Raccoon City.The Shooting Range.
Raccoon City boasted a rare gem: an open-air shooting range. It stretched a full hundred meters, populated by rows of steel silhouettes. The establishment was owned by a white-haired old man named Hawk, a firearm enthusiast who ran the attached gun shop. When Havel first arrived in the city, he had purchased a fair amount of gear here, making him something of a regular.
Why not use the police station's range?
Please. They were currently skipping work. If they were caught at the precinct, they'd be chewed out by the Captain. It was safer to play in the private sector.
Ding-dong—!
The doorbell chimed as they pushed inside.
"Afternoon, Old Man Hawk. How's business? Heh, I was hoping to borrow your range to test some iron. That cool with you?"
Havel breezed in, immediately trying to butter up the proprietor.
Beside him, Rebecca looked around with wide eyes. The shop was small but dense with inventory. It had a distinct retro charm; the walls were lined with firearms that had seen service in World War II. The owner was clearly a veteran.
In the corner sat a man with a shock of white hair and a peaked cap. He was squinting through reading glasses at a yellowed book, his face scrunching up whenever the text got too blurry. At the sound of customers, he lowered the book slowly.
But the moment he recognized Havel, his expression soured.
"..."
"You again, you little punk. Last time you swindled me out of a gun and boxes of ammo, and now you're back to freeload? 'Test some iron' my ass. You two are skipping work again, aren't you? Since when did S.T.A.R.S. have so much free time?"
Hawk's gaze drifted to Rebecca. In Raccoon City, the S.T.A.R.S. emblem was unmistakable. Seeing two of them wandering around during duty hours told him everything he needed to know.
Havel and Rebecca exchanged awkward smiles.
Rebecca had been a good kid once. But after being partnered with Havel, she had been gradually corrupted by his philosophy of "decadence." Late arrivals, early departures, clock-watching... while her heart still burned for justice, without an active mission, she had learned to embrace the art of being a salted fish.
"Work is boring," Havel shrugged shamelessly. "There are plenty of cops in Raccoon City; they don't need us patrolling every street corner. Anyway... I'm planning to buy some hardware. That should be enough to get us access to the backyard range, right?"
While Havel haggled, Rebecca admired the antiques on the wall. The wood on the stocks was dark with age and oil, and she could almost smell the phantom scent of battlefield gunpowder. She wasn't a gun nut, but she respected history.
Havel, meanwhile, pulled out a thick wad of cash.
The Franklins in his wallet were crisp. In 1998, inflation hadn't yet ravaged the value of the dollar; this stack represented significant purchasing power. Thanks to the generous Umbrella funding behind S.T.A.R.S., Havel's salary allowed for a little extravagance.
"..."
"I want two large-caliber Magnums," Havel declared, pointing at the glass display case. "That Desert Eagle, and the Smith & Wesson M500 Revolver. I remember seeing them in your stock. Oh, and I want that vintage lever-action—the Winchester 1887. And plenty of ammo for all three."
He slid the cash across the counter without blinking.
Hawk stared at the pile of money. He cleared his throat, his annoyance vanishing instantly as he swept the bills into a drawer. In the old man's eyes, Havel's image underwent a sudden, holy transformation. The kid might be a slacker, but he paid like a king.
Who was he to argue with Ben Franklin?
However, as he began retrieving the heavy weaponry, a frown creased Hawk's forehead.
"A Magnum... and a shotgun? What kind of trouble is S.T.A.R.S. expecting? Are you heading into the mountains to hunt bears? Or have the wild boars started eating people?"
It was a valid question.
The Winchester 1887 was one thing—it was cool, sure, but functionally similar to a standard riot shotgun. But a Desert Eagle and an M500?
Why would a police officer need those?
Police work prioritized precision, reliability, and safety—hence the Glock. A Desert Eagle was a glamorous beast in video games, but in reality, it was a nightmare for combat. It weighed nearly two kilograms—like carrying a brick. It had low capacity, massive recoil, and a muzzle flash that could blind you. It was a hunting pistol, not a service weapon.
And the M500? That was for stopping charging elephants or perhaps hunting xenomorphs in space. Against a human suspect, it was absurd overkill.
Rebecca looked equally confused. "Havel... do we really need elephant guns?"
Havel just smiled. Hawk was right; they were going to hunt large beasts.
