David Martinez
We pulled up to the clinic after grabbing some burgers. Anderson knew a guy who could get us real organic meat, which was a nova change of pace. I was getting sick of my mom’s noodles and those XXL Burritos. We even scored fries and a little gift—way better than the synthetic crap BioTechnica sells. Even the worm farms couldn’t match the classic American burger.
Inside, Doc was still locked into his BD. We changed back into our usual clothes, and Jessy and Seven went over the files we snagged. Well, mostly Jessy did.
“These are almost identical to what we already had.” Jessy frowned at the screen. “Only difference is, now we’ve got a list of possible front businesses they use.”
Seven stood up, stretching. “We can dig into it later. I’ve got an appointment, and let’s be real—you’re all in this for the money, not justice.”
A second later, my agent buzzed—a few thousand eddies deposited straight into my account. Nice.
“…And there it is.” Seven grabbed his bag. “Come back next week. Make sure you’re free by then.”
“Yessir,” we answered in unison.
Though, I’d probably need to talk to the Academy and get them to cut me some slack. Shouldn’t be a problem—I work for the government now, right?
Still, I had other things to handle. Sasha’s been asking to meet up for a while, but I never made time. Same for Mom. Her birthday’s coming up, and even though the symbiote makes me not care, I don’t want to miss it.
Lately, whenever something feels off, I just blame the Klyntar. Makes things easier.
“Alright, I’m out.” Jessy bolted for the exit. “I got shit to buy—and I am never being your little sister again. Ever.”
“Alright, alright, no need to stress.” I shrugged. She really needed to chill.
“Well, I’m heading out too—got things to—”
“Hey, real quick,” Anderson cut me off, poking my shoulder.
I turned to him. “What’s up?”
“Do you ever take a break?” He took off his hat, scratching his head. “You’re always moving—working gigs, stacking eddies—but do you ever just… stop? Relax?”
I opened my mouth to answer—but paused.
Ever since I got the symbiote, I haven’t needed sleep or rest. At best, I stop when I’m mentally drained—but even then, I can push through it. Anderson was right. I never just took a moment to… exist. Maybe that’s why I feel so disconnected? Just moving from gig to gig, never stopping to be human?
“You got a point,” I admitted, nodding slowly. “I never really take a break.”
Anderson chuckled. “Well, lucky you—I’ve got something that might interest you.”
“Oh?” I raised a brow. “What is it?”
<hr>
Anderson’s ride was a heavily modded Galena—probably klepped from 6th Street or some other gang. He drove us into Heywood, stopping at a neutral zone used by various crews.
To my surprise, the gangs here weren’t busy flatlining each other.
I spotted every major gang—except the Scavs and Voodoo Boys. Maybe for the best. The place was alive with drinking, sex, BD deals, chrome trades, and betting on fights—both in the net and in the real world. Anderson didn’t stop for any of it, dragging me through the crowd. Since I was with him, no one paid me any attention—until we reached his chooms.
“Anderson!” One of them, a 6th Street punk, greeted him. “Nova seeing you swing by! What’s the occasion?”
“Who’s the Tino?” Another pointed at me.
“What, just ''cause I’m Latino, I gotta be a Valentino?” I sized him up.
Thanks to my new frame, it actually worked.
“Relax, David, it was just a question.” Anderson stepped between us. “Besides, with a name like yours, people are gonna make assumptions. You’re not exactly dressed like a regular civilian.”
I glanced at my fit.
What’s wrong with it?
Anderson turned back to the group. “He’s David, a choom of mine. We’re here for the competition.”
“Oh, well, if he’s preem, he’s cool to stay.” They nodded. “So, which one?”
“Competition?” I asked. “What competition?”
“One where you can score chrome, iron… or just eddies.” Anderson listed the prizes, his enthusiasm dropping with each one.
“Basically,” the 6th Street punk explained, “we run these little competitions to test our skills. Set the fastest time, you get a prize. But you gotta pay to enter.”
Another guy cocked his shotgun. “And if you try to skip the fee, well… you know what happens.”
“Relax, I got eddies.” I raised a hand. “Now, what’s the game?”
Anderson pointed at a makeshift racetrack lined with targets—both human dummies and old-school archery boards. “You run the track, shooting targets as you go. Miss one? That’s five seconds added to your time.”
“And how many targets?”
“Twenty-three.” He lifted his DR-5 Nova revolver. “And for this track, only revolvers.”
“Shit, I only got a Lexington.” I eyed the pistol on my holster.
