>bored one day at home, as usual
>on Armslist and GunBroker, looking for something new
>see one that catches my eye
>Ruger 10/22 with accessories and many mags for $200
>nostalgia a bit, Dad had one when I was a kid
>we used to take it out and shoot it
>no idea what ever happened to it
>at that price can't really go wrong
>contact seller, buy rifle
>seller is out of state, has to ship to FFL
>FFL makes a big fuss about it
>has to ship it to another FFL
>have to wait 2 weeks while everything gets sorted
>finally get call, everything is squared away
>grab range bag with ammo, head off to store
>clerk pulls box out from behind the counter and opens it for me
>inside is my new 10/22
>it has a scope on it, something the seller didn't mention
>8 ten rounders and a... drum mag?
>clerk at the store says from the serial number he thinks it's a 1970's model
>looks like brand new
>with the combination of nostalgia and excitement I can barely wait to leave the store
>cradle box in arms as I leave the store
>pop trunk
>put box in trunk
“Took long enough for you to show up, but now you're mine. Let's go have some fun.”
>close trunk
>drive to “the barn”
>”the barn” is an abandoned farm a couple miles from my house
>no farm house, just a barn slowly collapsing on top of forgotten farm equipment
>I have a couple targets set up behind the barn, and police call my brass to not make a mess
>pull up to the barn and park
>grab range bag and gun box
>set up on the hood of the car and start loading mags
>mix it up to see what it likes
>three mags of Federal
>three mags of CCI Mini-Mag
>two mags of CCI Stinger
>after that, check over the gun to make sure it's okay to shoot
>berate myself in my head for not doing that at the store first
>everything looks like new
>there's a piece of paper wadded up in the magazine well though
>pull it out and unfold it
>it's a note, written in a spindly old-man's handwriting
>Anon,
>This gun is special. I'm sure you'll find out. Take care of her and she'll take care of you.
>[Seller]
>when did it get misty here?
>fold up note and stick in pocket
>check action, make sure it's clear and smooth
>load up first mag
“Alright, let's see what you can do.”
>start with 20 yard target
>BANG
>dead-center
>scope seems to be sighted in perfectly
>lucky it didn't lose zero during shipping
>BANG
>confused look
>look down at gun
>it has a lot stronger kick than any other .22LR you've fired
>maybe it's just my imagination
>BANG
>more confused
>that's definitely not your imagination
>hmm...
>BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG
>it leaves a line of holes up your target as it barrel climbs and kicks against your shoulder
>having to hold on tight just to keep it somewhat under control
>bolt locks open
>drop mag and safety rifle
>start looking it over carefully
“The hell is up with you? Is this why people get those heavy barrels and different stocks for these?”
>everything on it looks stock, from what you've looked  up online
>pick up one of your brass
>that mag was Federal, the slow stuff
>your bolt-action barely kicks with these
“I wonder if this is what he meant by special,” you think out loud
>would explain the price
>decide to see how bad this rifle really is
>load up a mag of Stingers
>line up on the 40 yard target
“Okay, slow breaths, take it steady, just relax”
>brace for recoil
>BANG
>just off-center
>hardly any recoil
>look down at gun
>baffled beyond comprehension
>maybe it WAS just your imagination
“I'm too young to be losing my marbles like this,” you say aloud
>the irony of talking out loud to yourself about not being crazy hits a moment later
>shrug it off and re-sight on the target
>Every shot is pretty accurate, and it doesn't have the weird recoil it had on the first mag
>Try one of the mags of Federal again
>gun seems to be behaving itself now
>mentally shrug it off 
>end up going through all 8 mags, then loading the drum with Federal and mag-dumping it on an old office Xerox machine next to the targets
>gun works just fine
>drum doesn't even jam, surprising considering what you read about them online
>load up everything back into the trunk and head home
>cart everything into the house
>set up your cleaning supplies on the kitchen table and set the rifle down on the cleaning mat
>great thing about that single life is you don't have to get static about cleaning guns in the dining room
>realize you smell very strongly of gunpowder
>peel off shirt, toss in hamper
>go into bedroom and grab fresh clothes
>start heading to take a shower
>as you walk past the dining room, you freeze
>there's a girl sitting on your table
>black hair with black hair band
>blue eyes
>glasses
>pale complexion
>looks to be 25-35
>petite frame
>wearing a simple-looking walnut-brown short-sleeve dress
>hair is messed up, and she has dirt smudges all over her skin and her dress
>she hasn't noticed you yet
>quiet as a mouse you walk back to your room and grab your handgun from the nightstand
>squeezing the grip safety off, you hold it next to your leg as you quietly approach the dining room
>she's still sitting on the table
>she looks half-asleep
“Um, who are you and why are you in my house?”
