Paydays have always been the highlight of my weeks. The worst part about paydays is the fact that almost none of it stays put. Each one is portioned, separated, taken. Gone and spent the moment it becomes mine. This is the price of being an adult. If you expect to live in your own home, at least. 

Being an adult also means being able to portion your money correctly so that you are able to enjoy indulgences. Certain pastimes I enjoy, such as range trips with my admittedly small collection of guns and cooking, require a not insubstantial income to keep feeding the habit. Thank God I recently quit smoking.

It was not only the health benefit that was always being pushed at me from all angles should I quit smoking; one extremely welcome benefit is the extra money in my pocket. When I started smoking, smokes were only $2 and some change per pack. Now, unless I found some sort of deal, I could not find them for less than $6. With three to six packs a week, my paycheck was being spent more on vice than it was on hobby.

Ultimately, it was the fact that my lungs would reject smoking. I would try to spark one up and enjoy a few moments to myself at work, but would wind up coughing for half of it. So, being the remarkably intelligent individual I am, I decided to quit. Eventually. After that one pack was finished.

Okay, so it took longer than I had planned, but I still quit and put the savings into a partitioned account that I labeled the “fun fund”. However, eventually, and after eating quite poorly for a few weeks, I did manage to scrape together enough money to start looking for a Springfield M1903-A3. I had always meant to when I was old enough, from my time in the High School Armed Drill Team, but I never really got around to it. God knows I was nowhere near mature enough for gun ownership, either.

There was always something about that nearly timeless design, the perfect blending of wood and metal, that had managed to imprint itself in my thoughts as the quintessential example of a rifle. Maybe it was the way it caressed my hand when I flipped it for exhibition, or the resounding crack of walnut stock on steel that punctuated each coordinated action of the team. Granted, each model I performed with was a mockery of a true rifle; lead and concrete had been poured into the barrel, the firing pin removed, bolt welded closed, and the bolt removal lever permanently welded to “off”, so that none could ever fire a round, provided you could even load one, and the entirety of the exposed metal was chromed in some sort of additive that did nothing to protect the actual steel...but it was still the very definition of “rifle” in my mind.

Months passed, the fun fund grew, and nobody was interested in letting go of any M1903, let alone the A3 model, for less than $800. I kept searching, doggedly pursuing the idea that a $400 gun should be sold for $400 or so, and completely ignored the fact that I aced my economics classes with regard to supply and demand. Regardless of availability, I kept searching and eventually hit pay dirt.

Perhaps “pay dirt” is incorrect. I lucked out and got a lead on a M1903-A3, yes, but I also did not really understand what it was that I was buying when I signed on the dotted line. To clarify, I had known that wartime production meant that not all M1903 rifles and variants were manufactured by Springfield. I had known that there were others that were made offshore, such as Rock Island Arsenal. What I did not know, however, was the story of National Ordnance. I was soon to find out the hard way.

And it all began when my dream gun came with a $400 price tag.

--------
Purchase

Tracking down a serviceable 1903 proved to be a bit more challenging than I originally thought. Probably the most difficult thing to reconcile with myself was the fact that everyone seemed to have “unique” WW2 surplus guns, all original parts, custom fitting and bedding jobs, and/or sniper variants. Naturally, this means that the gun in question is instantly worth a bare minimum of four figures. Minding my wallet, because I need to eat and keep a roof over my head, I decided to pass on all of these “wonderfull additions to your personal collection of Milsurp!” (sic). It somewhat bothered me that all of these “flawless” guns were being sold in the first place. If any of these were so perfect, wonderful, and unique, then why is the owner selling “for less than it’s actually worth!”?

The entire issue of trying to reconcile one concept with the other was probably properly ascribed to a case of sour grapes, and, try as I might, I was becoming increasingly more depressed. My dream of having the embodiment of rifledom was slipping away, only getting more expensive by the month, because production ceased on these beautiful works of art more than 50 years ago. My situation was not helped by the fact that the fun fund was not getting as fat as I would have liked in the timeframe I desired. It always seemed that, just when I believed enough money was available, the car would break down, or Christmas would happen, or some other terribly timed financial drain would appear.

As luck would have it, I stumbled across an unassuming post that simply said: “M1903-A3 for sale. Good shooter. $400, firm. Contact for details.”

“Well, Hell,” I reasoned, “this is going to get away from me unless I do something about it.” As I began the electronic equivalent of calling dibs, a stray thought managed to find words. “What is wrong with it? If everyone else is selling their sporterized guns for twice this price, something must be wrong.” But, as the old saying goes, ‘he that hesitates is miles from the next exit’, so I decided to reserve the rifle and immediately send an email to the seller. I happily included my concerns, contact information, and hours of availability in the hopes of a timely response. Perhaps some logical reason lay at the root of this seller’s decision to auction off an otherwise perfectly functional piece of history. Perhaps I hallucinated the whole thing. Perhaps I needed sleep, because it was well after midnight and my shift began at 6 am.

I have no idea how I made it through the next day. Work was difficult enough when fully rested and recharged; work while half-asleep was more draining than I can easily explain. The best comparison is akin to there being enough coffee in your cup to get you started, but that would be all you get. No refill is enough, shots of espresso do nothing but make your heart beat faster, and it takes every ounce of energy to keep your eyes open. The event that definitely woke me up was the email notification from the seller.

“Anon,

“I understand your concern about the rifle’s condition. The fact of the matter is that I have medical bills that need to be paid, urgently. I tried to sell at average market price, but nobody bought it. Once I dropped it to the Blue Book value, you were the first one to contact me. Because of that, you still have first choice on purchase if you so choose.

“In regard to shipping, because your location isn’t in my state, FFL transfer fee is $30 on my end and $30 for insured shipping.

“If everything is in order, please send the $460 to [address redacted] via money order. Thank you for your time.

-Rowland”

“This is it,” I thought, “there is literally no other reason to wait.” I took another look at the money in the fun fund and wished it well. After all, this was literally the reason I even made that account. A quick trip to the post office, email of tracking number, and confirmation of receipt later, and I was bouncing off the walls with anticipation.


