"You're sure about this?" Dad asks for the third time as we pull into the parking lot of the Philadelphia Sportsmen's Association. The building looks like it was designed in the 1970s and never updated - beige concrete with narrow windows and a flat roof. The sign out front is discreet, no flashy logos or advertisements. Just block letters on a white background.

  "I said I was interested, didn't I?" My voice comes out more defensive than I meant it to. Truth is, I'm not sure at all. But after our conversation in therapy last week, curiosity got the better of me. That, and the weird realization that my mild-mannered city planner father has been secretly maintaining marksmanship skills my entire life.

  The parking lot is half-empty, just a few sedans and pickup trucks scattered across faded yellow lines. Nothing like the crowded lot at the mall across the street, where people are frantically starting their holiday shopping.

  "They'll need to see your ID," Dad says as we approach the entrance. "And I've filled out the visitor paperwork, but you'll need to sign it too."

  Inside, the building smells like cleaning solvent and something metallic that catches in the back of my throat. A middle-aged woman with short gray hair sits behind bulletproof glass at the reception desk. Her eyes flick between us, assessing.

  "Ben Small," Dad says, sliding his membership card through the slot in the glass. "Monthly maintenance. My daughter's with me today."

  The woman's eyebrows rise slightly as she scans my face. "First time shooter?"

  "Observer," Dad corrects. "She's just watching today."

  I feel a twinge of annoyance at him answering for me, but he's not wrong. I'd made it clear I wasn't planning to actually fire anything when he suggested this outing.

  The woman hands over a clipboard thick with papers. "Both of you need to fill these out. Safety waivers, liability forms. Standard stuff."

  Dad signs his quickly, familiar with the routine. I read through mine, mildly surprised at the extensive questions about mental health history and criminal background. One section specifically asks about metahuman abilities, with a long list of power types that might be restricted from using the facilities. I hesitate over the checkboxes, finally marking "None" with a slight pang of dishonesty. I mean, I'm not magnetic. I don't "generate uncontrollable emotion". None of this applies to me, probably.

  When we're finished, the woman buzzes us through a heavy door into a short hallway. Another door with a keypad, another buzz, and we're in the range proper.

  It's nothing like in movies. The space is clinically bright, with rows of partitioned booths facing a long, narrow shooting area. The concrete walls are pocked with old bullet marks despite the hanging rubber mats designed to catch stray shots. A few people stand in booths wearing ear protection, but it's surprisingly quiet - some kind of sound dampening system must be built into the walls.

  "Ben!" A balding man with a generous beard approaches us, extending his hand. "Didn't expect to see you until next week."

  "Switched my schedule around," Dad replies, shaking the man's hand. "Carl, this is my daughter, Sam."

  Carl gives me a polite nod. "First time at a range?"

  "Yeah." I shove my hands into my coat pockets, suddenly self-conscious.

  "She's just observing today," Dad explains again.

  Carl hands us both orange ear protection and safety glasses. "Even observers need these. You know the drill, Ben. Lane 7's open if you want it."

  Dad leads me to a booth halfway down the row. It's sparse - just a narrow counter, a small shelf, and a control panel for bringing targets forward and back. He sets down the black case he's been carrying and punches a code into the panel. A paper target shaped vaguely like a person slides forward on a mechanical track.

  "So this is what you do every month?" I ask, watching him unzip the case.

  He nods, laying out a cloth on the counter. "Maintenance mostly. I practice too, but that's secondary."

  Inside the case is his gun - Smith & Wesson M&P Shield, apparently - the same gun I've seen twice before in moments of absolute chaos. It looks smaller in this controlled environment, almost innocuous despite what I know it can do.

  Dad's hands move with practiced precision as he checks the chamber, verifies the gun is unloaded, then begins disassembling it. It's strange watching his fingers work - the same hands that fumble with the TV remote or struggle with jar lids suddenly displaying this unexpected dexterity.

  "Your grandfather insisted I learn proper maintenance before he'd let me touch a trigger," Dad explains, working a small brush through the barrel. "He'd say, 'A gun you don't maintain is just waiting to fail when you need it most.'"

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  I lean closer, watching as he cleans each component. The slide, the spring, the barrel - all named with casual familiarity as he wipes them down.

  "Did he teach you to shoot too?" I ask.

  Dad nods, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Leah'd take me to a range upstate when I was about fourteen. Your grandfather hated it. They'd argue every time." He glances at me. "He wasn't a fan of gun ranges. Preferred 'the woods' with 'watermelons'."

  I try to picture my grandfather - the gentle old man who taught me chess and slipped me Hershey's Kisses when Mom wasn't looking - teaching my father to shoot. The image doesn't compute.

  "Was he... like, into guns?" I ask awkwardly.

  Dad shakes his head, working oil into the slide mechanism. "Not especially. He just believed in being prepared." He pauses, considering his words. "You know. Poland."

  This isn't new information, but somehow hearing it in this context hits differently. I watch as he reassembles the pistol, each part clicking into place with precision. "Yeah, Poland," I mumble. "Does Mom know you come here?" I ask.