>she bolts fully awake and squeaks in surprise
>she loses her balance and falls off the table
>”What are you trying to do, scare me to death?” she says
>she has a soft voice and a light New England accent
“I could say the same thing. How did you get in my house?”
>”You carried me in. I was sitting on the table where you left me.”
>you glance to the table
>the 10/22 is gone
>you look back at her
>she clearly doesn't have it
>start to get headache
“Okay, I'm going to need some answers. Who are you?”
>She stands up off the floor and tries in vain to brush herself off
>”I am your rifle – your 10/22. Serial number 117-83684, born October 4th, 1978. What's your name?”
>hello headache, please move right into the frontal lobe
“My name is Anon. Do you have a name?”
>she shakes her head and looks at the floor
>”I've never had a real name besides Ruger. I have a fake name, but it's not the same thing.”
>ah, headache, you've invited migraine over to visit - excellent
“You... what? A rifle with a false identity? Lady, I don't know who is crazier, you or me.”
>you lock the grip safety on the handgun and sit down at the table, setting it down next to you before burying your head in your hands and groaning
>she looks at the handgun
>”Wh-what did you have that for?” she says nervously
“Because I thought you were a burglar or something! Hell, I still don't know who or what you are.”
>now headache and migraine are playing DDR in your skull
>she hops back up on the table and blushes slightly as she speaks
>”Unscrew my buttplate, it'll prove I'm telling the truth.”
>the table rocks slightly
>when you look up, she is gone, and the 10/22 is back on the table
>you grab a flatblade and take out the two buttplate screws
>underneath the buttplate there's a small compartment hidden
>inside that is what feels like 3 credit cards wrapped in receipt paper
>put the buttplate back on, then unwrap the paper
>inside is a North Carolina driver's license with the girl's face on it
>the address is a PO Box in a town called Mayodan
>the name on the license is Ruby Storm
>along with the license is a Social Security card in the same name
>finally is a small Polaroid picture of the girl with an older man, maybe early 50's
>the back is dated 1986
>the table rocks slightly
>a hand snatches the photo from your fingers
>”Don't look at that! That's mine!”
>you hold up the license and Social Security card
“How?”
>”I've got no idea how he did it,” she shrugs. “He never told me. He said it was so nobody could ever take me away.”
“So where were you hiding these when you're in this form?”
>she blushes and glances away
>”Well... rifles naturally have more hiding places than men.”
>A sudden thought crosses your mind
“If you can... then what about...” you trail off as you look at your handgun
>she follows your gaze, and then shakes her head
>”I don't think so. I've met a couple rifles like me, but I've never met a handgun like me.”
“If this is real and I'm not just hallucinating in between shots of Thorazine at the mental hospital, you're the first I've ever met.”
>she smiles, and speaks in a slightly teasing tone
>”You sure made a heck of a first impression. I'm stuck in a cardboard box in a safe for two weeks, then you take me out and run 130 rounds through me without even buying me dinner first, then you pull a gun on me.”
>even though brain is foggy from headache, you can still put two and two together and usually get four
“Is that why the recoil was so strong? You were doing that?”
>she flushes bright red and looks away
>”I hadn't been fired for five years! Things were sensitive! It's not my fault!”
>yep, this just went to crazytown
>stand up
“I'm going to go eat a bottle of migraine medicine and take a shower. I'll clean you afterwards and maybe I can make sense of this.”
>she hops off the table and comes up next to me
>”Can I join you?”
“What? No, you can't join me.”
>”Aww, why not?”
“Because I just bloody met you is why!”