One of the guys scoffed. “A Lexington? That’s gonk-tier iron. You need to upgrade, choom.”
“Yeah, I know.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “So, how much to enter?”
“A thousand.” The 6th Street guy shrugged. “Usually, ten to twenty gonks join in. Covers the prize money… or at least most of it.”
“Preem.” I nodded, already mentally mapping how to clear the track without sacrificing mobility. “But I need a revolver.”
“You could buy one.” Anderson gestured to the vendors. “DR-5s are cheap and accessible, though not as powerful as some other iron.”
“Good to know.”
“I’ll wait here until all the competitors show up.”
“Alright—C-YA.”
“C-YA.”
I wandered through the vendors, scanning their wares. There were a lot of them, some even showing off high-end tech weapons—way out of my budget. But the classic power weapons were here too.
One vendor caught my attention. A Valentino, casually spinning revolvers like he belonged in an old western. It was nova watching him flick a revolver over his shoulder, catching it without looking, then sending it into another smooth spin. As I approached, he holstered his iron in one fluid motion, shifted into salesman mode, and greeted me.
"Welcome to Second Amendment. What can I do for you?"
"Second Amendment?" I laughed. "Fitting name—like Ammu-Nation."
"Huh. Never thought of that one before. Who came up with it?" He actually looked intrigued.
"My Ripperdoc. Said she''s planning to open a gun shop soon." I shrugged. "Anyway, I need a revolver. Reliable, fast, easy to reload."
He let out a thoughtful hum. "That’s a tough ask. Revolvers aren’t known for quick reloads… unless you want a modified one. The DR-5 comes to mind, but that thing’s everywhere these days."
"I know," I muttered, eyeing the competitors arriving on the staircase. All of them had DR-5s, customized with different decals and colors.
"Well, I have this too." He pulled out a revolver that looked nothing like the DR-5. "The Overture. Made by the once-legendary Malorian Arms."
"Malorian?" I gave the iron a second look.
"The Overture is a high-quality, powerful, double-action revolver. Holds six .42-caliber rounds in its cylinder." He gave it a quick spin before handing it to me. "Comes stock with glowing iron sights to help your sorry ass aim better—though you can mod or remove them if you want."
I ran a hand over the frame. Solid. "Aren''t they struggling in the market, though? Last time I saw a new Malorian gun, I wasn’t even born yet."
"Yeah, since 2043," he admitted. "But trust me, Malorian won’t leave you high and dry. They still make solid, reliable weapons. Besides…" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "6th Street practically worships them."
I ignored the cultish undertone. "Alright… how much? With ammo."
"Seven hundred. Comes with a full hundred rounds."
I was already sending the eddies before he finished talking.
"You wanna mod it?" he asked.
"Not now."
"Fair enough. Best of luck out there."
I spun the Overture as I walked back, getting a feel for its weight. Not as flashy as the vendor, but smooth enough.
Anderson was waiting, twirling his own revolver.
Must be a natural instinct to spin revolvers.
"I see you went with an Overture," Anderson said, eyeing my iron. "Good choice, though this track’s more about speed than power."
"I didn’t want the same revolver as everyone else." I shrugged, holstering it. "Anyway, what’s the prize?"
"For iron?" One of the 6th Street guys picked up the reward.
And damn, it was a good one.
"This here is the SPT32 Grad. Sniper rifle. Built back when subdermal armor was getting so common that regular snipers could barely dent a target."
To demonstrate, he lined up a shot and pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The round obliterated the target.
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"Now this—" he patted the rifle like a proud parent "—will flatline anything unlucky enough to be in its sights."
Anderson let out a low whistle. "A Russian rifle straight outta the USSR. I’ll do my best to win this one."
"Not if I get it first," I shot back, already drooling over the Grad.
That thing was preem. I needed it.
"Well, pay up. We’ve already got more than twenty competitors," the 6th Street guy said, grinning as he eyed the growing line behind us.
I paid without hesitation, but I didn’t go first. If anything, I wanted to go last—it gave me a solid chance to gauge the competition, figure out the average times, and adjust my strategy accordingly. If I could beat the middle of the pack, I could climb the leaderboard.
Everyone prepped their guns, stretched, and got ready for their first of three attempts.
On paper, the course was simple.
The first room had three stationary targets and three moving ones. If you lined up your shots perfectly, you’d clear the targets, reload, and move on.
The next section was trickier—six targets behind cover, six moving in the open, and cutouts of "hostages" mixed in between. It didn’t take a genius to figure out you weren’t supposed to shoot those.