Zombies, in his mind, were no different from wild animals. A 9mm round might fail to drop a dedicated infected, but a Magnum? A Magnum didn't negotiate. One shot would turn a head into mist. Even if he missed the head and hit a leg, the limb would be severed instantly. It offered a high margin for error.
Besides... the M500 was the original terminator weapon. Before the RPG became the solution to everything, raw caliber was king. Havel suffered from "Firepower Deficiency Anxiety." He needed the biggest stick available.
"Something like that," Havel replied vaguely. "We might need to put down some large, aggressive wildlife. You selling or not? Just pack it up. I'll head to the range while you box them. Come on, Rebecca!"
He couldn't tell them the truth. If he started rambling about the T-Virus, they'd lock him up in a padded cell.
Tap, tap, tap...
The two walked out to the backyard range.
It was a well-maintained strip of land, stretching over a hundred meters, lined with metal plates and wooden silhouettes. A table to the side was cluttered with spent casings and cleaning kits—Hawk clearly enjoyed his own supply.
Havel felt a flutter of nervousness. This would be his first time actually shooting a gun. The title of "Shooting Genius" belonged to the original owner of this body, not the transmigrator inhabiting it.
"Nice range..." Rebecca noted. A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. She grabbed a stack of red clay pigeons from a pile. "So, Mr. Genius. How about we try moving targets? Random trajectory, fifty meters. I'll throw."
She was definitely trying to haze him.
Hitting a moving target at fifty meters with a handgun was incredibly difficult. Handguns were defensive tools designed for close quarters. They didn't have scopes. The effective range was usually quoted at fifty meters, but hitting a flying disc at that distance required muscle memory, lead calculation, and luck.
Rebecca herself often missed stationary targets at fifty meters. She wanted to see Havel struggle. If he embarrassed himself, she'd have ammunition to mock him for weeks.
Who asked this jerk to ruin my work ethic? she thought gleefully.
Havel, however, didn't flinch.
He drew his Glock 22. He straightened his back, spread his feet slightly for stability, and raised his arms. His grip was firm, his stance textbook.
As he looked down the sights, the fifty-meter target seemed to zoom in. The "headshot line" was crystal clear.
Confidence surged through him. It was the residual instinct of the body's original owner.
More importantly, Havel realized his dynamic visual acuity was superhuman. In his past life, he had been a near-sighted gamer who couldn't tell a person from a lamppost at a hundred meters. Now, his vision was razor-sharp (5.3/5.3). He could see the texture of the metal plate.
The fear vanished. I am Havel. Havel is me.
"Rebecca," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Fifty meters is boring. Let's do a hundred. Moving target. Today, I'll show you what a true genius looks like."
He tilted his head, aiming the black muzzle of the Glock at the sky, posing for maximum effect. Little girl... you want to test me? You don't know who you're dealing with.
"..."
"Huh?"
Rebecca froze. A hundred meters? Moving target? With iron sights?
That wasn't confidence; that was insanity. Even special forces operators would struggle to hit a frisbee at a hundred meters with a pistol. You had to calculate bullet drop, windage, and lead time instantly.
But seeing his swagger, she scoffed. "Fine! Just don't cry when you miss everything. If you blow this, I'm never letting you live it down!"
She grabbed the clay pigeons and jogged to the far end of the range.
Once she was in position, she waved the red disc. Havel settled back into his shooting stance. His expression was deadly serious. He felt possessed by the spirit of the marksman. His eyes locked onto the red disc in her hand.
"Ready... Go!" Rebecca shouted, and flung the clay pigeon high into the air.
Here it comes!
Havel tracked the red blur. Relying entirely on his body's instinct, he adjusted the angle, accounted for the delay, and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
BANG!
The Glock kicked. A dull roar echoed across the field.
The bullet tore through the air, tracing a beautiful, imaginary arc toward the target.
A second later...
Thud.
The red clay pigeon landed softly on the grass.
It was pristine. Not a scratch. Not a chip. It lay there, mocking him, completely intact.
Meanwhile, a cloud of dirt puffed up from the berm at the very end of the range—miles away from where the disc had been.
It wasn't just a miss. It was a complete whiff. He hadn't even come close.
Havel: "..."
Cough.
Havel felt his toes curling inside his boots so hard he could have dug a trench. The confident pose, the arrogant speech... all of it came crashing down in a single, silent moment of utter humiliation.