Dark Zone

What was the decisive difference between ordinary civilians and special forces soldiers? Perhaps there were as many possible answers to that question as there were people in the world.

Some might say ironclad physical endurance and unbreakable mental fortitude, while others would point to elite marksmanship skills, or how much varied training they had received.

All of those were correct.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

And I…

───DU-DU-DU!

I wanted to add to the answer the existence of countless muscle memories that let a person handle every kind of firearm imaginable as if it were an extension of their own body.

“Whoa… your groupings are incredibly clean. It’s a shame only a couple of shots went outside the 9-point ring.”

Even for a handgun that wasn’t zeroed in. My body already remembered the old zero, so in a pinch I could adjust my sights to get the result I needed.

I stared hard at the paper target. After confirming the results of the first zeroing shot, I gauged how much more correction I would need.

It was pretty obvious.

“Ninety-eight points. Too bad. Every round in the 9mm magazine was full.”

“No such thing will happen on the next shot.”

I checked the chamber and the ejection, handed the gun over. He carefully accepted it, performed the same safety inspection I had just done, set the freshly fired MPX gently on the side, and passed me the next firearm.

KAC SR-15. A civilian model, but how had he even managed to get his hands on a gun that only circulates in the States?

…Was this another consequence of the world’s self-repair?

───SWISH───

I braced firmly against the shoulder and matched my breathing to it. The familiar feeling of the AR-15 buttstock pressed into my shoulder. It was so familiar I could close my eyes and draw a picture of it.

If I stacked every single 5.56 NATO round I had ever fired, wouldn’t they fill an entire standard ammo container?

The iron sights were basic, but I had no trouble lining up on the new target beyond them. I felt the trigger pressure and squeezed. A moment later, accompanied by a slight recoil, the bullet punched through the target.

As I stood there motionless and focused, an old movie I had once enjoyed suddenly came to mind. Liam Neeson shooting everything up in an action flick. In that one he had used a TTI custom build.

Even though I barely remembered the plot anymore, I drew calm, steady breaths and pulled the trigger. Whether the interval between shots was short or long, one to the chest, one to the head.

Record the score. Not to compete with others, but to make sure one life was ended for good.

To someone it might sound chilling, but it no longer had that effect on me.

I surfaced from the sea of thoughts that felt almost like meditation.

Right in front of me was the target with five holes in the head and five in the chest.

“…Ninety-nine points, really.”

“Yep.”

“Whoa, customer. Looks like you’re about to run out of space to pin up target sheets on the wall. You shoot better than me, huh?”

“I still have ten rounds left. You can’t call it yet.”

“Whoa.”

Ten Desert Eagle rounds. As always, I checked the chamber and ran the safety inspection, then accepted today’s final firearm.

The Glock felt different in my hand. I knew I had relatively large hands, but there were still exceptions sometimes.

I gripped it harder to keep the slide from jamming, just in case. I had never practiced with one like this in real life, but when I added it all up, I must have shot it in combat a few times.

I had fired it once or twice, but I didn’t treat gunfights lightly enough to carry it around all the time, and even without it, killing people wasn’t difficult.

…I had come to the range to shoot, yet here I was thinking all these thoughts.

“You’ve handled this gun before, haven’t you?”

“I know how to use pretty much anything.”

With that said, I carefully inserted one of the five-round magazines and pulled the trigger.

───!

Powerful recoil slammed through my body.

9 p.m.

The milestone marking the approach of midnight, when the shops would finally close one by one.

Among them, there was still a live-fire range with its lights on—unusually so.

“Senior Jin-hyuk, how was today… no, wait, why are you carrying the target sheets all bunched up?”

“There’s a thing. Grab a ladder from the warehouse and bring it over. We have to pin it to the wall.”

“What’s up? Did a lot of people shoot today? Did a whole ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠group of people who used to compete with you back in the day come?”

“Just hurry and get it.”

That made sense.