======

I must have looked like an absolute moron. I was cleaning rooms I never used, tearing down and rebuilding guns I had already cleaned out, humming along to video game music when I was waiting for the loading screen. I know now that it was all nervous energy, but at the time I was just too agitated to care. Plus, I believed I was getting myself an early birthday present. 

I suddenly realized that I knew only about the neutered guns from high school, and with that realization came a need to research. National Ordnance, the manufacturer of my soon-to-be-new-to-me rifle, had only existed for a short time before the owner died from cancer. M1 Garands, M1 Carbines, paratrooper models, whatever they could get their smiths to smelt and cast, they did. What I found most interesting was that the 1903-A3, the model I was looking forward to range testing, had not been produced until the mid 1960s. Even then, after production began, they did not discover that their hardening technique was potentially destructive until a few months had passed and their own workers managed to discover the issue firsthand. 

“Just like me to jump on something and then have to pay for it later,” I thought to myself. I reasoned that, if all else fails, I could always buy another, proper, receiver, then uninstall everything from the NATORD receiver and install it to whichever proper brand I bought. Still, I marked down the known faulty serial number range for possible future reference. Luckily, by the time I had found that out, the gun was due the next day; a payday, weekend day, and day of potential range time. 

---------------------------------------
Range Day

After dealing with the necessary paperwork, and an admiring glance or three from everyone in the shop, I was glad to be done with the tedious most part of buying a gun: the waiting. I was able to unbox my first bolt-action in the safety and security of a gun store that truly cared for their clientele. I was even allowed my own portion of the counter to make sure everything was in order.

Tenderly, gingerly, I opened the box that contained the object of my obsession from these last few years. Opening the small end of the unassuming cardboard allowed me to glimpse a brown paper wrapping something vaguely cylindrical. Excitedly, I placed the butt on the ground and removed the new old gun, much like one would unsheathe a sword. Then I slowly unwrapped it.

The simple butcher paper wrapping was not daintily removed. This Christmas present was ripped into exactly the same way as the Super Nintendo I got when I was 9. When the shoddy wrapping was left in shreds on the floor, I was left with a gorgeous walnut-and-steel amalgam of beauty in my hands. It was all that I could have hoped it would be. The feel in my hands was better than even my nostalgia for the days of the Armed Drill Team. The wood grain was more smooth than glass, the action buttery soft, and the trigger broke crisply with no creep...it was almost as if the 8.7 pound beast was alive.

After using the shop’s go-no go gauge to determine it was at least the correct chambering and headspacing (another one of those pesky QC issues, I had read), buying a box of ammo, and some cleaning equipment, it was time for the range. So, I packed up everything and went to my favorite spot: the middle of my friend’s ranch.

-------------------
Despite the fact that I knew I was alone, on private land, and far from any civilization, I still could not shake the feeling of being watched. Some part of my lizard brain kept telling me to verify my solitude. Despite my efforts to convince myself otherwise, I was still adamantly searching for the other set of eyes that I knew was watching.

After dropping my customary range fee into his inbox, in reality nothing more than a box of some extra ammo stored inside a barbecue pit at the firing line on his property, I took very little time to set up. I took the rifle came out of the case, tossed the backpack on the bench, loaded ammo, donned earpro, and set sights to 200 yards to try and hit a 12” steel circle 200 yards away. It took less than 2 minutes, all told.

That nagging feeling to check my surroundings forced me into a perimeter scan right before I sighted in. Still emptiness greeted my ears and eyes. Now absolutely certain that I was alone, I focused my sight, slowed my breathing, inched my finger to the trigger...slowly exhaled...increased the pressure on the *BANG*

The punch to the shoulder that I felt was one hell of a lot more than I expected. I fell over backward, losing my earmuffs and taking my hand off of the...rifle?

What the hell?

“Don’t look!”

Don’t look at...wait, who the fuck was talking? I sat up to get a better idea of what happened and was immediately greeted by a slap across my face.

“I said ‘don’t look,’ you perv!” yelled a girl who, by all accounts, should not be where she was...or sitting on my bench rest, for that matter. 

“What the…?” I mumbled as I at least tried to get my bearings. She was already backing away and covering her chest, which I just noticed was bare. It looked like her shirt was literally ripped off of her at the midriff and she was wearing the leftover shirt collar. “Who the hell are you? And how did you get…” I searched for the right words. “...Like that?”

“I’m your rifle, you jackass! And you just blew my top off!” I stood and looked around to figure out what exactly she was talking about, but what she said seemed to explain just about everything. The rifle was gone, she was sitting exactly where it used to be, and her hair was exactly the same walnut color as...the...stock…

“Bullshit.” I stood up and dusted myself off. “There’s no possible way a gun can disappear and a girl can just show up out of nowhere.” I turned a bit to the side to afford her some sort of improvised decency. “Now, if you don’t mind, who are you?”

“Like I said before, I’m your gun. Specifically, your National Ordinance 1903-A3, which you picked up from a shitty cardboard box earlier today, before shoving some gauges in my chamber that didn’t fit. Need I go on?” I gave her a sidelong look and considered what she was saying. 

“If you are my gun, then you know what I was listening to on the way out here.” I decided to test her and see if she was messing with my head, or if the laws of physics just bent themselves out of shape. I sorely hoped that the former was true.

“You were bitching that Pandora had “too many goddamn ads in a row for 5 fucking minutes of music!” She even managed to get my voice inflection right at that last bit, which was embarrassing enough.

“No way…” I whispered, turning to face her.

“Yes, way. Now get me a coat or something,” she demanded. I was still staring at her, slack-jawed, while she kept covering herself with her arms. 

Thinking clearly is always made more difficult when there is a mostly nude woman nearby; doubly difficult when she issues demands.

