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You amble through the ZIA RIFLE AND PISTOL CLUB, inhaling the crisp air laden with the scent of gunpowder. The rhythmic report of gunfire in the distance accompanies your steps. Your eyes scan the area, taking in a rather vibrant crowd. At the booths, seasoned shooters fire with practiced, fluid precision. A group of enthusiasts lean against a weathered old post, immersed in meticulously cleaning their firearms. Laughter and animated discussions fill the spaces between gunshots; this place is a true patriotic landmark.
You feel strangely out of place here, and it's not so much because you've never shot a gun before. There's an unspoken beauty about this place, and you can't help but admire it. The sun casts a warm glow over the rugged New Mexico terrain, contrasting with the metallic gleam of firearms and the subdued colors of various folks' safety gear. While you look around, a gruff, yet affable voice greets you from behind.
"G'dafternoon sir!" You whip your head around to see a jolly hefty man, clad in a t-shirt and cap both bearing the club's logo.
"Oh, hello." You smile hesistantly.
"Yer looking a bit lost there, pal. New around here?"
"Uh, yes, you could say that."
"I sure could," he chortles. "Haven't seen anyone like you 'round here recently. But that's <span class="mu-i">aaaaaaa</span>alright. I can get you started over at the table if you'd like." He motions to a long table with people signing papers and showing their IDs. What will you do?
>GO WITH THE MAN. He seems to know what he's doing. And you certainly don't.
>WAIT FOR HANK. You'd rather your brother-in-law show you around. He recommended the place after all.
>ASK A QUESTION. You've been wondering about something... (Write-In!)
>OR MAYBE... (Write-In!) (+???)