Kim Ho-jun, another range safety officer working at the same range and also Han Jin-hyuk’s junior, muttered while pulling a ladder half-buried in the corner of the warehouse.

It had been a few years since this facility began operating, and countless people had visited here, scattering brass. Among them were people who shot quite well, and target sheets of those excellent marksmen kept being pinned to the wall one by one.

Old ones taken down and new ones added, or ladders used because the lobby height required it.

I had never used it recently, but the ladder was still properly maintained.

Han Jin-hyuk climbed the ladder with a handful of nails, and naturally Kim Ho-jun received the target sheets.

Flap.

One of the seven sheets unrolled and he let out a small exclamation.

“Whoa, you nailed it perfectly. What caliber is that? .22? 9mm? Glock?”

“That one? Let me show you.”

“Here.”

Again the sound of paper flapping.

My mouth opened without hesitation.

“That’s a Desert Eagle.”

“Did you drink?”

“What kind of talk is that? Show me the video?”

“No, that’s impossible. .50 AE full-auto? A civilian?”

“You just missed it. I saw it.”

Even someone who had seen it up close couldn’t believe it. I was amazed myself, so how could I possibly tell others and have them believe it?

I could keep talking until my mouth hurt, so I decided to show the recording later and pinned the target to the wall.

Next turn.

“Whoa, what’s this? Five in the head, six in the chest? You really nailed it. Did a pro come? What did you shoot it with?”

“Let me check… Glock 17. Just hand it over.”

“Look at the groupings. I don’t know who it is, but he shoots well. Pro?”

“Pass it before I start hammering nails.”

“Hey, you don’t even get to watch? Once you pin it, it’s hard to see.”

And the more I teased him, the longer it went on.

By now the wall was lined with sheets stretching long.

Glock three, Desert Eagle one, AR-15 one. Every single one of them had been perfect. Only the MPX sheet marked “98” and the Glock 17 sheet marked “17” waited to be pinned.

“MPX 98 points? That’s incredible. You got an extra shot opportunity and fired it, huh? But this one’s only 74 points. Why is it pinned?”

“Look closer.”

“What is there to see…?”

Slide.

But Kim Ho-jun quickly realized that the impact points and groupings were far too precise.

“Three in the head, five in the chest… and two in the neck… wait, did you do it on purpose? This person is completely crazy. Who are they? Special forces? Dark Zone ranker?”

“No idea. I didn’t even ask.”

And if there was something he hadn’t said,

‘That was actually a demonstration of the action-shooting format….’

The two-plus-one drill.

Or the Mozambique drill. A shooting technique used at close range to ensure the opponent was killed for sure.

After achieving 98 points with the MPX, which granted her an extra shot, she had demonstrated it under my permission as the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠true-time control officer. I had suddenly learned that the two impossible words—speed and accuracy—could coexist.

Slide.

“Ah, now that you say that, it suddenly feels like I’m drowning in Dark Zone.”

“Tomorrow’s regular holiday. Let’s do it later at home.”

“Got it. Ah… I forgot to extend the session rental period.”

“Remember to do it on time.”

Swipe.

The nails went back under the counter, the ladder was returned to the warehouse, and after locking the entrance glass door, I successively covered the thick iron bars and shutters above it.

Because it was a place where firearms were handled, the range had no ordinary windows either. When closing time came, it transformed into a sealed room with fortress-level security.

“Completely locked?”

“It’s locked. Go ahead and eat first, then go in.”

“Okay.”

“You still using those huge-breasted female characters? You adapt okay? The center of gravity is all off. There’s no such thing in virtual reality.”

“Try it once. It’s secretly fresh, you know?”

“I can’t stand seeing a huge thing dangling from my chest, you lunatic.”

“Bro, that’s how everyone starts.”

“Crazy talk.”

Those words no one who had been inside the range all afternoon, shooting nonstop and completely rewriting the records, would ever understand.

But the keyword they spilled—Dark Zone—was what would bring about the butterfly effect. Only time would reveal how.