Dynamis | Chapter 12 - Refresher (Patreon)

As soon as Karl stepped into his room, the neurosuit came off. He threw it into a corner and stepped over the coffee table at the center of the room to get to his dresser. Protocol asked that he deliver the suit to the neuroscience department whenever it wasn’t in use, but he couldn’t care less for protocol right now.

The doctors had barred him from entering the medical ward. His mind was consumed with what-ifs and should-haves. His decision to not take his pistol may have cost Sean his life, and he struggled to contend with that. 

He located a black T-shirt, a pair of baggy cargo pants, and his favorite suede jacket. He tossed them over the back of his couch and made for the washroom next to the front door. The door slid open with his approach, and he made his way over to the sink, head bowed, eyes glued to his sweaty hands.

The night’s events replayed themselves over and over again as he stared at his palms. Sean’s belly being torn open, the faceless clicking Fiends, the hail of gunfire, Kalki’s indifferent stare. He held onto Carly’s smiling face as he looked up. The color drained from his face. Flecks of blood dotted his skin and hair.

His stomach lurched, and he clamped a hand over his mouth. He swallowed hard, drew a deep breath, but all it did was make it worse. Stumbling to his hands and knees, he crawled across the tile, gripped the edges of the toilet bowl, and expelled the contents of his stomach inside. Each time he thought he was done, his stomach would tighten and more of the terrible fluid would spill forth.

On the fourth time, it came out mostly dry. His breathing came out in wheezes, and his throat felt like it had been lit on fire. He reached for the lever, missed, tried again, and pulled. The toilet water swirled, washing down the evidence of his shame. He teetered as he rose to his feet, catching himself on the sink. Turning the faucet, he threw his hair back and reached under with his mouth for a drink. Tepid as it was, the water gave him the respite he craved, and after his fourth gulp, he turned the faucet off and ambled to the glass box that was his shower.

Few things were as rejuvenating as a hot shower. It hadn’t brought him the peace he wanted, but it quieted his mind, caressed every sore muscle and joint in his body, told him everything was going to be okay—even if that last one was a lie.

He kept his towel wrapped around his waist as he exited. His hair was still dripping with water, steam rising from his body. Brushing what remained of the water, he threw the secondary towel onto the couch, his eyes locking onto the neurosuit in the corner. Right now, he wanted nothing to do with it. But the longer he stared at it, the more scenarios he came up with. And every single one of them ended in a terse conversation with Admiral Chovek.

You’ll thank yourself later, he reminded himself.

Sighing, he retrieved his clothes and got dressed. The jacket felt comfortable around his shoulders, and the cargo pants gave him the breathing room he craved. He abstained from slamming his dresser door shut, stepped back over the table, and walked over to the mirror beside the door. He tried not to look at the diamond that hung from his ear, then retrieved the dirty neurosuit and exited the room.

The change of clothes had abated his frustrations somewhat, but he was still angry. After he dropped off the suit, he took the stairway next to his room down to the first basement level. The passageways were wide with low ceilings. Amber bulbs illuminated the dank corridors, guiding him down the path immediately ahead.

Karl came to a stop next to a small room that had been partitioned off by a cement frame which held a pane of bulletproof glass. The man inside—Tyler, if memory served—looked up and got out of his chair.

“Karl Donovan. You’re here late,” he said.

Karl nodded casually, then scanned the rack of weapons behind Tyler. “Need to let off a bit of steam.” His eyes landed on a handgun with a large back coated in silver. “Can I see that one?”

Tyler looked over his shoulder and pointed at the gun beside it. Karl shook his head once, and again Tyler pointed at the wrong gun. Karl shook his head again, and at last Tyler pointed at the right weapon. Karl nodded, and Tyler returned to his chair. “The Seg-22.” He reached under the counter inside the booth and pulled out a large metal case. He used his thumb to key in the code, the case beeping with each press, and it clicked open when the correct combination had been registered. He pushed the top of the case back and retrieved an exact copy of the weapon.

“Powerful handgun. Strong enough to blow a hole in a guy.” Tyler pulled the chamber open, presumably to check if there were bullets inside, then slid the chamber shut. “Do you have your badge on you?”

