trigger at all times except when shooting. And be sure you know your target.

Other rules are posted up on the board. Standard stuff. Don’t come here for stress relief, we don’t want you shooting while angry or depressed, or drunk. Don’t trust the safety. Clear the firearm unless using it. Make sure your shit is clean and maintained. Hearing and eye protection are mandatory. Don’t use the wrong ammo. Really basic stuff.

And it bears repeating. If you need us to tell you the rules again, ask. No shame in that. Ask a million times, we will happily answer as long as you aren’t breaking them. If you see someone shooting unsafely, call them on it. Call us over, we will take care of it. You aren’t snitching, we aren’t police. You aren’t getting arrested for not following protocol, you are getting a timeout and a lesson learned.”

Right then. With that little bit of preparation done, we can get to the fun part. I have the gang members reassemble their weapons, and then set up at various stations. I set aside the three people who brought proper rifles, and set them up at the long range stations. With that out of the way, I begin walking down the line, correcting postures and leaning on my power to help out. Sure, I can generally teach the correct posture, but little tweaks and nuances are where I can rely on precognition to increase chances of accurate shooting, since it can better extrapolate weight distribution than I can.

Meanwhile, Gabe is walking around, eyeing up the gang members and looking for any who might be a problem. No one has broken the rules thus far, though he did end up slamming snake man’s gun on the table and smacking him in the back of the head when it looked like his gun was drifting towards someone.

“Alright lads, setting a simulation for five men in five minutes, variable guns. Just getting a baseline here, we will boost the range once you get a feel for the gun and warmed up. Step forward with your right foot on the outlined pad to start the simulation.”

They began stepping forward, triggering the light blue holograms to appear and start running about. As I walked down the line, I eyed up the phantom gunshots, my power calculating trajectory and probability. Most weren’t great, but they were warming up, and the accuracy was getting better. Mostly high thirties and low forties. I stepped over to one who was only scoring in the high twenties.

“Alright, step back a moment,” I said to the gang member, a sort of rat faced looking dude. Literally. Most powers manifest mentally, but some do come with a physical component. I feel for the guy, but they can be worked around if they interfere with activities like shooting. My money is on enhanced senses. He finished his round and stepped back, pointing the gun at the ground, finger off the trigger.

“Right then. I will go ahead and give you a short demo, watch my movements for the next round, and then we will try again and I will correct any issues I see. Orca 9 sub-machine gun right?” I asked, as the guy nodded. I gently took the gun from his hands, and checked it over before placing it on the counter. I breathed in and out. In and out. I was fairly familiar with the Orca line, so I doubted it was going to give me the issues the Deus did earlier today.

Accuracy at 67%.

Accuracy at 72%.

Accuracy at 78%.

I stepped forward, grabbing the gun with my right hand and then grasping with my left, as I took the position. The blue holograms started running about.

Accuracy at 82%.

Burst fire at the nearest hologram, leading the shot by seven inches to the right. Six shots, four to chest, one to heart, one to shoulder.

Accuracy at 88%.

Burst fire at two clumped together. Seven shots, two penetrated both targets, three to chest of first and two to chest of second.

Accuracy at 92%.

Burst fire at one dodging and zig-zagging to the left. Three shots, one to chest and two to torso. I frowned as my finger twitched involuntarily, messing up my score a bit. I decided to change up my strategy for the last one, to prove a point.

Accuracy at 40%.

Burst fire at last one, furthest out. Five shots, one miss, one to shoulder, three to head.

My power seethed and covered the holograms in a grayish mist, as I mentally replaced them with human forms. 87% chance of no survivors, assuming human targets and access to medical services. Two minutes left on the clock. I stepped off the pad.

“Right then,” I said to the now wide-eyed gang member. He wasn’t the only one. Most of the men and women had ended their rounds at roughly the same time, and were watching me, many of them faintly impressed. The holograms zoomed up in front of the station, red markers littering them and marking them where they were hit.

“Generally you want to shoot for center mass. Don’t bother with head-shots, those are just to impress people, or take out a nasty mentalist quick. If you hit a heart or lung, odds are whoever you shoot is ending up dead. Now, before you go again, I want you to breath in for five seconds, and out for four. Do that three times, and adjust your posture like so,” I said, placing the gun in his hands, and moving his body manually. “Understand? Yes, good, start the next round.”

I smiled a bit as the probabilities for his accuracy started spiking to forty percent, and began climbing higher as he shot.