“I...uh...wait, I don’t have a coat. It’s South Texas. It’s 90 degrees, and it’s the middle of winter.” Maybe I would have to deal with having a gun-girl, or girl-gun...whatever the hell she was...later. “Isn’t there a way you can turn back into a gun? I can at least get you home, then, and fewer people would...uh...wonder what the fuck.”

“Ugh. Fine,” she scoffed. She looked away for a moment, and when I blinked, she became the rifle again. This time I could not argue with the allegation that she was literally my new rifle; I may not have witnessed the transformation, but she was literally sitting on the bench. As soon as my eyes blinked, simply blinked to keep my eye wet, she was gone and replaced by a gun with a broken forestock.

I stood there and mentally reviewed what just happened: “First, she claims she's a gun. Second, not just any gun, but the gun I bought earlier today. Third, and probably most importantly, I know I'm not in a drug-fueled haze because I never could deal with hallucinogenic shit. Ok, self...you can do this. It- uh...she? Fuck it, SHE needs to get fixed before you get more answers.”

I hesitantly picked her up and looked over the break in her stock. It had somehow separated in two distinct locations. One, probably the secondary break, was the space between the bare metal of the receiver and the top handguard. The handguard itself looked unbroken, so I counted this as good news. The real problem rested with the stock itself; it was cut just at the lower barrel band that held the upper sling swivel. What disturbed me was discovering the two wooden dowels and an obviously poor attempt at using quick-set epoxy that held the forend together. The two pieces of wood, still joined by the two barrel bands and the bayonet mount, slid freely along the barrel until it butted against the front sight.

The absurdity of my situation must have been messing with my head, because the only thought it had was a question of which issue caused the seller to undercut any profits in order to ditch the gun in the most expeditious way: the medical problems, the gunstock, or the gun-girl?
--------------------------

I kept mulling over my situation as I drove. First, and most importantly, I have a gun that I cannot shoot. This leads me to my second issue: the gun I cannot shoot is, in fact, a girl. Or maybe the girl is in the gun, except that makes little sense. Either way, I needed to fix the gun, which should allow me to fix the girl, which should lead to me shooting the gun, which was the entire purpose behind my purchase. Stopped at a red light, I looked in the rear-view mirror at the gun laying across my back seat and once again wondered how the hell I was going to explain a new woman in my life to my wife.

Deciding that it was too quiet in the car, and damning what my new gun thought of my music, I decided to load up my eclectic soundcloud playlist. They were songs that I had found while Stumbling around the internet, downloaded, and never found again. I did not listen often, but when I did, I always felt centered. God knows I needed to center myself if I was going to survive tonight.
(https://soundcloud.com/user82272525/sets/final-stand)

Twenty minutes, three traffic lights, two highway intersections, and one curious motorcyclist later, I was home. Thankfully, my wife was out with friends, so I was saved from an immediate explanation of my predicament. The brief reprieve only served to force me to immediately research.  A quick stop to stevespages later, I was ready to take the gun apart enough to zero in on the issue. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, rifle across my lap, array of tools within arm’s reach, and my computer displaying how to take the stock off, my wife interrupts me. 

“Well, hi! How long have you been home?” She asked as she poked her head around the door. 

“I dunno,” I responded, “maybe an hour?” I leaned back as I turned to face her. “How is Amy?”

“She’s good, so is John. They both wondered where you were, but I told them that you had stuff to do. Something noncommittal. Anyway,” she paused to grab a beer from the minifridge I keep in the room, “what’s the issue with that? You don’t normally spread out like that unless you’re gonna play with your guns.” 

“Yeah...as it turns out, she’s broken,” I responded. “The stock looks like it was cut apart and poorly pieced together. I think I’ll have another project on my hands, and this time I probably won’t blow myself up.”

“Oh, good. As long as you don’t….wait, ‘SHE’?” The beer bottle almost fell from her hands when she tried opening it mid-speech. I would be lying if I said I was unprepared for this reaction. My wife has a jealous streak, and it had been quite a while since it was last seen.

“Yeah...uh...about that…” I stammered, “see, this gun apparently is sentient. I had one hell of a surprise when I found out about the broken stock.”

“I call bullshit,” she accused. She even emphasized by pointing at me with her beer-hand, keeping the other fingers wrapped around the bottle itself. 

/She can call bullshit all she likes, but it still won’t change the fact that I’m your geist./ The words came from nowhere in particular, which was weird, but they also sounded exactly like the girl from earlier, which was weirder. 

“Oh, shut up,” I said, and then realized I had no idea if I was talking to my wife or not. 

She, however, did not even consider that there might be someone else in the room. “I’m not gonna judge if you call it a “she”. They did it in “Full Metal Jacket” and in “Firefly”, so I don’t see a problem. But,” she added after taking a swig, “I still think it’s bullshit.”

“I love you,” I said. I meant it, too.

/Tell her to pick me up,/ I heard from, once again, nowhere.

“She won’t.” 

“She won’t...what,” my wife slowly inquired. I suddenly realized that I was speaking out loud in response to a question that she had not heard herself. “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

I must have looked obviously afraid for my mental health. “Uh…” I hesitated, “The gun? I think? She wants you to pick her up,” I managed to get out.

“I’m still calling bullshit on the gun being sentient, so I hope that you’re fucking with me...for your sake,” she let the unfinished threat hang in the air. I simply shrugged and handed her the rifle. She, of course, grabbed above the cut in the stock and caused it to fall apart. However, she also paused long enough for me to know that she was hearing the same voice that I was. Her eyes widened, grip tightened, then dropped the rifle. 

I managed to get a solid grip before the butt smacked into the floor. Recovering my balance and position, I noticed that my wife simply upended and downed the bottle, then quickly tossed it and grabbed a new one. After popping the lid, she turned and stiffly walked away.

“Honey?” I called. She remained silent and kept walking. “Babe?” I could not tell if she was angry, but I had learned enough of body language to know that I should probably leave her alone for a while. Thus, I stared at the rifle in my hands and asked “what the fuck just happened?”

