Those Five Bewitching Words
Unlike the pleasantly cool interior of the café, it was brutally hot outside. Even a short walk was enough to bead sweat across my skin. I checked the distance to my destination on my phone, but unfortunately it was more than a ten-minute walk away.
In the end I sat down on a bench in a patch of shade to catch my breath — and that was when a delicious smell found me.
EGG DROP TOAST
True to the word egg on the sign, a rich scent of eggs drifted up from beneath it. It was a combination that couldn't possibly taste bad, and I found myself drifting toward it as if bewitched.
"Hello."
"Oh my, come on in. What can I get you?"
"Hmm..."
A dizzying array of toast varieties was written up above. Without much hesitation, I spoke to the kindly-looking woman working the grill.
"Egg mayo toast..."
"Got it. I'll have it ready in a jiffy."
Egg and buttered bread hit a well-heated griddle. Over the bread as it browned, she layered lettuce and other vegetables, egg, and a drizzle of mayonnaise. It looked so good I started salivating before I could stop myself.
"Here you go."
I took the toast from her and bit into it on the spot.
There was nothing unusual or unique about the flavor. It tasted exactly like the egg mayo toast everyone already knew — and that was precisely why it tasted even better. There's a reason people say a familiar taste is the most dangerous of all.
I'd already put away half of it when I turned to the woman tidying up the kitchen.
"Is there anywhere around here worth checking out?"
I'd looked it up online, of course, but this was the kind of thing you asked someone who actually lived in the neighborhood. Internet posts weren't exactly famous for their reliability.
"Somewhere worth checking out? Well. How am I supposed to recommend anything when I don't know what a young lady like you would even like?"
Something I liked, huh.
I like shooting. Nothing melts the stress away like lining up a target in total focus — or just emptying a magazine without a thought in my head.
That was what I wanted to say.
Of course I hesitated. In a country where firearms were illegal, what kind of reaction would I get if I said my hobby was shooting? Most people would assume I meant video games, but I wouldn't be able to dodge the weird looks entirely.
So I figured I'd pick something a girl my age was supposed to like, and instead—
"...I like shooting. You know. Firing guns."
On second thought, there was no reason I would know what girls my age actually liked.
That was why it paid to know a little of everything, no matter what you did. If your knowledge ran short, you couldn't even keep a conversation going.
"Shooting? You mean games, right? There's an arcade nearby."
"No, not arcade games..."
"Oh — come to think of it, I think I heard there's a live-fire range around here? A shooting range? Is that the same kind of thing?"
"......"
Live-Fire Shooting Range.
Those five bewitching words from her mouth shut me up on the spot.
The chance to smell gunpowder legally. In Korea, of all places — a country where firearms were illegal.
"Where is it?"
"You've got unusual tastes for a young lady. Hold on. I'll sketch you a map."
Objectively speaking, the map she drew was not very accurate. It was a rough scribble of streets with the names of nearby buildings dotted here and there. Even so, I set off through the sweltering heat on sheer stubbornness, determined to find that live-fire shooting range.
Whenever I lost the way, I asked people around me, over and over, until at last I had those five bewitching words in front of both eyes, painted across a sign.
I couldn't hide my excitement. The moment I would legally get to smell gunpowder was almost here.
"Welcome."
The instant I stepped inside, my eyes met the clerk at the counter. As always, I answered the greeting with a light dip of my head.
Being indoors, the place was filled with cold air. And threading through it, faint but unmistakable, was the sting of gunpowder in my nose...
I glanced around. The interior was cleanly done. The one unusual touch was the wall: paper targets from people who'd posted excellent scores, hung alongside posters that looked like video game ads.
These days they run game ads at shooting ranges?
While I was thinking that, someone who looked like staff came over and guided me along with practiced courtesy.
"Could I see some ID?"
"Here."
The clerk took my ID, looked from my face to the photo and back, then nodded and handed it over again.
Once the opening formalities were wrapped up, a thick booklet appeared in front of me. It was designed like a restaurant menu — except instead of food, it was packed with information on firearms.
"Is this your first time shooting?"
"No. I've done a bit of shooting elsewhere."
The rounds I've fired in my life could fill a truck.
Only after sitting through a long explanation of pistol and rifle types, and of cartridge calibers, was I finally allowed to choose what I wanted.
Flipping through the booklet, I found a firearm I knew. A semi-automatic rifle: the AR-15. I'd used one more than a few times; it wasn't a stranger.
"I'll take this one."
"The AR-15. You know the M16 — the famous American service rifle — is part of the AR-15 family, right? After the M16's success, AR-15-pattern rifles became the First World's firearms standard, and that led to countless derivative and related models..."
"...So what's the price per round?"
I already knew most of that, and I hadn't come here to listen to a history lecture. I tossed out a question that wouldn't wander too far off topic, just enough to change the subject.
"We charge a flat twenty thousand won for ten rounds. Revolvers run a little higher — twenty thousand for six."
I had no idea whether that was cheap or expensive, so I didn't have much to say. In my mercenary days I'd stacked ammo by the crate and burned through it without a second thought.
Looking at what was in my account, I could afford it — but thinking about the life ahead of me, I couldn't afford to waste money. If I hosed rounds the way I used to, I'd be broke by the end of the day.
I was still calculating how many shots would be reasonable when a conversation drifted over from two men who had just finished shooting and were on their way out.
"Damn, actually firing a gun is insane. But doesn't it feel pretty much the same as LoQ? The realism on that thing is unreal."
"I came expecting it to feel different, but fuck, it's exactly the same."
From the sound of it they were talking about a game — but not that different? And what did they mean, the realism was unreal?
The clerk beside me solved the mystery without any trouble.
"These days the whole industry is booming thanks to Last of Quantum. Who would've thought a single game could do this?"
...A game? Last of Quantum?
No matter how realistic a game was, it was still just a game. Would people really come to an actual shooting range because of one? Even if explosions went off right in front of you, anything happening on the other side of a monitor always came with a sense of distance.
"Will it just be the AR-15?"
"Ah — one moment."
...Almost got caught spacing out.
Not the kind of thoughts you wanted with someone standing right next to you. I forced my attention back onto the booklet.
I'd expected as much, but the selection was thinner than I'd hoped. Most of it was pistols and revolvers, and even the assault rifles could be counted on one hand. Aside from the AR-15 I'd already picked, there was little more than an SG551 and an M&P-15.
As if he'd read my mind, the clerk gave an awkward laugh and spoke up.
"The selection's a bit thin, isn't it? Regulations have loosened recently, so we're bringing in new pieces. Next time you come, you'll be able to try a lot more."
"Ah. Right."
I answered briefly and added a few more firearms from the booklet. Twenty rounds through a Glock 17, about ten through an M1911, and ten each through a Desert Eagle and a CZ75B.
"Twenty rounds of AR-15 plus fifty pistol rounds — that comes to about a hundred and forty thousand won."
...Did I get a little too excited?
Against what was in my account it wasn't a catastrophic expense, but with no real source of income to speak of, it was going to sting.
"Alright, you've been assigned to lane one. When the range officer arrives, put on a ballistic vest and enter according to his instructions. Shooting is single-shot only, just so you know."
After a short wait, a man who looked to be in his thirties came over. Following his directions, I stepped onto the range and found people already shooting.
Bodies rocked with recoil. Powder bloomed; slides kicked back; bullets tore down the barrel at a speed that casually outran sound. Spent brass struck the floor with a bright, familiar clatter.
Every last one of those memories woke the person I used to be.