The HK 97 didn't feed bullets. It poured them.
Her squad was dead. But she was alive.
Later, in the sterile white of the decontamination bay, a man in a civilian jacket with no name tag came to collect the spent magazine. He handled it with rubber gloves. Hk 97 Magazine
“Seventy-three percent helical tension retention,” he muttered, reading a data slate. “Better than the prototype. The 97’s double-stack, quad-feed geometry is inefficient in static storage, but under full-auto stress, it achieves zero friction lock-up. The spring is a carbon-metallic weave. It breathes. It adapts.”
The HK 97. Not a weapon. A secret.
The man paused. He held up the empty HK 97, and for a moment, the overhead light caught the residual heat still shimmering inside the smoked glass.
She slapped it into her modified G36K. The weapon felt different. Hungry. The HK 97 didn't feed bullets
Mei looked at her hands. They were still shaking. “Why isn’t this standard issue?”