Status Quo
And the consequences of breaking it.
0. The tension
The air stills. Nothing moves.
A faint sound of air molecules being expelled before absolute silence suffocates the crammed space in the attic of a derelict building.
Skin gently trades heat with the slightly rugged surface coated in an exotic alloy.
\\
This is it. It’s finally happening. Two and a half years of grueling work, lobbying, persuading, petitioning, pressuring, bribing, and, in one case, blackmail, coming to a climax in this stuffy room of what once was a Radisson, but now just a sad mockery of this God-forsaken country’s past, the two-decade-old, clattering AC unit pathetically meek against crushing heat.
1. The first contact
As the pressure builds, distorting the print of the index finger at a microscopic level, the curved part begins to crawl backwards, fighting against the resistance of the coiled metal spring and imperceptible imperfections in the hardened steel, stored energy going kinetic.
\\
I take in the poker faces around the table. The stakeholders — not a single one of them happy to be here. What’s about to go down will throw a wrench in their agenda.
The regime, perfectly content with the stalemate status quo. Any compromise would degrade their position, or worse — signal the downfall.
The rebels, cozy with their jungle hideouts and the weapons the entrenched trafficking of drugs and little girls buy them.
The rag team of politicians that call themselves the opposition, well-versed in screams about the suffering and the suffocating poverty of the twelve millions of their compatriots, but not extremely eager to start tackling actual day-to-day issues that being in charge of the country would imply.
And then there’s the sponsor. A proud gentleman representing a rich country — my homeland — taking credit for the brokerage of the peace in public, yet secretly rooting for its failure — the billions in sale of weaponry this simmering conflict brings in, too tasty to ignore.
I clear my throat.
2. The break
The threshold is crossed. The strained energy in the spring releases. In an instance, the resistance vanishes having reached a mechanical tipping point. A pointy piece of metal connects with a circular brass alloy plate, deforming it, jolting the substance within.
A point of no return.
\\
There are words to be said. Carefully researched, polished, gamed over and over and over again, until they’re not language anymore. They’re precision-guided vocal ammunition. A hammer that will drive the point across, make it impossible for anyone to oppose the process. Not without losing the pretense of working for anything else than the greater good of the hoi polloi.
I have no doubt the stakeholders have countermeasures of their own, ready to sabotage the effort. Any slip-up could derail the process.
They will not succeed. I’m here, and I’m more than ready to defuse every possible angle, rebut every argument imaginable, and carry this deal through.
3. The kickoff
The shock-sensitive chemical mixture detonates on impact, spreading the flame onto a nitrocellulose-based powder, converting it into high-pressure gas. Under extreme stress, a slug of lead deforms just slightly and begins to edge along the shaft, rotated by its geometry, accelerating to a staggering velocity of 850 meters per second by the time it announces its emergence into the open world with a deafening crack.
\\
“Well…” I begin.
4. The impact
The 42 grams of lead complete their arc in precisely 1.05 seconds, its initial direction carefully adjusted for wind, humidity, drag, deceleration, and, of course, the good old gravity of the Mother Earth.
\\
“...come ev…” I manage before my chest explodes.
5. The aftermath
The mixed steel and aluminum frame absorbs most of the recoil, while the perforated barrel bleeds the gas sideways, taking care of the rest of the kickback. Disturbed air molecules, smashing into each other, create a shockwave of sound that will carry for miles.
The spring settles back into equilibrium, while the barrel begins its slow drip of heat. A brass casing, initially expanded, partially relaxes with a soundless sigh, whirling away in a graceful arc.
Time resumes, the air now arid with chemical fumes of burnt propellant and hot metal.
\\
The echoey whip of a sharp pop reaches my ears before blinding pain starts to register. I get a second — not enough time to process anything — before my vision starts to fade, with an almost imperceptible smile forming on the chief peace sponsor’s crimson-spattered face the last thing I see.
Thank you for reading! There’s an audio version of this story, too. Narrated by Justin Fife. Press the button on the top to listen.
This piece is modeled on Barrett M107A1 rifle.
Pssst. If you enjoy my writing, my latest book, Perfectopia is currently just 99c on Amazon (or free with Kindle Unlimited subscription). It's a near-future techno-thriller about good intentions, runaway technology, and the quiet horror of a world that finally got what it asked for.
I love that Justin is narrating!
Very good. Very very good.
(Is that the right pronunciation of the name???? LOL)