/I told her about me./  

>>>>>>>>>>>> 
“I really hope I'm not going insane,” I thought to myself as I turned back to the 

/Trust me, you aren't./

I immediately shut down further directed thoughts. I've often considered the possibility of telepathy and exactly how it could work, but that was only a mental exercise. This, the thoughts in my head, the fact that I did not verbalize my last coherent sentence but still received a reply, the immediacy of the replies...this was too real. Thankfully, I had already worked out a way for me to function in the event of mind-readers: I only needed to think in vague concepts and not in complete sentences. 

/That won't work, you know./ I had no scathing remarks, but immediately sent a mental note of displeasure and annoyance to the invading voice. /I can still tell what you're thinking, even if you don't use words./ Maybe if I- /nope, that won't work either. And the direction you're headed isn't going to work at all./ How- /the fuck am I doing this? I'm literally in your mind right now. Don't fight it, it only gets more embarrassing and pathetic. I'll answer what I can when we have time, but for now, I'm pretty sure you were going to do something?/

She was right. Damn her, she was absolutely right. I had not moved since turning back around after catching the gun my wife dropped, and I was staring at it. I must have looked dumbstruck, eyes glazed over, almost as if I had been gifted extra chromosomes at birth. With a firm shake of my head to attempt to clear it, I started to unscrew the floorplate retaining screws.

……..

Finally, all of the parts were on the floor. There, about two-thirds of the way towards the muzzle on the stock, was a clear cut that had been made. It separated the stock in two, was clumsily drilled into along the bore axis in two locations, and what looked like chopsticks were poorly affixed in place by cheap, quick-set epoxy. I had an idea of how to fix this, and although I was never a carpenter, I did happen to know a guy. I just hoped to not explain how a gun could talk.

Assembly took far less time. Odd thoughts kept bombarding me, though.
/You seem like you know your way around my curves. You've been with a real woman before? Careful with that screwdriver...you don’t want to scrape me there./

Ignoring her, I continued working and wistfully thought of my time as an ROTC armorer. Stacks of rifles locked into place, the heavy chain with keys on the ends, chipped paint from the cinderblock walls falling to my worktable, constant arguing that the fused bolts on these demilitarized guns were making it more difficult to work on them. /...they...their bolts? Fused?/ 

I pictured them in my fingers, that one afternoon I decided to act like I had Wolverine’s claws. /No...they.../ Congealed metal bound the edges of the bolts in my mind's eye. /Stop it!/ The real, unmarred rifle turned in my hands, but I saw the dented surface of the practice rifle instead. Plastic stock, crude paint, and gouged metal looked back at me. /I don’t like this. Don’t imagine this./ Crushed rocks and concrete left their marks when the student missed a catch. /Please!/ A vision of the breech, a memory of a curious junior armorer trying to see where the chamber ended and the concrete encased lead began, screwdriver plunging into - /PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP!/

I blinked. Where…? Home. I am home. I was fixing a rifle.

It was almost back together. 

I was missing the bolt. 

[post break]

My vision cleared. No longer back in the dusty concrete bunker, I turned and fumbled for the missing piece, acutely aware of its absence. I heard no voice. I was, at last, alone with my thoughts. She was gone. But where did she go?

I cast around to find that odd metal insert and was rewarded with the glint of dull steel under my cleaning rag. “How did you wind up here?” I mused, reaching with my free hand. On contact with the bolt assembly, I felt fear and an overwhelming sense of dread. My hand retracted of its own volition and I was once again left alone in my head. “What the hell?”

Confused, heart pounding, I began to tremble from the adrenaline dump into my system. I sat back on my haunches and forced myself to breathe. My hand shook like a recovering alcoholic’s. I stared at it, willing it to still itself. I failed. 

I knew what I had to do.

“Deep breaths. Just like that last time...deep breaths. You got this.” Eyes closed, steeling myself, I held each breath before slowly allowing it to escape through pursed lips. I went back in my mind and acknowledged all of me, my person, my mind. “Oh shit, this is gonna hurt.” I readied myself to mentally brace against the pain, against anything not me. I looked again at the bolt, gritted my teeth, and reached.

In the instant of touch, the assault began. Anguish came from my hand...no, not from it, but from that direction. I felt her attacks wash over me. Stalwart, I resisted. “This is my mind. I am master of my own world.” The attacks changed pace. The stream of agony became pulses of hatred. Lash after barb after thrown volley, she focused her pain into hate. This was far from over. “I do not attack you. I will not. See that.” Waves slowed, but hurt more. Each attack took more effort on her part. “You have nothing to fear from me. Believe that.” I projected my past memories into the breaks of her onslaught. I showed, or tried, my work of repairs on other guns. “You must believe me!” This was not good. Her fear crept into my mind, somehow passing my defenses. I forced images past her assailing emotions. I needed her attention. “I mean you no harm!” I felt her pull back. I hoped. 

/You hurt them!/ More pain hurled by anger crashed into me.

“I fixed them.” I showed images of the Springfields, at first battered, shining in their new stocks. “I would never harm a rifle.” More images of Springfields, starting as rusted husks and their conversion into healthy steel. The process of a full function check. Each image accompanied by a new wave of pain.

/Liar!/ She hurled everything she had left at me. I could not break, not now. She needed this.

“No. I am only me.” I sent my own wave of pain. It was small, just a memory of my Great Grandmother’s rifle, being fixed by my own hand. I was missing the bolt, and she was now dead.

She stopped. My gambit paid off. Her endless ocean of emotion retreated, leaving my cracked and battered defenses alone. Somehow, it felt less like victory and more like truce. My trance ended, the bolt grasped firmly in my shaking hand. With my other, I pulled close the rifle. I slid the bolt home and, with a promise to take care of her, leaned the rifle against the door frame.

My wife called up that dinner was ready to go. Slowly, and not without effort, I rose to my feet. 

Goddamn, I needed a smoke.

