The rifle was beautiful in the way that only precision instruments could be—every line purposeful, every component selected for maximum performance rather than appearance. Alex ran his fingers along the stock, feeling the subtle textures designed to provide grip even with wet hands, and tried not to think about the four hundred dollars it represented.
"Tokyo Marui VSR-10," Pete explained, his voice carrying the reverence reserved for truly exceptional equipment. "Previous owner was a competitive shooter who upgraded to a custom build. This thing's been professionally tuned—new spring, precision barrel, upgraded hop-up chamber. It'll shoot sub-MOA groups at 200 feet in the right hands."
The rifle's owner, a college student named Brian who was preparing for a semester abroad, watched Alex's examination with the patient expression of someone who knew his equipment's worth.
"I've put maybe 500 rounds through it since the upgrades," Brian said. "Scope's a 3-9x variable, rings are steel, and I'm throwing in a bipod and three magazines. Honestly, it's worth twice what I'm asking, but I need it gone before my flight next week."
Alex shouldered the rifle, feeling its weight and balance. Through the scope, targets at the far end of Pete's range appeared close enough to touch, the crosshairs steady and precise. This wasn't just an upgrade from his Combat Machine—it was a transformation into an entirely different class of player.
"I'll take it," Alex said, the words coming out before his rational mind could calculate the financial implications.
The transaction left Alex's savings account devastated but his equipment bag significantly heavier. As he loaded the rifle case into his mom's car, Pete appeared beside him with a knowing smile.
"Buyer's remorse setting in yet?"
"Ask me after I've eaten ramen for the next month," Alex said, but he was grinning despite the financial anxiety.
"Good investment," Pete said seriously. "That rifle will serve you well if you put in the practice time. But Alex—equipment like this comes with expectations. People are going to assume you know what you're doing."
The weight of that responsibility settled on Alex's shoulders as he drove home. He now owned a precision rifle that cost more than some people's cars, and in four weeks he'd be expected to use it effectively in regional competition.
No pressure at all.
The next morning brought Alex's first opportunity to test his new equipment at Rodriguez's advanced marksmanship course. The monthly session had expanded to include several new students, all of them serious competitors preparing for various tournaments and competitions.
"Rivera," Rodriguez called as Alex unpacked his gear. "I see you've upgraded your equipment. Let's see if your skills have kept pace."
The advanced course was structured differently from the basic training sessions. Instead of general tactical exercises, Rodriguez focused specifically on precision shooting—the kind of long-range marksmanship that separated good players from exceptional ones.
"Precision shooting is ninety percent mental," Rodriguez explained as the students settled into prone positions on the 200-meter range. "Your equipment can deliver perfect accuracy, but only if you can control the variables—breathing, heart rate, environmental conditions, and most importantly, your own expectations."
Alex's first shot with the VSR-10 was a disaster. Despite the rifle's precision capabilities, his BB sailed wide of the target, disappearing into the trees beyond the range. His second shot was closer but still missed the scoring rings entirely.
"Relax," Rodriguez said, appearing beside Alex with the silent movement that seemed to be his trademark. "You're trying too hard. The rifle knows what to do—your job is to get out of its way."
"I don't understand."
"You're thinking about the money you spent, the expectations, the competition coming up. All of that is noise. Right now, there's only you, the rifle, and the target. Everything else is distraction."
Rodriguez demonstrated with his own rifle, settling into position with fluid economy of movement. His shot struck the target's center ring with a satisfying thwack, followed immediately by four more shots that grouped within a circle smaller than a quarter.
"See? The rifle wants to be accurate. Your job is to provide a stable platform and consistent trigger control. Let the equipment do what it was designed to do."
Alex's next string of fire was markedly better. By focusing on Rodriguez's breathing techniques and trigger control methods, he managed to group his shots within the target's scoring rings. Not perfect, but respectable for someone still learning the rifle's characteristics.
"Better," Rodriguez observed. "But you're still fighting the weapon instead of working with it. This isn't your Combat Machine—you can't muscle your way to accuracy. Precision shooting requires finesse."
The session continued with increasingly challenging exercises. Moving targets, wind compensation, shooting from awkward positions—each drill designed to push the students beyond their comfort zones. Alex found himself struggling with concepts that seemed effortless when Rodriguez demonstrated them.
"Frustrated?" Maya asked during a brief break. She'd been shooting consistently well, her groups tight enough to earn approving nods from Rodriguez.
"This is harder than I expected," Alex admitted. "I thought better equipment would automatically make me a better shooter."
"Common mistake. Equipment amplifies your skills—it doesn't replace them. That rifle you bought? It's capable of incredible accuracy, but only if you develop the fundamentals to use it properly."
"How long did it take you to get comfortable with precision shooting?"
Maya considered the question while cleaning her rifle's barrel. "About six months of serious practice before I felt confident at long range. Another six months before I was competitive. You're trying to compress that timeline into four weeks."
The reality of his situation hit Alex like cold water. He'd invested in professional-grade equipment for a competition that was rapidly approaching, but his skills weren't anywhere near professional level. The gap between his ambitions and his abilities suddenly seemed insurmountable.
