Expert Marksman

Marksmanship. The art of handling projectile weapons—of putting an arrow or a bullet exactly where you mean it to go.

Shooting is hard. Then again, what in this world isn't?

On the surface, it doesn't look especially difficult. Setting aside the roar of the discharge itself, the preparatory stance and the motion of firing are almost entirely static. The gap between a veteran and a beginner barely shows from the outside. But the individual skill packed into that stillness—the know-how—varies wildly from person to person.

Most of the viewers fully expected Kayak to look as hopeless with a gun as Ririyang had. That wasn't an unreasonable assumption. If anything, it was the normal reaction.

Someone might say, Come on, how hard can shooting a gun in VR really be?—but the VR titles coming out these days were routinely rated as every bit as realistic as the real thing. The game Kayak and Ririyang were playing right now, Police Swat, had been built with consultation from active special-forces operators and was widely praised as a rare masterpiece of the genre.

And the reason Korean players—Korean men, specifically—had been putting up strong performances in that game wasn't anything particularly mysterious.

As citizens of a divided nation, they had done their military service. Unlike other players, they had at least some real-world experience handling firearms. Whether or not you'd ever pulled a trigger made a difference you could never dismiss. The time it took just to get a feel for how to put a bullet on target already set them apart.

What the viewers failed to account for was that Kayak, like them, had experience handling a gun.

More precisely: as a proud son of Korea, she had completed roughly two years of military service. But expecting the audience to guess that much was a bit of a stretch. After all, in both appearance and mannerisms, Kayak was unmistakably a woman to anyone who looked at her.

So even as Kayak shouldered the rifle she'd picked up, the viewers felt nothing out of the ordinary.

Bang—!

Five rounds fired out of a thirty-round magazine. Three misses, then two hits.

Even that alone was worth praise. A forty-percent hit rate was already solid. A few people in chat were already making a fuss about how something felt off.

But Kayak didn't stop there. Without so much as a glance at the chat, her gaze stayed locked forward, eyes fixed on the target with relentless focus.

It was the look of a predator locking onto prey. Like a hawk gliding overhead, spotting its moment and snatching its meal—at a timing no one saw coming, the crack of another shot rang out.

Bang—!

The shooting continued. This time, it didn't stop at five rounds.

A faint ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠smile tugged at the corner of an otherwise expressionless face as Kayak kept putting rounds downrange without pause.

It wasn't full auto. But for single-fire, the gap between each shot—the interval—was far too short.

Some people couldn't tell whether she was on single-fire or full auto. Others figured Kayak had just given up and started spraying. A few were already offering unsolicited coaching.

Then the scene that followed flipped the entire chat on its head.

27/30. That was Kayak's final score once the shooting stopped.

Aside from the three misses at the start, she had hit every single round. Viewers who grasped what they were looking at couldn't hide their shock.

At last, Kayak stepped down from the firing lane, flipped her special-forces goggles up onto her forehead, and slung the rifle over her shoulder.

Then she stuck up a thumb and said:

And just like that, new rumors started circulating—nicknames like Expert Marksman, wild theories about ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠past military experience, and so on.

It wasn't particularly hard.

I just dug up some old memories and started shooting, and the rounds more or less landed. Whether the hit detection was generous or what, as long as a bullet clipped the target zone, it counted as a hit.

It just took a little time to dust off those half-faded memories. After that, nothing else was a problem.

"Shall we go, Captain?"

"I'm the captain?"

"Yes, ma'am."

We'd achieved our original goal of visiting the training grounds, finding gear that suited each of us, and getting our hands warmed up in the process. And though I hadn't planned on it, we'd also more or less established a pecking order with the viewers and Ririyang.

So the roles settled like this: I was the main DPS and shot-caller—the firepower specialist with a high rate-of-fire rifle. Ririyang would take the shield and lead the entry.

Honestly, with only two of us, there wasn't much point in splitting roles. But Ririyang had grabbed a shield first and appointed me captain, so this was the setup we ended up with.

Anyway, we were currently running a one-star mission. Terrorists had seized ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a gas station and were holding hostages inside.

Neutralize or eliminate the terrorists and rescue the hostages—that was the concrete objective.

"Officer Ririyang?"

"Yes, Captain!"

I liked the snappy answer. For whatever reason, she seemed to want to roleplay the situation, and I wasn't about to refuse.

"Officer Ririyang, do you know why the terrorists chose a gas station as their base of operations?"

"A g-gas station?"

She clearly hadn't expected a question—she looked thoroughly flustered. All she managed were a string of uhs and ums, so I continued the explanation myself.

"Gas stations have high accessibility and operate twenty-four hours a day. Their open layout also makes them weak on security. And more than anything, they offer ready escape routes—that's another reason criminals target them."

"Ooooh…."

"That's enough on gas stations… Before we breach, let's review the terrorists' mugshots."

"They're bald!"

"Identifying the terrorists' physical features and telling hostages from hostiles is going to matter. We can't afford friendly fire."

Three terrorists had seized the gas station, and all three were bald.

Tattoos covered their heads, arms, and most of their upper bodies. Their faces were decorated with piercings in the ears and nose, giving them a thoroughly vicious look.

The classic criminal type, you could say. The hostages, by contrast, were two gas-station employees—not exactly saintly faces, but ordinary enough that telling them apart shouldn't be hard.

"Briefing's over. We're going in. Officer Ririyang, shield up and breach!"

"Breaching, breaching! Let's move out!"

On my order, Ririyang hefted the heavy shield and started forward. I followed behind her, covering her back, scanning the surroundings as I moved.

"Contact! Contact! Enemy ahead!"

The call came from Ririyang, who'd pushed out in front. Already? was my first thought, but given the difficulty, it made sense. One-star mission—so the enemies just showed up right away, I figured.

"On my signal, fall back, Officer Ririyang. I'll drop him in one shot."

"Y-yes, ma'am!"

I could have just subdued him, but I was more curious about how the game progressed if you went lethal. Did non-lethal takedowns score higher or something?

So I waited for the right moment, then raised my voice to the Ririyang ahead of me.

"Now!"

"Hieeek!"

At the sound of my voice, Ririyang ducked her head and rolled clear of the engagement, leaving me face-to-face with the terrorist one-on-one.

I didn't hesitate. I brought the rifle up fast, lined up the sights on the forehead under those few remaining strands of hair, and fired—

Wait. Strands of hair?

Bang—!

"Ah."

Only then did it hit me. The "terrorist" Ririyang had called out wasn't a terrorist at all—it was a hostage.

Ririyang's primary fault for mixing up hostage and criminal. My secondary mistake for not properly checking the face.