Life As Normal
THOOM.
THOOM.
Crack.
Click.
Snap.
The white dummy at the end of the firing range was at a point beyond destroyed, only the iron skeleton holding it up still remained. All of the other foam that covered it was lying on the floor in tatters, shredded by powerful buckshot which cared little to its physical integrity.
THOOM.
THOOM.
Crack.
Click.
Snap.
A double-barreled shotgun had always been his weapon of choice, inefficiencies be damned. It was a powerful self-defense weapon with decent range and excellent power. It only had two shots–but in situations where you needed to defend yourself, and nothing more, two shots was all that was needed.
The motions were second nature to him by now. Pull the trigger halfway for a single shot, all the way for the second, crack the barrels open so the old clip and spent shells ejected out, and slide in a new clip with fresh shells and snap the barrels shut again.
THOOM.
THOOM.
Crack.
Click.
Snap.
He couldn’t say he approved of how the weapon development team went with a two-shell clip instead of a multi-shell magazine. Magazines held more ammo and were spring-loading, which allowed for a higher variety of shots.
However, to create a magazine for this gun meant it would have to be invented from the ground up, and then mass-produced for it and it alone. This gun used a special 15-gauge ammo, with each pellet the size of a 12-gauge round–creating a larger shell with more punch, at the expense of being able to work with only one gun specifically designed for it.
He lifted up the shotgun to rest on his shoulder. He had been shooting it all day, trying to collect his thoughts on it. From a firing range, to a CQB training environment, and now to a testing lab.
Clad in a simple black t-shirt with green camoflague jeans and brown boots, Devin wasn’t much of an interesting man to look at. Even the hardened features and scar across his eye lacked any real “oomph” one would expect from a warrior–with his bright green eyes, freckles, and parted-unkempt mess of bright red hair, he seemed more of a typical Hollywood nerd who would prefer a rousing video game than combat-tried soldier.
A couple scientists had noted the pause in firing, looking up from the computers that they had been typing data in. They had been recording Devin’s average speed of firing, accuracy in either hand, body posture in the different stages of firing, and even just how comfortable he looked.
“Yes?” One female scientist said, lifting up her glasses along the bridge of her nose.
Devin flexed his hands, wincing. “I need a short break. My hands are burning up from getting metal jolted into them constantly, and my ears are ringing even through the earplugs.” He shook his head to try and clear out the ringing.
The scientist frowned. “You still have 38 magazines to go through.”
“Clips.” He corrected her. “Magazines are spring-loaded. Clips have exposed rounds.”
She gave him a hard look. He quickly went back to the original subject, after clearing his throat. “If I keep going in this state, eventually the data will be wavering more and more as I get tired and sore. This is still a prototype, so we want optimal data, don’t we?”
She blinked and then turned over to her compatriots at the computers, all of them whispering among each other. Devin took this brief pause to pull out his earplugs, trailing them down to his waist and unplugging them from a small device. They were designed to muffle out specific ranges of decibels–the big bang of the shotgun didn’t make it through at all, but didn’t at all hinder the sound of a human voice. Useful for testing, but having stuff crammed in the ears was still uncomfortable.
The scientists finished their hushed discussion quickly and went back to their computers, typing furiously. The female did the same, not even looking over at Devin. “You have an hour to rest up. The R&D team needs input as quickly as possible, so that’s all we’ll be able to spare.”
Devin nodded gratefully, hefting up the shotgun to rest on a nearby table, flicking on the safety and then hiking out of the room.
One hour.
That would probably be enough time to inject himself with a sedative, nap for a bit, inject himself with stimulant upon waking up, exercise, get some food, and then check in on how the technicians were handling his medical equipment.
Hopefully nothing would go wrong during that time. It had been numerous months since his branch was last called into action.
Devin flopped down onto his bed. His room was plain–white walls, white ceiling, white floor, black bed with white sheets. Various decorative items, such as an antique bookcase and a couple mirrors, gave the room a more “home-y” feel but couldn’t do anything about the size…or the general lack of personality. This was a military base, not an apartment suite.
But in the end? It was still a place he could lay his head and feel comfortable.
That was really all that mattered, to him.
Devin closed his eyes, and sleep quickly met him.
He didn’t even need the sedative after all. That would save a couple minutes.