>”C'mon, I'll wash your back.”
“Absolutely not. Stay here.”
>she pouts at you as you make my escape
>go into bathroom and lock the door
>grab migraine pills
>look at dosage recommendation
>take 2x that
>chase them with a pair of tylenol for good measure
>climb into shower
>let water run on your head until it doesn't feel like your brain is trying to gnaw its way out and escape
>hear a knock on the bathroom door
“Door's locked. Buzz off.”
>”Pleeeeeeaaaaseee?”
“If you want a shower so bad you can use it when I'm done. Buzz off.”
>”You're mean!”
>footsteps stomp away from the bathroom
>this sure has gotten interesting
>finish shower
>get dressed in the bathroom so she doesn't get any ideas
>come out and look around the house
>she's sitting on the kitchen table, pouting
“Shower's open if you want it.”
>”I didn't want a shower, I wanted a shower with you,” she says pointedly
“That's nice, I don't shower with anyone on the first day I meet them.”
>”I'm not just anyone! I'm your rifle!”
“And believe me, I still don't know how that works. But I don't rush things like that. I... I can't, okay?”
>silence falls in the kitchen
>neither one of us knows what to say
>awkwardly, you clear your throat
“Anyway, change of subject. I know I got you all dirty today. Would you like me to clean you?”
>she turns bright red, even her ears
>I didn't know that was possible
>”Y-y-you don't have to do that. You said you d-didn't want to rush like that...”
>you pause for a second, then realize what she meant
“No, not a shower. Gun cleaning. You're covered in lead and gunpowder.”
>”...oh. Okay.”
>did she sound disappointed?
>she turns back into the 10/22 in front of your eyes
>either this is real life or you gotta tell the doc to up your pills
>you do your best to shrug it off and sit down to the methodical task of cleaning
>45 minutes later, and the 10/22 is sparkling like a diamond
>not a speck of dirt anywhere
>you sit back and admire your handiwork sitting on the table
>the 10/22 turns back into the girl
>she's panting and staring at you with half-closed eyes
>wat
>she pounces at you from the table
>the chair overbalances
>you try to catch yourself
>head, meet floor
>hello headache, welcome back
>”Are you okay?”
>you look up at her
>the uncontrolled lust she had a moment ago is replaced with concern and tears in her eyes
“No, not really. My head hurts like hell now.”
>she helps you up from the floor and helps you walk to the bedroom, apologizing the entire way
>”I'm so sorry, Anon! I didn't mean to! It's just -”
“Five years, I remember, you told me.”
>you get to the bedroom and she sits you down on the bed
>”I'm going to take care of you. Stay right there!”
>as if you had anyplace else to go
>she comes back with a glass of water and some tylenol
>swallow those, and look up at her
“I think I could really use some rest. You're my guest, so you can have the bed and I'll sleep on the couch.”
>as you try to stand up, she pushes you back down on the bed
>”No, Anon, it's your house, you take the bed. Besides, I hurt you with my carelessness. It's only right. Go to sleep.”
>she softly kisses you on the forehead and walks out of the room
>you don't remember falling asleep, or even climbing under the covers
>morning comes and you wake up
>yay, no headache
>you realize you're not alone in bed
>she is curled up under the blankets next to you
>you waking up wakes her up
>”I'm sorry, I just couldn't sleep on the couch alone. Plus it was cold and I couldn't find blankets.”
“It's okay, I don't mind. I usually don't turn the heat on until after Halloween and I didn't even think about it. Sorry about that.”
>”Are you feeling better today?”
“Yeah, I'm okay now. Want some breakfast?”
>she perks up at this
>”Sure! What do you want me to-”
>you gently interrupt her
“We never got to the bottom of things yesterday, so right now you're still a guest in my house. So I'll cook for you. Bacon and eggs okay?”
>she nods happily and burrows under the comforter
>climb out of bed
>head into the kitchen and fire up the stove
>start making breakfast for you and her
>3 scrambled eggs each, plus bacon
>just as it's done she walks into the kitchen
>she's wearing one of your T-shirts
>she stretches and yawns
>aaand white panties underneath
>blush and glance away