"Hey," Maya said, noticing his expression. "Don't spiral on me. Four weeks isn't enough time to become an expert, but it's plenty of time to become competent. And competent might be enough, especially if the rest of the team performs well."
The afternoon portion of the course focused on field shooting—precision marksmanship under realistic conditions rather than from comfortable bench positions. Rodriguez led the students through a series of natural terrain features, setting up shots from behind logs, around rocks, and through narrow gaps in vegetation.
"Competition shooting happens in controlled environments," Rodriguez explained as they moved to the first firing position. "Field shooting happens in the real world, where nothing is perfect and adaptation is everything."
Alex's first field shot was taken from a prone position behind a fallen tree, the rifle supported by a bipod but canted slightly due to uneven ground. The target was 150 meters away, partially obscured by hanging branches that created shifting shadows across the scoring rings.
He missed completely.
"Environmental factors," Rodriguez said, studying the target through binoculars. "Wind's pushing left to right, maybe five miles per hour. Those branches are creating light patterns that make range estimation difficult. And you're rushing your shot because you're worried about time limits."
"How do I compensate for all of that?"
"Practice. Lots of practice. But for now, focus on one variable at a time. Ignore the time pressure—accuracy matters more than speed. Read the wind by watching the grass and leaves. Use the scope's reticle to estimate range more precisely."
Alex's second shot was better, clipping the edge of the target's scoring area. His third found the center ring, earning a grunt of approval from Rodriguez.
"Progress," the sergeant said. "But you're still thinking too much. Trust your training, trust your equipment, and trust your instincts."
By the end of the session, Alex was exhausted both physically and mentally. Precision shooting demanded a level of concentration he'd never experienced, requiring him to control not just his body but his thoughts and emotions as well.
"How'd it go?" Jake asked as Alex loaded his gear into the car.
"Humbling," Alex said honestly. "This rifle is incredible, but I'm nowhere near good enough to use it properly."
"Yet," Jake corrected. "You're not good enough yet. But you've got four weeks of intensive practice ahead of you, plus whatever Rodriguez can teach you in private sessions."
"Private sessions?"
"He mentioned it to Maya. Apparently, he's willing to work with serious students on an individual basis. Costs extra, but it's the fastest way to improve."
Alex did quick mental math. Private instruction would mean more money—money he didn't have after the rifle purchase. But it might also mean the difference between embarrassing himself at Regional and actually contributing to his team's performance.
"How much extra?"
"Fifty dollars per session. But Alex, before you start calculating whether you can afford it, remember that Rodriguez doesn't offer private instruction to just anyone. If he's willing to work with you individually, it means he sees real potential."
That evening, Alex sat in his room cleaning his new rifle with the methodical care Rodriguez had demonstrated. Each component was disassembled, inspected, and reassembled with precision that bordered on ritual. The familiar routine was soothing after the day's frustrations.
His mom appeared in the doorway, drawn by the unusual sounds of mechanical activity.
"New equipment?" she asked, studying the rifle components spread across his desk.
"Precision rifle. For long-range shooting." Alex held up the scope, its lenses catching the room's light. "It's... significantly more advanced than my other gear."
"And significantly more expensive, I'm guessing."
Alex nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The financial reality of his airsoft obsession was becoming impossible to ignore. Between equipment, training, and competition fees, he was spending money at a rate that would have seemed insane just months ago.
"Mijo," his mom said gently, "I can see this is stressing you out. Talk to me."
The whole story came pouring out—the Regional invitation, the equipment requirements, the gap between his skills and his ambitions, the private training sessions he couldn't afford but desperately needed.
"I know it sounds crazy," Alex finished. "Spending all this money on what's basically an elaborate game. But it doesn't feel like a game anymore. It feels like... like preparation for something important."
His mom was quiet for a long moment, studying the precision rifle with the careful attention she brought to all of Alex's interests.
"How much are these private training sessions?"
"Fifty dollars each. I'd probably need at least four sessions to make a real difference."
"Two hundred dollars."
"Yeah. Which I don't have, especially after buying the rifle."
Maria Rivera reached for her purse, pulling out her checkbook with decisive movements.
"Mom, no," Alex said quickly. "I can't let you—"
"You can and you will," she said firmly, writing out a check. "Alex, I've watched you transform over the past few months. You have goals, friends, confidence—things that were missing after the divorce. If this training helps you succeed at something you're passionate about, then it's money well spent."
Alex stared at the check, feeling overwhelmed by his mother's faith in him. "I'll pay you back. Every penny."
"I know you will. But more importantly, you'll make the most of this opportunity. That's payment enough."
As his mom left him to finish cleaning his rifle, Alex felt the familiar surge of determination that had become his driving force. Four weeks until Regional. Four weeks to transform from a decent recreational player into someone capable of competing at the highest levels.
The challenge was enormous, but for the first time since buying the rifle, Alex felt like it might actually be achievable.
He had the equipment, the training opportunity, and most importantly, people who believed in him.
Now all he had to do was prove they were right.