The rest of the evening, I continued to aid and assist the group, stepping in whenever they were hitting a plateau. Most weren’t the greatest shooters, but that’s why they came to me after all. People I’d trained in the past usually came back if they were problem students, or had some mental block. That was most of my regulars here tonight. The ones who I had gotten up to a decent standard usually ended up coming out on other nights to take advantage of the range on their own time, to keep up their skills.

Before I knew it, the gang members were shuffling out, leaving Gabe and I to clean up shop and close for the second time in the night. We spent a bit of time cleaning, but mainly just got things ready for tomorrow. Its quiet in the morning hours, so Gabe will be able to clean more then.

“You got any idea when your application comes back?” Gabe asked, out of the blue.

“Should be next week. My grades are good enough, but I don’t know if I got in. It’s one thing to get into the fast-track PRA program. Its another thing entirely to actually get into the PRA. I don’t think there have been any precogs, true or otherwise, that got in the agency through these channels. Usually its the normal join us or prison shtick they give out.” I replied glumly. If I had any other power, it would be a breeze to get in. I have the grades to make it, and would be a good fit. But this fucking precog bullsh- I cut myself off, before getting too angry over it. Yes its unfair, but also not liable to change, and seething in resentment isn’t particularly productive regardless.

“Hey, well you know if things don’t turn out the way you are hoping, you always got a place at the range,” Gabe said sensing my dour mood.

“Thanks Gabe, that means a lot to me.” I said, a small smile spreading over my face.

“No problem kid. You do good work, you’re reliable, you know your shit. Hell, if I ever end up retiring, I could see you running the shop yourself.”

“No shit?” I asked, somewhat incredulous. “I’d have thought Rick would take over. You’ve been working with him for ages.”

“Eh, I doubt it. Rick’s great, he can do sales, he knows the inventory, and he knows how to teach when you’re not around. But he doesn’t really have the head for business on the back end, and I think he is a touch reluctant to try. He’s the sort to find a comfortable niche and sit there, happy as a clam.”

“Damn. Well, we will see. No need to start planning for retirement yet, you could easily be doing this for another twenty years, given how you take care of yourself. Healthy as an ox, am I right man?” I reply, trying to divert the conversation a bit. I appreciated the sentiment, but didn’t want to make plans in that direction. Foolish of me, I was self aware enough to understand that, but still, some part of me rebelled at assuming I would fail to get into the agency.

“Healthy as can be. Alright man, I’m going to head out, get some sleep. Be safe now.” Gabe said affectionately. “Here, your take for the night,” he said as he shoved five hundred cash into my hand. The usual fee for our lessons. We walked out of the store, him heading to his car and me to my bicycle. I waved at him as I peddled off, before turning onto the street.

It was fairly quiet, given how late it was, so I could relax and take in the warm summer night, the light pollution from the city casting a dull amber hue on the sky, with the nearby arcologies standing out like giant glowing monoliths, towering above the neighborhoods.

After a bit of time, I ended up coasting back onto the University streets, a touch more lively than outside the campus. College students tended to be that way, late to rise and late to sleep, so there was a fair bit of hustle and bustle still happening.

I rode up to my building and locked up my bike, before pushing the door open. I shivered a little in surprise. Sure, the AC is usually pretty good, but not this good. I guess Thomas was practicing cooling things again. A bit obnoxious usually, but I was a bit hot and sweaty from the ride, so I welcomed the cool air flowing over my skin. Besides, I’ve had worse roommates. Much worse roommates.

I stripped off my clothes as I walked in, balling my sweaty t-shirt in my hand and kicking off my shoes. I wanted to take a shower before bed, to wash the smell of gun oil and propellant off of myself. I didn’t worry so much about running into Thomas, since I could tell from his light snoring that he was in his room, and likely nobody else with him.

I turned the faucet, with a spray of water showering from above. I frowned a bit, now slightly regretting stripping as the water was taking its sweet time to warm up, and the chilled air no longer as pleasant now that I had sufficiently cooled off.

Once it reached an appropriate temperature, I stepped in, sighing in relief as the heat soaked into my skin. I snagged the bottle of cheap shampoo, and began lathering my hair, working the suds into the roots to get it all clean. After that, I started soaping up, casting a critical eye at my body. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t quite good either. Could probably stand to hit up the gym again.

After taking my time cleaning up, I stepped out gingerly, hissing in annoyance as my bare foot hit the chilly tile. I toweled off, and stepped into my room, tossing my clothes by the wayside as I collapsed into bed, just ready to go to sleep. I closed my eyes, and started breathing again, a habit, just to relax my body. In and out. In and out. And just like that, I was out like a light.