  "Of course." He sounds surprised I'd ask. "We don't keep secrets like that. She doesn't like it much, but she understands."

  When the gun is fully reassembled, Dad loads the magazine with rounds from a small box. Each bullet makes a small metallic sound as it slides into place. He doesn't insert the magazine yet, instead placing the loaded gun carefully on the counter.

  "So now you shoot?" I ask.

  "Now we put on ear protection." He hands me the orange ear muffs. "Even with the sound dampening, it gets loud. And you may be able to regrow your ear drums, but do you want to deal with partial deafness that for however many weeks it takes?"

  The muffs press against my head uncomfortably, creating a vacuum-like silence broken only by the muffled sound of my own breathing. Dad taps his ear protection, then points to the safety glasses, making sure I'm fully equipped before proceeding.

  He picks up the gun, inserts the magazine with a solid click, and chambers a round. His stance changes subtly - feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. He raises the weapon in both hands, arms extended but not locked.

  It's amazing just how much he looks like Multiplex. Like he's about to box someone. It's just like boxing.

  He fires three shots in quick succession. Even with the ear protection, each shot reverberates through my chest, a physical sensation as much as a sound. The smell of gunpowder fills the booth - sharp and chemical.

  Dad adjusts his stance slightly and fires three more. I can see the holes appearing in the paper target, clustered near the center. Not perfect, but consistent. After twelve shots total, he engages the safety, ejects the magazine, and clears the chamber before setting the gun down.

  He pulls off one ear muff. "Want to try?"

  I hesitate, my pulse quickening. "I don't know..."

  "Just once," he says. "So you understand what it is."

  Something in his tone makes me think this matters to him. Not because he wants me to become a shooter, but because he wants me to know what I'm talking about when I have opinions about guns. The same way he insisted I actually try brussels sprouts before declaring I hated them when I was eight. Or broccoli when I was nine. Or green beans when I was ten. And so on.

  "Fine. Once."

  Dad walks me through the basics - stance, grip, sight alignment. His instructions are precise, devoid of his usual tangents and qualifications. This version of my father speaks with quiet authority.

  "Both thumbs forward along the frame," he corrects, adjusting my grip. "Your dominant hand creates the pressure, your support hand provides stability."

  The gun feels like a mutant fetus in my hands - heavier than it looks, with a coldness that seeps into my palms. The grip texture bites into my skin.

  "Sight alignment is simple," Dad continues. "Focus on the front sight, not the target. The rear sights and the target should be slightly blurry."

  I try to follow his instructions, but everything feels wrong. My arms want to tense, my breathing speeds up.

  "Take a breath," Dad says quietly. "Half exhale. Then squeeze - don't pull - the trigger. It should surprise you when it fires."

  I inhale, exhale, try to steady myself. The front sight wobbles no matter how hard I try to hold it still. I begin applying pressure to the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  "More pressure," Dad says. "It's designed with resistance for safety."

  I squeeze harder. Still nothing. Then -

  BANG!

  The recoil jolts up my arms despite Dad's warnings. The sound punches through my ear protection. The smell of gunpowder intensifies. I lower the gun immediately, my heart racing.

  "Good," Dad says, though I can see my shot has gone wide, barely catching the edge of the paper target. He takes the gun from my hands, engaging the safety.

  "What did you think?" he asks as he begins unloading and cleaning the weapon again.

  "It's..." I search for words. "Very... Mechanical. Harsh. Rigid?"

  I stop myself before saying "not like using my powers." But Dad seems to understand anyway.

  "It's a tool," he says simply. "Nothing more or less. A tool with a very specific purpose."

  He finishes cleaning and repacking the gun in its case. As we turn to leave, I notice the few other people at the range - mostly middle-aged men, one woman in what looks like a security company uniform. They handle their weapons with the same matter-of-fact competence Dad showed. Not excitement, not fear, just focused attention.

  Back in the car, the smell of gunpowder clings to our clothes. I roll down the window despite the November chill.

  "So," Dad says as we pull out of the parking lot. "What did you learn?"

  I consider this. "That it's harder than it looks. That you're better at it than I would've guessed. That I don't particularly want to do it again."

  He nods, seemingly satisfied with this assessment. "Fair enough."

  "Why did you want me to try it?" I ask after a moment.

  Dad keeps his eyes on the road. "Because understanding the reality of something is different from understanding it in theory. It's easy to have strong opinions about things we've never experienced. Your grandfather used to say that power - any kind of power - isn't good or bad on its own," Dad continues. "It's about when and why and how you use it. He still says that, I just don't hang around with him as often."

  He chuckles at that.

  "Is that why you maintain the gun even though you almost never fire it outside the range?"

  He glances at me, a small smile forming. "Partly. It's also because some responsibilities don't go away just because you're not actively using them."

  I lean my head against the cool window glass, watching Philadelphia slide by. Oh shit, Rita's is still open? Did they stop closing for the autumn?

  "Same time next month?" Dad asks as we turn onto Broad Street.

  I consider this. "No," I finally decide. "But maybe you can show me how to maintain it sometime. Just the cleaning part."

  He nods, face still as a statue, but in the normal way, not in an odd way. "That's how I started too."