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Big 5 Sporting Goods—founded in 1955—was a chain that carried almost every brand under the sun: Nike, Adidas, Under Armour, Fila, Bearpaw, New Balance. In his previous life, Ethan had frequented the place often; with just one or two hundred dollars, he could put together a full sports outfit.
But today, Evelyn hadn't brought him here for clothes or shoes.
The moment they stepped inside, she made a beeline for the hunting display. Behind the glass gleamed an array of rifles, shotguns, and handguns.
"Hello? Anyone here? I need to take the Firearm Safety Certification," she called.
A tall, middle-aged man rose from behind the counter. "Who's taking the exam?" His eyes went from Evelyn to Ethan. "It's ten dollars. You can try twice—fail both times, you'll have to wait 24 hours to retake."
"Got it." Evelyn dug a ten out of her bag, handed it over, and jabbed a finger toward Ethan. "He's the one taking it."
The Firearm Safety Certification—FSC—was California's mandatory license for owning or purchasing a gun. Pass 23 out of 30 questions, and you were certified for five years.
When Evelyn had dashed toward the firearms section the moment they parked, Ethan had already guessed her plan. And when she called over the clerk, his lips had twitched into a grin.
"Oh, Evelyn…" he began.
"Don't refuse," she cut in. "Didn't you say you were threatened when you were buying materials? California's gun laws might be strict, but San Francisco's still a mess. Better to have a gun than not. Just think of it as a gift to celebrate selling your game."
"Wow~ I love this gift!" Ethan grinned. "And you misunderstood—I wasn't about to refuse. I'm just… happy."
Happy was an understatement. His gaze drifted over the polished steel and matte black grips in the display case, the corners of his mouth practically reaching his ears. In his last life, he'd always wanted to hold a gun.
But back then, on a long-term visa in New York—the fortress of gun control—getting a license was a bureaucratic nightmare. He'd never even had the chance.
Now was different. California's laws might still be a headache, but here? In this moment? This was America, baby—red, white, and blue. No visa restrictions. A license within reach.
And the FSC exam? Easy. True-false and multiple choice, no trick ballistics math. The hardest "safety" question was something like, Are firearms with safety devices 100% safe? or Is it legal to shoot into the air?
Anyone with basic logic—and without a flat-earth-level grasp of reality—could figure it out: no safety is 100%, and firing into the air is illegal.
Since the instructor specifically asked, "Is it legal to shoot into the air?", Ethan knew the answer could only be no.
Hey—this wasn't about "rebelling against the main theme."
It was just… logic.
Half an hour of written safety training later, he breezed through the FSC exam in ten minutes, scoring a perfect 30/30. The certificate was printed on the spot.
Next came paperwork. He showed his driver's license and vehicle registration, then filled out a questionnaire—criminal record? No. DUI? No. Arrests? No. Drugs or psychotropics? No.
Finally, he pointed to his choice in the display case: a $350 Remington 870 shotgun.
And then… he left empty-handed. California's first-time firearm purchase rules meant a mandatory background check. The store sent his details to the DOJ, and the clock started on a ten-day wait.
Still, with the FSC in hand, he figured the wait would be a breeze.
It wasn't. For ten long days, the thought of finally owning a gun had him lying awake at night, grinning like an idiot. By the morning of Day Ten, when he headed to pick it up, he had full-blown panda eyes.
But the moment he held the weighty Remington in his hands, every sleepless night felt worth it.
He headed straight to a San Jose shooting range, slapped twenty dollars on the counter, and hired an instructor.
The 870 had no scope or fancy sights, but it didn't need them.
Shoulder-fire, hip-fire—either way, you just loaded the 18.4mm shells, pointed in the target's general direction, and pulled the trigger.
A board ten meters away splintered in half. A watermelon at twenty meters exploded into pulp. A plastic bucket at thirty meters ripped open like paper.
Even a steel plate forty meters away was left pocked with holes. Ethan couldn't stop grinning. Stroking the black steel, he vowed:
If anyone threatens me from now on, I'll whip this big guy out and ask them if they want to be Emperor Yongle… or just a prince.
Still, he knew hitting stationary targets wasn't the same as live hunting. So when he got home, he brought it up to Thomas:
"What do you think about a family hunting trip? There's a range just outside town—"
Thomas chuckled, but his expression tightened. "Ethan, I'm at the orchard every day. I really don't have the time. Why don't you go play by yourself?"
"Oh, Thomas! What are you talking about? This family can't live without you!" Ethan pressed.
Evelyn chimed in immediately, "Dad, I think Ethan's right. Aren't you tired from going to the orchard every day? Take a proper rest—call it a holiday."
"Yes, you're busy all year round," Linda agreed. "The workers we hire stick to the eight-hour rule, so why does the boss have to work nonstop?"
With wife, daughter, and nephew all standing on the same side, Thomas knew he was outnumbered. He sighed in defeat.
"Alright, alright… I'll think about it. Give me some time to check with the Fishing and Hunting Bureau, see where the best spots are right now. No wild boar or black bear—they're too dangerous. Maybe deer… or antelope."
"Oh yeah~!" Ethan cheered, pumping his fist. "Thomas, I love you!"
"Okay, okay," Thomas chuckled, accepting the declaration of love. Then he turned to his wife. "Linda, if you're coming, make sure you take the hunting license test. Even if you get 80 out of 100 questions right, you'll pass—but you still have to complete the offline training hours."
"Alright, I'll do it," Linda nodded with a smile.
With the plan more or less settled, the house filled happy mood.
But just as Ethan was gearing up for their first family hunting trip, the evening of April 30 brought an unexpected visitor.
A motorcycle roared up to the driveway, and Steve Jobs swung off the seat, grinning.
"Ethan," he said, "tomorrow at ten a.m., Nolan's introducing the Snake Game to our invited merchants at the Atari factory." His grin widened. "And—after some convincing—he's agreed to let me be the keynote speaker on stage."