"Every hostage you hit adds five seconds," Anderson noted just as one of the competitors accidentally shot one.
“FUCK!” The guy swore, fumbling to reload.
"So it’s not just about speed," I murmured, watching. "It’s about trigger discipline too?"
"More or less," the 6th Street guy muttered. "You gotta know who’s hostile and who’s just a civvie. Even gangsters need to know who they’re shooting—bullets aren’t cheap."
I nodded. Of course it wasn’t about morality—just resource management.
The final room was the hardest. Hidden targets, moving targets, and targets that ducked behind cover. The last eleven were camouflaged—not too much, but when you were trying to move fast, your vision tended to blur details.
By the time everyone had gone, the average time sat at 55.38 seconds, while the top five had times as low as 41.9 seconds.
Honestly? A pretty balanced leaderboard.
Aside from me, there were two other people that needed to go, Anderson and another guy I hadn''t noticed until now.
“Mind if I go first?”, Anderson asked me with a grin.
“Of course not. I want to see your face once I beat your time.”, I reply with the same grin.
He spat on the ground, the grin never leaving his face, “If you say so.”
Anderson stepped up to the starting line, cracking his neck before drawing his DR-5 Nova with a practiced ease. The moment the buzzer sounded, he bolted forward, firing off his shots with sharp, deliberate precision.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three stationary targets down in quick succession. The moving ones weren’t much of a challenge either—Anderson barely hesitated, timing his shots between their shifts.
He reloaded on the move, flipping the cylinder open with a flick of his wrist before slamming fresh rounds in. The second section greeted him with cover and hostages, but he didn’t falter. He kept his stance low, dodging between obstacles and picking off targets without so much as nicking a single civvie cutout.
By the time he entered the final stretch, the crowd had gotten real quiet, everyone watching as he took on the camouflaged targets. Even I had to admit—the guy had skills.
Bang! A moving target ducked, but Anderson anticipated it, adjusting his aim and nailing it the second it popped back up.
Bang! Bang! Click.
He was out. Anderson rushed the last few meters to the finish, stopping the clock as he tossed out the spent rounds with a flick of his revolver.
The scoreboard updated.
40.75 seconds.
A murmur spread through the crowd, a mix of impressed whistles and groans from competitors who thought they had a chance. Anderson turned to me, spinning his revolver once before holstering it with a smirk.
"Beat that, Tino."
“Oh, cowboy, now you''re asking for it.”, I say, picking up my Overture, “I have three attempts to beat that, don''t get too comfortable.”
Anderson chuckled, leaning back against a stack of crates. "Take your time, mano. Maybe if you pray to Santa Muerte, she''ll shave a second or two off for you."
I ignored him, rolling my shoulders as I stepped up to the line. The Overture felt heavier than the DR-5s everyone else was using—higher caliber, more stopping power, but slower reload speed. If I wanted to beat Anderson’s time, I''d need to be flawless.
The buzzer blared.
I surged forward, raising my revolver in a smooth motion.
Bang! Bang! Two stationary targets shattered under the force of the Overture.
The third? My shot clipped the edge. It was still a hit, but it cost me a fraction of a second.
I shifted to the moving targets, tracking their unpredictable motion. The Overture had a kick, but my grip held firm.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
All three went down, and I was already reloading mid-stride. Unlike Anderson’s flick reload, the Overture took a bit more effort—ejecting the spent casings, feeding in new rounds one by one.
Come on, faster!
I reached the second area. Six targets behind cover, six moving, hostages in between.
I took a breath, steadying my aim.
The first shot cracked through the room, dropping a moving target. Then another. Then another.
I ducked behind cover, quick-peeking to check my angles. One of the gangsters behind me muttered something under his breath. Probably thinking I’m too slow.
I ignored him, lining up my next shot—
Bang!
The last moving target dropped.
I was already shifting to the covered ones, adjusting my stance.
Bang! Bang!
One down.
Bang! Click.
Reload.
I worked faster this time, slamming fresh rounds in as I sprinted into the final section. The toughest part.
Camouflaged targets. Moving pieces. Everything designed to fuck with my perception.
I tightened my grip, my senses sharpening.
I spotted the first target at the edge of my vision—
Bang!
Then the next.
Bang!
Another flicker of motion—was that a target or just a shadow?
I trusted my gut.
Bang!
The last few meters blurred together. My Overture roared, my mind locked into pure reflex mode.
Then—
I crossed the finish line.
The scoreboard updated.