“Got it right here.” Karl pulled the badge out of his T-shirt and slipped it under a small crevice beneath the glass. Tyler gripped a small cylindrical device hanging around his neck and pointed it at the badge. A green light flickered over the barcode, and an electronic hum followed. The light flashed red, then disappeared. “Karl Donovan. Registered for a Seg-22. How many shots do you want?”

“What’s the value?” Karl asked. Using the shooting gallery wasn’t free. Ammunition didn’t build itself, after all, and with the Fiends being a constant threat, Deadeye was just as hungry for weapons as any other group. There weren’t any upfront costs, but it would be docked from his pay.

“Thirty a shot.”

Karl grimaced. “Twelve shots, please.”

“Done. Want a quick guide?”

Karl considered it, then shook his head. “No. I think I can handle it.” Of any weapon type, handguns were his bread-and-butter. All he needed was to feel the weight of the weapon to get a good feel for its capabilities. You could tell a lot about a gun from how much it weighed, even if it was mostly surface-level qualities.

“All right.” Tyler held the gun in one hand and retrieved a magazine from the case. He walked to the other end of his booth and pressed a large green button the size of his palm. A loud alarm blared twice, and a steelclad door clicked on Karl’s right. Karl pulled the door open and shut it behind him. The door hummed and clicked. Tyler emerged from his booth and held the gun out to him, grip first.

The first thing Karl noted was its weight. It was heavy. Very heavy. When he got a better look at the magazine in Tyler’s hand, he knew he’d made the right choice. Tyler held up the magazine, then placed it at the station beside him next to a pair of earmuffs.

“Once you’re done, leave the weapon there and exit through the door you came through.” He pointed at the door. “I’ll collect the weapon afterward.” He glanced at the gun. It was obvious he was stifling a chuckle. “I know you’re an expert when it comes to handguns, but you’re still a newbie. Sure you don’t want a quick tour? The thing’s a monster.”

“Just one question.” Karl tilted the gun to its side, noting a switch with pairs of letters along a half-circle above the grip. “What are each of these modes used for?”

“Glad you asked.” Tyler stood closer and pointed at each one as he explained them. “SF is standard fire. CF is charged fire. That’ll add a high burst of energy to each shot.” He tapped the back of the gun, where the large silver canister—Karl assumed it was a canister—was. “That’s what this is for. The middle section is SA. Semi automatic. The last two require specifically made ammunition. One is for electricity, and the other for buckshot.”

Karl nearly gaped. “Buckshot?”

Tyler nodded. “The Seg-22 is the newest model of handgun manufactured by Working Man. Firing it one-handed is a great way to dislocate your shoulder, so I’d refrain if I were you.” He stepped away and put his hand on the door to the booth. “Those are the basics. Only use the first three modes for now. The other two won’t work with that magazine.”

“Noted,” Karl said, pointing the gun away from Tyler and looking down the sight. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. If you need anything else, knock. Otherwise, have a good time.” He returned to his booth.

Karl took his position at the station and put on the earmuffs. He slipped the magazine into the chamber, and pulled the slide shut. On the wall to his left were three buttons—each of them a different color. He pressed the leftmost button—the green one—and a large wooden target dummy in the shape of a Fiend rose out of the floor at the fifteen yard mark. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the ones he and Sean had been fighting earlier that night. Good.

Looking into that soulless face, Karl shut one eye, took aim at the head with both hands, and centered himself. He readjusted his grip until it was firm and sure, and pulled the trigger. A crisp pop met his ear, muffled by the earmuffs, and a thick wisp of smoke slithered out of the chamber. Karl rolled his shoulder, wincing slightly. Tyler wasn’t exaggerating. The kickback on this thing was no joke.

Despite the kickback, however, Karl was pleased to see that his shot was nearly perfect. It veered slightly to the left, perhaps by a couple of degrees. But since it was his first time firing the Seg-22, he considered that a win.

“Damn, this thing packs a punch,” Karl whispered to himself. He turned the weapon ninety degrees to observe the side, then turned it back over and took aim once more. Now that he and the weapon were acquainted, it was time to take another shot. He adjusted his grip and took aim once more. The Fiend’s gnarled hissing filled his head as he narrowed his gaze on the target. He pulled the trigger, and this time the bullet made its mark.