-------------------------------

The following weeks were a blur of research, work, husband duties, and absolutely garish nightmares. There was the regular smattering of being unable to find where I left my car, waking up in my childhood home with the layout completely different than what it was, even the occasional series of my teeth falling out and only being held in by grinding them back in place or having my arm fall off for no good reason other than I was a zombie. Those dreams I considered normal. These others were so far beyond my normal realm that my wife told me I had started twitching and verbalizing. She was being kind.

In one example, I remember running. My lungs aflame, pulse pounding, heavy footfalls felt in my spine, and I knew /fear/. Not the idea of fear; the desire to not look at a spider because there were too many legs, or the sudden burst of adrenaline when a hornet buzzes by because it could hurt, was nothing compared to what I learned of fear.

I ran. I ran and discovered fear, fear I ran toward. A small hillock, mere meters in front of me, would do. Diving to just before the crest, I halted. My arms screamed at the impact, but my chest breathed deep relief from the torture of running. I looked up from my temporary rest and saw hundreds of men running past me. One saw me, I know because he locked eyes and changed course. He angled in and reached out to grab me, his hand muddy and etched with grime, before his legs gave out and a bright red blossom erupted from his chest. He landed next to me, mirroring my position in cover, and his eyes lost their light. 

“WHITNEY! WHITNEY, NOOOOOO!” someone screamed. My hand reached out, grabbed, pulled him closer. On his right breast, “WHITNEY” was spelt in black against the olive drab of his shirt. I realized, with a certain horror, that Whitney was dead, and I had borne witness with my shouting. What noise I made was immediately swallowed in a cacophonous roar of bellowing men and rattling gunfire, punctuated by explosions both near and far, and that never-ending pain in my ears which spoke volumes.

Stinging, blinding dirt peppered my face and my world went silent. Cordite and copper mixed with earth filled my nose as I blinked away the soil, and I felt hate. I gagged, coughing my mouth clear of debris, and pushed myself up on my elbows. In that glance I saw the object of my hatred and felt strength flow through me. Fists balled, I pushed off and pumped with my legs, closing the distance to my enemy. If I was lucky, he would not notice me.

But I saw. Ever clearer, ever closer, his grey uniform stood against the black earth and my vision narrowed as my eyes widened. His hands busied themselves with ropes of ammo. He looked and bent down as I closed in. My teeth hurt from clenching and his face came into view. He tossed aside a box that I could now see was empty. I lined up my bayonet, vision turning red, arms locked tightly around my rifle, my spear. I leapt. Rage poured from me in a primal scream and his eyes...his eyes became white with terror, hands flailing out, failing to find purchase, and breaking inwards as my weight crashed into him. He tried, oh how he tried, to fight back, but he would pay for taking Whitney. My rifle, lodged in his sternum, would not let me move, so I reached down for my boot knife to exact my revenge. He lashed out with a pitiable attempt at a punch that, somehow, connected to my nose.

Color splashed my vision. Arms inexplicably bound, tightness across my chest, I heard a woman. “WhattheFUCK!?”...I knew that voice.

I looked down. My wife, not a Nazi, was under me. Her eyes held both anger and fear as they looked up at me. Forcing myself to relax, I took stock of the situation. She was in the full guard position, legs locked behind my waist, with her left elbow tucked against my chest. My right hand was cocked back into what would have been a haymaker, left hand on her right collar, thumb dug in and pressing into her pressure point. I was suddenly awake. 

“Uh...bad dream?”

-----------------------------

“I thought you stopped having those dreams after you learned to deal with that shit, sober.”

“I did. This one was different.” I took the coffee pot out of the brewer and poured us two steaming cups. “They weren't Iraqis, for one. They were Nazis.”

“Didn't your grandpa live through Normandy?” My wife was well aware of my family's military history; just as I was well aware of hers. At 2 A.M., I suppose she's either trying to wake herself up, calm down from almost being killed by her sleeping husband, or give me time to think. She sat, stirring sugar into her mug, and lazily looked my way. “Or was he on Iwo?”

“Both,” I sighed, “but on different sides of my family, and one was adopted. I'm sure that neither would have told me about it anyways, even if they were alive.” 

“Well…” she started, “where do you think it's coming from?” Her eyes bored into mine. It is remarkably difficult to stare off into space when your wife’s autumn-gold gaze pierces through into your own. It is more difficult still when she demands answers in that tone. It meant “I know you know the answer, but you need to say it.” So, I did what any good husband would do. I answered the question.

“The only different thing that happened is a gun that talks. One that called me an asshole and thinks I'm trying to kill it.” The coffee was bitter, but it was better than the bitterness I felt from that rifle. 

“Do you think it's trying to do something to you?”

“Don't be silly. Guns don't kill people.” I took another draught of burning liquid. 

“I didn't say anything about killing.” Once again, her eyes carved into mine. 

“I don't recall anything about guns driving anyone crazy, either.” I put down the coffee and reached for the chocolate. “Anyone that claims they do is usually mentally unstable and doesn't even know which end of a gun is the business end.”

“So, you've run across stories of talking guns before, then?” she fired, as she picked up her mug. 

“Not as much, no. But first thing tomorrow, I'm visiting Mike at the wood shop. She might stay out of my head if she realizes I'm not the bad guy.” My coffee was almost empty. I got up and headed back to the carafe for more.

“If Mike's as thick as the wood in his shop, he might be better off.” She held her mug out for a refill as well. “Maybe he won't have his mind walked into.”

“Hon, he's great with wood, but he's more like an idiot savant.” After I emptied the carafe into her mug I turned to the sink. “Even if she did look into his head, I'm not sure there's enough there to do anything. Cream?”

“No, thanks. Just sugar this time.” She pushed the sugar dispenser back into its nook and continued stirring the black liquid. “Did you ever pay him for that work on your Russian recovery project?” 

“The SKS?” I finished pouring my chocolate and cream, and started putting them back in the fridge. “He only wanted half, because it was his machinery but my hands. Maybe I can work under the same deal.” I started staring off again, occasionally taking sips of somewhat cooler mocha. 