42.02 seconds.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders.
Close. Too close.
Anderson whistled. "Not bad, mano, but not enough. Looks like I''m still the fastest."
"That was a solid time, considering my reload speed," I said, tapping the barrel of my Overture against my forehead. "And I still have two more tries."
Anderson chuckled, nodding toward the last competitor. "Let the other guy have his turn first."
I turned to look at him.
And immediately forgot what he looked like.
Average height, average build, average hair—just painfully normal. He was so nondescript he might as well have been a default character from some outdated video game. If someone asked me to describe him five minutes from now, I’d probably struggle. The only thing I''d be able to say is that he was slightly older than all of us.
Funnily enough, he also carried an Overture, same stock parts as mine.
"Alright," he said, rolling his shoulders as he stepped up. "I think I got the hang of this. Just gotta break the forty-second mark."
I scoffed, reloading my revolver. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks."
The buzzer blared—
And he moved.
No—he didn’t just move.
He fired before the targets were even in his line of sight.
What the fuck?
The first three shots hit dead center before he even turned the corner. The moving targets barely had time to react before they were gunned down, one after the other, perfectly spaced, perfectly timed.
I had been expecting another average performance to match his forgettable looks, but this? This was something else.
He slid into the second room without hesitation, his Overture already raised. The moment a target peeked from behind cover—bang—it dropped. Another followed—bang. He wasn’t even aiming in the conventional sense; he just knew where to shoot.
By the time he reached the final room, I was already gripping my own gun tighter.
This guy wasn’t just good. He was preem.
Hidden targets? Down in a blink. Camouflaged targets? Didn’t slow him at all. He even maneuvered around the fake hostages with pinpoint precision, never so much as grazing one.
And then he crossed the finish line.
The screen flashed his time: 39.21 seconds.
Silence.
Then Anderson whistled low. "Damn."
I stared at the guy, trying to process what just happened.
The most average-looking gonk in this whole damn competition had just beaten Anderson’s record like it was nothing.
He let out a satisfied sigh, casually spinning his revolver before holstering it. "Well, that was fun."
I blinked. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Me?" He smirked like he enjoyed the reaction. "Just the owner of Jacked and Coke. Bairei Kaburo, at your service."
I narrowed my eyes. "Yeah, no, who the fuck are you?"
Anderson chuckled beside me. "I think what he means is—why the hell are you so good with a revolver?"
That was exactly what I meant.
I had seen good shots before. Hell, I was a good shot. But this guy? He wasn’t just fast—he was flawless. And yet, I couldn’t sense any major cyberware in him. Not even a Kerenzikov. No movement assists, no aimbots, nothing. Just pure, raw skill.
And I wanted that sniper.
It was too good to let slip away.
Kaburo just shrugged. "Let’s just say I’m no saint."
"Who is?" the 6th Street guy muttered behind us. Then, with an approving nod, he added, "Solid time, though. Ever thought about joining a gang?"
Kaburo smiled politely. "I did once, but I’m a bit too close to the Valentinos. And I’ve already got a biz running—wouldn’t be as beneficial as I’d like."
"Hmm. Fair enough." The gango didn’t sound fully convinced but let it slide.
Meanwhile, I was still trying to wrap my head around this guy. He was just a little older than us, yet he had pulled off a near-perfect run. I glanced at the leaderboard again.
39.21.
Mocking me.
I had a Symbiote, and even that wasn’t enough to win?
I exhaled slowly, gripping my revolver, stepping into the line for my second attempt.
I was going to make it quicker.
Fuck you, Kaburo.
As soon as the track was clear, I took a deep breath.
Time to lock in.
The buzzer went off, and I launched forward, using every ounce of speed I had. Fuck holding back—I want that sniper.
Three stationary, three moving. I fired from the hip, dropping the stationary targets in an instant before adjusting my grip for accuracy, nailing the moving ones in quick succession. I didn’t even stop to check my shots—I was already reloading, sprinting into the next section.
Ignore the hostages. Focus.
I fired the moment the targets entered my line of sight, squeezing the trigger as fast as I physically could. Reload. Fire. Again. Again. Again.
I was faster than before—I could feel it. If I just kept going—
JAM.
"...What?"
I pulled the trigger again. Nothing.
You have to be fucking kidding me.
The final section, and my gun jams?! Right now?!
I scrambled to clear it, fingers moving faster than my thoughts, but every second wasted felt like a nail in my coffin. By the time I finally got the damn thing working again and took out the last targets, I knew my time was trash.