I’ll have to get myself one of these when I start making more money. Credits were tough to get a hold of when you were still a newbie like he was. Students received a stipend of credits while they learned to fight Fiends and conduct the DF interface. One’s ability to mesh with the systems would also affect pay, and being Harmonic, he was a cut above the rest. Even so, what he received never felt like enough. As soon as he passed the exams, however, he’d be in line for consistent work, which meant consistent credits. Which means, I’ll be working with Lilibelle more often.

The idea turned his stomach. Lilibelle was one of the last people he expected to see when the helicopter came to rescue him. Deadeye—and most mercenary groups for that matter—made it clear that they viewed the risk of rescue to be high. Fiends were intelligent, and where there was one, there were often many. As such, most factions treated humans more like pieces on a game board than actual, living, breathing individuals. In that way, he thought Lilibelle was a perfect fit for Deadeye; pragmatic, holistic, stoic.

He shook his head. Thinking about her wouldn’t do him any good right now. He pressed the middle button on the wall to his left, and the target retracted back into the floor. Another board emerged from the thirty yard mark, and he took aim. He drew a deep breath and fired. The pop met his ear once more, and the bullet lodged into the inner ring on the left. Clicking his tongue, he turned the gun on its side and flipped the switch to its semi-automatic mode. Lilibelle’s chiding voice grated on his psyche as he leveled the gun’s sight with the target.

What are you doing? Cowering? Lilibelle’s voice said. Just take the shot!

He pressed the trigger to silence her voice. The kickback was much stronger this time around, and the rapid-fire muzzle flash reflected that. He could feel the heat rising from the barrel, even with as far as his hands were. Wincing and rolling his right shoulder, Karl set the gun down carefully and looked up at the board. Once again, he was off target. Two holes were placed in the first inner ring, with a third in the second inner ring. Staring into the painted eyes of a Fiend, even if it was just a target dummy, boiled his blood.

Easy does it, Karl reminded himself. His instructors emphasized the importance of shooting with a clear and focused intent. He steadied himself with a few deep breaths. As soon as he resumed his pose and raised his weapon to try again, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hit his target. His hands trembled, and each time he looked at the target, all he could think of was Sean and Carly. I can’t do this right now.

Karl removed his earmuffs and set them on a hook protruding from the wall on his right. Extracting the magazine from the Seg-22, he set it beside the gun on the counter and walked up to Tyler’s door and knocked on it twice. Tyler’s chair squeaked, and the door cracked open.

“I’m done,” Karl said.

Tyler frowned. “I didn’t hear twelve bullets.”

“I’m calling it early,” Karl said. “I’m in no shape to fire this thing.”

Tyler nodded. “Good to call it early, then.” He paused, then added, “I’ll refund the difference to your chip.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. What’d you think, by the way?”

Perhaps he was just trying to make small talk, but Karl thought he’d made it clear that he wasn’t in any mood to give a thorough opinion. “Good weight, strong caliber,” he said, struggling to come up with something more in-depth. “I think I’ll use it in the future.”

“Glad to hear it. If you want to fire it again, you know where I am.”

Karl nodded. “Yeah. Have a good night.”

“Take it easy.”

Karl pocketed his hands and walked up the stairs. When he made it to the top, he stopped before the door, rubbing his keycard between his forefinger and thumb. He ran a hand over his hair to compose himself, then slid the card through the reader. The node transitioned from red to green, accompanied by a beep. A click followed, and still Karl flinched.

He walked into the hall, closing the door behind him. Karl could barely hear the clanging of metal and the mechanics shouting from the hangar on the other side of the wall. Karl decided to retreat to his room so he could better collect his thoughts. It was best he wrote his report while it was still fresh in his mind.

Once he was back in his room, he settled into his chair and opened his laptop.

His fingers hovered above the keys. He’d never written a report like this. Up until now, his reports were barely a page long, serving as little more than mock versions of simulations and theories. The mock reports were meant to serve as practice for the real thing.

But now that he was at his computer, it was as if he were reliving the moments of his mother’s and brother’s death all over again.