“Keep this up, and you'll end up as some sort of apprentice. Anyways,” she added, downing the dregs in a loud gulp, “I'm headed back to bed. I know it's your day off tomorrow, but...promise to come back up?” I could never turn down that look in her eyes.

“Yes,” I promised, “after I'm done. I'll clean up a bit, too.” I envied her ability to go straight to sleep after having caffeine. It may as well be hot, flavored water for that woman. 

“Okay,” she said, “just don't stay too long.” After she turned to leave, I leaned back and tried to clear my mind.

There was a time when I needed to drink myself to sleep. It never bothered me, but it hurt those close to me. Physical proximity or emotional closeness, my drinking took its toll, and I hurt them in different ways.

No, I was never a violent drunk. Quite the opposite, actually. I would slur a little more, become a little unintelligible until someone told me I was doing so, switch to a slower but clearly enunciated speech, and then find a quiet corner to fall asleep. Violence would come from the nightmares. Worse yet, I would spurn friends for reasons I did not fully understand. 

Drying myself out, while uncomfortable, was truly the best thing to happen. I spoke more, joked more, slept more soundly, and actually had a better outlook on day to day life. Instead of drinking myself to sleep, I caught up on the reading I had been meaning to do. Instead of partying with peers, I engaged their intellects. I realized that I largely hung out with people that strongly cared for wasting their time chasing bottles, dragons, tail, or some combination of the three. Best of all, things started going my way more often when I was not nursing a hangover.

Resigning myself to sleep, I finished rinsing the last of the dishes and headed back upstairs. I could only hope my dreams would stay dreams. I dreaded the prospect of having a domestic violence charge against the same woman that kept me sane half the time. 

******

/You're taking my furniture, but you're leaving my body behind?/ The question was innocent enough, but I never expected that particular question to ever be asked.

/“Yes,”/ I thought back, /“because Mike only needs the wood. If he needs the rest of you, he can tell me.”/ 

Her stock, in pieces, sat behind me on the back seat. Her bolt cruised along in my pants pocket, which seemed to allow her to communicate but not transform. Lastly, her “body” was wrapped up in a soft carrying case in the trunk. Despite the fact that she was in my head, the idea that the guy teaching me woodworking skills would freak out seemed less appealing. 

/So you're afraid of a dirty little secret getting out?/ she teased. 

/“No, smartass. He already thinks I'm crazy for fixing up guns. I don't need him questioning his own sanity.”/ Parking was easy to find because the shop was literally an attachment to a house. /“Now, if you don't mind, I need to get your stock looked at by a pro. I'm not above turning around and leaving if you don't shut up.”/ My fingers hesitated to turn off the car for a brief moment. Hearing nothing but the final chords of Chevelle’s “The Red” on the radio, I took her silence for consent and turned off the car.

Scarcely a moment after opening his shop door, I heard him bellow. “DOOOOOOOOOK! How ya been, man!?” 

“Not bad, bro. Just, you know, fixing shit. Wait,” something dawned on me as I looked around, “how'd you know it was me?”

“Simple, heh” he laughed, “you said you'd be by first thing. So far, you're the first one at my door. Come here, man! Show me what the cat dragged in.” His eyes gleamed the same way a child's does when he knows he has a present coming his way.

Shaking my head, I lay down the stock pieces. “What if I got stuck in traffic or something, Mike?”

“On a Thursday at 9 a.m.? You're dreaming. Ooooh,” he cooed, as he ran his hands over the walnut, “what have we here? What's your rescue this time?” 

“That, my friend, is what some jackass sold to me and claimed he shot without issue. Apparently a straight shooter, no rust, but needed to be sold because of medical bills.” 

/Well, I heard, he did have cancer./

/“What did I tell you earlier about being quiet?”/

“From what I can see,” Mike slowly spoke as he inspected the pieces, “that jackass either straight lied to you, or told you the truth and then decided to cut this thing in half, then tried to stick it back together in the shittiest way possible.” He put both pieces back on the table and looked at me. “The good news is that I can fix it.”

“And the bad news?” 

“I want you to fix it.”

“Aren't I your only paying customer?”

“You haven't paid me full price for shit, so far,” he countered, “and you're the only one I trust to use my tools. Step into my office, kind sir,” he bowed with flair at that last bit and swept his arm to the side.

“Goddammit, man,” I sighed as I picked up the wood, “do I at least have the same pay scale?” 

“Of course! You pay for parts and take care of the labor, I get an early smoke break once I know you're not retarded.” 

“This sounds rather one-sided, Mike.” The production floor of his shop looked like an asthmatic’s worst nightmare. “Can you at least tell me what I'm supposed to be doing?”

“You, my inquisitive friend, are going to sand,” he paused and pointed to a table-mounted sander, “stick,” pointing to a pile of various sizes of dowels, “and set. I'll explain that last part later. For now, I need you to free those mating surfaces of that shit the other guy thought was a bonding agent.” He turned his back to me and started rifling through the contents of a nearby shelf in earnest.

“What about you?” I asked as I sized up the sander. “What will you be doing?” 

“Someone has to watch the register.” After finding a half empty pack of Camels, he started walking back to the front. “I trust you with my tools, not my money. Holler if you break yourself or something else!”. And then he was gone.

I busied myself by first figuring out which grit was on the sander and, being lazy, decided it would work anyway. Flicking on the switch, I heard the sander’s starting hum and then picked the heavier of the two pieces. Mike was right. The end looked like shit.

An even, steady application of pressure on the cleft end ground steadily at the crusted build-up. I happily sent sawdust into the air, checking for an even grain every ten seconds or so, until I was certain that particular cut was back to bare wood. I then repeated the process on the fore end piece. 

Once ready, I picked up three sizes of dowels to fit into the drilled holes. I was lucky that the first size matched perfectly. Once I determined how to fit the two pieces back together, I realized i had no idea how I should proceed.

“Well, well,” I heard behind me, “I thought you broke something when I heard the sander stop, but it looks like you did good.” Mike was standing in the doorway with a clipboard and a pen. “But now,” he dropped the clipboard and picked up his tone, “I can see you just don't know how to make a straight joint.”