I looked at the timer.
59.6 seconds.
I stared. "What the hell?!"
"You missed a few targets," Anderson said, nodding toward the track. Two targets stood untouched, not a single bullet hole in them.
Kaburo just laughed. "You jammed your iron and missed two targets? Ha!"
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.
I really wanted to put a bullet in this guy’s head.
"Don''t sweat it, David," Anderson said, patting my shoulder. "It happens. You did better—just try again."
I clenched my jaw but kept my frustration to myself.
Anderson went for his second attempt, shaving a bit off his time but still falling short of Kaburo’s ridiculous 39.21 seconds. Then Kaburo himself took another run and clocked in at 39.37—just barely slower than his first try.
After that, most competitors either gave up or landed around the 44.6-second mark. I watched every single one, studying their techniques, their mistakes. Even the ones using the DR-5 Nova—faster reloads, sure, but still not enough to dethrone Kaburo.
Meanwhile, I kept refining my own approach. Adjusting my grip. Practicing reloads. Running the track over and over in my head, visualizing the angles, the timing, the shots.
Then I stepped up to the line.
Last attempt.
This time, I wasn’t walking away empty-handed.
The buzzer blared—
And I moved.
I launched forward, pushing my speed to the limit.
Three stationary, three moving—bam, bam, bam—hip shots for the still targets, then I switched my grip and snapped onto the moving ones. The moment the last shot landed, I was already ejecting the cylinder and slamming in fresh rounds.
No hesitation. No wasted movement.
Next section.
Six behind cover, six in the open. Hostages mixed in. I hit the first uncovered targets before they could start moving, snapped to the ones peeking out from cover, then reloaded as I crossed into the final stretch.
Keep it together. Keep it tight.
Last room.
Targets shifting, moving, camouflaged just enough to be a problem.
I tuned everything else out. The crowd, the pressure, even Kaburo’s smug laughter somewhere in the background.
My shots were surgical. Precise. A controlled rhythm of fire and reloads. I didn’t jam. I didn’t hesitate.
Final target—
BOOM.
I finished the course, heart hammering, eyes locked on the timer as it flashed my result.
39.19 seconds.
"YES!" I punched the air. "TAKE THAT, YOU ASSHOLES!"
Milliseconds. I had only shaved off milliseconds, but it felt like a goddamn victory.
This took way more effort than I expected—Jesus fucking Christ.
"Hold on," Anderson cut in. "We still have our last attempts."
"Yeah, yeah, like that’s gonna matter." I waved him off, basking in my win.
Then he started.
I watched closely, arms crossed, still feeling smug—until I noticed what he was doing. His route was nearly identical to mine, but he changed the order of his shots. It was subtle at first, but in the last room, it became obvious—he took out the camo targets first before going for the easier ones.
And he was fast. Not as fast as me in raw speed, but the difference was in his movement—fluid, constant, never stopping, always shooting. And his reloads? Faster than mine.
The leaderboard updated.
39.05 seconds.
"OH, YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME."
Kaburo whistled. "Damn. That was clean."
I gritted my teeth. "Yeah, real fucking clean."
Anderson smirked at me, arms crossed. "Looks like I took back my lead."
"Not for long," Kaburo said, cracking his neck. "I still got one more shot."
I exhaled sharply, trying to keep my frustration in check. There was still a chance—a small one, but a chance—that Kaburo might screw up. Maybe his aim would be off, maybe he''d jam his gun like I did.
I needed that to happen.
The buzzer went off.
Kaburo moved like a goddamn machine.
His first shot rang out before his foot even crossed into the first section. He barely looked at the targets—just lined up his revolver and fired, trusting his aim. Stationary, moving, cover—none of it slowed him down.
He was even faster than before.
My stomach sank.
By the time he reached the final room, I already knew. It was over.
The timer stopped. The leaderboard updated.
38.92 seconds.
Kaburo turned around, blowing the smoke from his Overture. "Looks like I’ll be taking that sniper."
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to rip my hair out.
The crowd roared—some hyping up Kaburo, others throwing half-hearted condolences my way. Not that it mattered. The 6th Street guy clapped his hands together. “Looks like we got our winner! C’mon, this beauty’s all yours.”
I watched as Kaburo took the SPT32 Grad, inspecting it with a satisfied smirk.
My shoulders slumped.
Anderson nudged me. “You good?”
“No.”
“…Wanna grab a beer?”
“Yeah.”
I moved on autopilot, barely registering my surroundings. After all that bullshit, I needed a drink.