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When Hyperlaser shoots, he can't help but notice how loud it is, even though the range is completely empty besides him.
The gunshots are disturbing; they pierce his ears every time he makes the shot, but they do fill what was once a lively place. It’s only when another shot hits the target dead-on and he finally lowers his gun to rest for a bit that he listens to the silence around him. Rooms upon rooms once full of laughs and arguments with his fellow soldiers are now filled with his heavy breathing through the helmet.
A terrifying thought strikes the back of his head, and Hyperlaser doesn’t feel himself shake—only his grip on the frame tighten:
Who would stop him if he decided to shoot himself instead of the target?
The nostalgic thought of someone—an instructor or a friend—being here quickly starts shifting into something more sinister. Maybe in the past it would have been mad to kill himself right here in the shooting range, and surely he would have been stopped—but with no one around now, it's tempting. The pure idea of his misery going away with a simple press of the trigger, no harder than when he shoots the targets around him, makes him raise the gun to his chin. The helmet does not protect him there.
There are two bullets left in the gun, and the skin under his chin is so soft he imagines the way the bullet would fly, ripping right through it. It would surely hit his brain, painting the ceiling with tiny bits of red and pink, with glass and metal shards from his helmet falling down. Hyperlaser’s aim is perfect even without pressing the gun so close to his skin. His body would hit the floor after the small jump caused by the force of the shot, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and lets his imagination run wild. It would take only a second for him to actually die, and it’s not like he’s afraid of pain—especially not when it would stop before he even feels his body fall. It’s almost good, imagining it—how no one would find him. He’s the only one who comes here, so surely the decomposing would be done before anyone discovered him. It’s going to be his grave.
It keeps running and flowing through his head, the countless images and ideas of suicide he never thought he would think about. Not in this place.
He stays like this for too long, as if he already pressed the trigger—but he didn’t—and it’s the sudden vibration of his phone that causes the thoughts to stop. The way he lowers his gun is almost mechanical, like nothing even happened. It’s Subspace calling him, probably another job.
Hyperlaser stares at the screen for a moment, but it’s not the same loss he was in when the gun was just under his chin. It’s empty, like the shooting range.
He puts the gun down fully and answers the call.