“Promise not to tell anyone?”

“Only if you promise to learn,” he answered. “But, it looks like you have a good start. It looks here,” he indicated the places where the dowels joined together, “like you may have removed a lot of material. That can be fixed.’

“How?”

“Oh, yeah, you'll need this epoxy. It's got a 24 hour curing time, so it has to be clamped down good. Preferably in the same position you need it to be used in. Do you have the rest of the gun with you?”

“I...yes, actually, it's in the trunk. Need anything else?”

“No, just…” he mumbled, “this here...and that would be useful…”

The sun had marched across the sky to almost directly overhead by this time. I had already begun sweating as soon as I walked to the car. 

/Oooh. A big, strong man, grabbing my naked body, holding me down and tying me up? Is it my birthday?/

/“Does it not bother you that you're stuck in my pocket until you're fixed?”/

/Not if you hold up your end of the bargain. If you fuck me over, it's all your loss./

/“We both agreed, and we both know how I feel about deals.”/ I closed the trunk after removing the barreled receiver. That glorious air conditioned room felt farther away the longer I stayed out here. I hurried back inside, but spent at least a minute under the cooling air vent in the foyer. 

“Duke!” I heard from the back, “where are you, man? I ain't paying you to sit on your ass!”

I admit, chortled at that. “You aren't paying me at all, Mike!” I hollered back. Obviously, I had somewhere I needed to be, and began moving behind the counter.

“Oh, good, because I hate paying people when I don't need to. Is that what I'm looking for?” he asked, indicating the barrel.

“Yes. Now, how is this going to work?”

The process itself wasn't difficult. First, for protecting the barrel, we wrapped the metal in saran wrap. Then we mixed the two parts of the epoxy together and used a popsicle stick to spread it over the flat surfaces of the joint. Afterwards, the dowels were placed so that they could slip into the pilot holes of both sides. For stability, the barrel was first laid into the rear end, positioned and fixed into place, then joined on the dowels by the fore end and clamped together along the barrel by C-Clamps. Finally, some tin foil was added to the outside of the stock to ensure that the binding compound did not leak to where it was not needed. 

“Ok, man. You're good here, and it looks solid and clamped down. You shouldn't take that off for…” he paused to take a drag off his cigarette, “at least three days. You should be good after that to do...whatever it is you do.” 

“Didn't you say it was 24 hour epoxy?”

“Look, man, you can't rush cure times. You do that, your shit breaks and you're worse off than before.” To emphasize his point, he took another drag and kept eye contact the entire time. “I will make you pay me for being stupid if you fuck this up,” he finished as he exhaled his smoke. 

“Oh, okay, fine. You win. I swear to not do anything for at least three days.” Exasperatedly, I grabbed what bits of the 1903a3 were present and started heading to the counter. “How much do I owe you?”

“About 20 bucks.”

“Wait, that's it?”

There was that mischievous look, again. “I can always charge you what I charge the assholes that just drop something off and demand services within a week, you know.”

“No, no,” I quickly replied while grabbing for my wallet, “that sounds like the perfect price. Here you go,” I dropped a bill on the counter, “and you have yourself a good one.”

As he pocketed the money, his eyebrows scrunched themselves together in a way I've only seen when he was deep in thought. “Last thing, man. She's hurting, too. The wood is just a piece, but it's a painful one to fix, sometimes.” With that, he turned, grabbed his clipboard and pen, and disappeared back into his workshop.


>>>>>>>

I sat in shock for a moment. Mike basically flat-out told me he knew what I was dealing with, but refused to go in depth. I never knew him to hide something. He usually wore his life on his sleeve.

/He knows./

/“I can tell.”/ I gathered up the curing pieces and placed them in the car while I tried to piece together how Mike knew. /“Can you project thought to someone that isn't physically touching your bolt?”/

/No, not unless we've bonded./

/“How long does that take, normally?”/ Seatbelt buckled, I started the car down the street.

/How long does a campaign take?/

/“What?”/

/Ignore that. It takes time. Much more time than you, or anyone else, has had with me since my first shooter. Not just time in possession, either. Time when the shit has hit the fan, when survival relies on us working together. The two of us become a team, a single unit. When that happens, we've bonded. Even then, I have limits to my projection./

/“How often do you dream?”/

/What kind of question is that?/

/“An honest one. I'll tell you when you answer me.”/

/I normally don't remember dreaming. I catch glimpses maybe once a week, and a good one that sticks out maybe once every other month or so./

/“Any of those good ones happen recently? Maybe with Nazis?”/

/Yeah, but then I woke up because I heard screaming and a loud crash./

/“Who was Whitney?”/

/How…?/

/“Last night, I think I was in your dream. Who was he?”/

/My shooter. My first shooter. We went halfway across Europe together, until…/

/“Yeah, it looked like a mortar got him. Then, if I'm right, you just started stabbing Nazis.”/

/I am so sorry. You shouldn't have seen that./

/“Nah, don't worry about it. If you're unlucky enough to see into my worst dream memories, you'll see. For now, you need to get put away to cure. We're almost home.”/

/So, I'll be alone again?/

/“I'll talk to my wife. If she agrees, you can come out and keep people from breaking in while we're both gone. Deal?”/

/I doubt I can get a better one while I'm still healing, so...deal./

/“I wanted to ask. What Mike said about the wood hurting...what does he mean?”/

/He means that the wood we wear is much more than clothing. You saw mine as a ripped shirt, but to me it feels like part of my skin is flayed open. Putting it back together will feel like trying to superglue a cut back together./

/“You said ‘will feel’, as in, you don't feel it now?”/

/No, because I'm in your pocket./

/“Oh, right. Center of consciousness and apparently the nerve center.”/ Some assholes needed to learn to park, because they parked too far from the curb and too close to each other. /“Well, let's get going. Time to bring in your body and have a deep conversation with Duchess.”/

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Duchess did not seem pleased. 

“So, what you’re telling me is that it will turn into a girl when you put the bolt in the rifle?”

“Not...exactly. Well, yes and no. She’s already a girl, but she isn’t always in human form.” I knew what I wanted to say, but my words seem to fail me right when I need them. “Though, I don’t believe I would say she’s a shapeshifter. Not like those critters from Sam and Dean’s Unholy Adventures.”

“So you’re still at a loss to explain how it’s both a gun and a girl. That’s what you’re telling me, then?” Some mix of teasing and sarcasm came from the kitchen. “Because you sound like an idiot otherwise.”

“Babe, I don’t know how it works, but I know what I saw and heard.” Then my stomach grumbled.

“Fine. I still say that you’re flying by the seat of your pants. Maybe you should ask- Get out! You know you’re not supposed to be in here when I’m making dinner!” She lightly shook a spoon at me, but I knew she was serious. 

“I was just going to grab a slice of cheese, I swear!” The kitchen was extremely small, such that only one person can comfortably work in it but two people would constantly run into each other. This kitchen was hers right now and she knew it. “Maybe a drink, too.”

“No! Now, go back to the living room and play a video game or something. I don’t trust you with soup before it’s ready. You know what happened last time. But before you leave,” she added with a smile, “pay the toll.”

I grinned and wrapped my hands around her waist. “Oh? And what’s the toll this time?”

“Two.” 

“Two what?”

“Smooches, you ass,” she giggled.

“Okay.” The first smooch was nothing to write home about. “And two,” I said, as I lightly smacked her on the rear, led to another smooch. “Should that not be enough, here’s three.”  And then I ran the hell out of there.

A week would not take long, I mused. Work progressed, such that it was, and I intentionally left the bolt out of the receiver. She should not be able to feel time passing, right? Besides, I actually had a life to hold onto and a promotion to get. 

>>>>>>>>>

A week later, and I forgot to reassemble the rifle. I only remembered it after the second week, when Mike called to see how the fit was after it dried. I made some noncommittal remark about the wood looking great, seeing no flex or cracks, and then told him a lie about having to get back to work. At least I told him that I would call him first if anything happened requiring his expertise. 

Duchess was gone for the day by the time I came home, which allowed me to take stock of the recovery in peace. It was just as well because she tended to leave me alone when I was “messing with gun shit.” That was reason enough to love the woman, but she also respected the difference between “her time” and “my time.” That was one of the perks of finding each other after we both left individually smothering relationships.

I had left the rifle leaning on the wall inside the corner of the spare bedroom. The bolt, however, still lay tucked into the cleaning rag I last used, hidden inside an ammo can. I unwrapped the rifle itself and retrieved the bolt, but hesitated. What would happen if I just shove the bolt in? Would she just magically appear? Would she blow out a window, much like when she knocked me on my ass when I fired the gun? Worse, what would happen if she did nothing? Would I have killed her?

/You’re worrying over nothing. I hope you know that./

/“Maybe, but I’m also pretty sure this is all new to me.”/

/Look, being inside your head is all fine and dandy, but I really don’t like knowing all those personal details. Can you just, you know, put me back together already?/

/“Anything in particular I should know about?”/

/No, but I am tired of not having my own body./

All options gone, I simply rested the receiver over my knees, cradling the joint, and put the bolt back into its groove. The rest was simple muscle memory. A quick shove, a twist of the wrist, and a function check was underway and complete. The feel of steel sliding as soft as silk against the rails, the resistance of the trigger that broke with only minimal pressure after a short take-up, and even the re-cycling of the bolt felt more smooth than any other time I did a function check with the practice guns. 

A quick cleaning of the wood itself showed that the epoxy cured a bit darker than the grey it started as, but that it was also well formed and rock-solid. The barrel band also covered the wound nicely, and would completely hide the epoxy if it was held in place. I knew the easiest way to ensure that was to get a proper sling, so I made a mental note to acquire one of those when I ordered the matching bayonet. Inspection complete, I leaned the fully-assembled rifle back against the wall and sat back. 

Nothing happened.

I actually waited for a few minutes, too. I even grabbed a beer from the minifridge in the room. “Well, I guess whenever you’re ready, come on out. I’ll be downstairs.” Then I left. Dinner was on me tonight, and I had meatloaf to prepare.

Half the meat had defrosted by the time I heard any noise coming from upstairs. I focused on proper slicing of the mushrooms and heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs by the time I was done dicing half an onion. The other half was sliced and set aside before I heard that ragged voice from inside my head call out from the living room.

“Nice place you got here.” 

I looked up from a partially-ripped bread slice to see a brunette with her hair tied into an elaborate bun, facing away from me, and wearing a military-styled dark olive uniform jacket with matching trousers. I noted that the cuffs broke in a sharp crease above her meticulously shined black leather shoes. If anything, she looked like she should be teaching at an academy instead of walking around an apartment. I focused back on my task and quipped, “if that’s how you say ‘small,’ then yeah, it is.” I pulled two more slices from the loaf and packaged the rest back in its bag. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I, uh, no. But do you mind if I ask how long I have to wait?” She turned, surveying the furniture, and visibly kept her extremities close. She had also managed to place herself as far as possible from any furniture as she could, which was somewhat impressive given the size of the room.

I continued picking apart the bread. “What do you mean, how long you have to wait? Wait for what?” After I heard nothing, I turned from the finished pile of torn bread pieces and looked back in the living room. She was still there in her little zone of discomfort, unmoving, staring into the corner where the front door was. “Hey, you awake in there?” Waving my hand in front of her face did nothing. There was no facial movement, not even a sudden blink. I regarded her for a moment longer and then returned to the kitchen. I was nowhere near done yet.

Pushing the meatloaf into the oven, I set the timer for 75 minutes and stepped back to wash my hands. She was frozen in place with her feet at shoulder width, squared to her knees and hips. Her left hand held a barracks cover parallel to the floor, palm up and fingers curled around the brim, while her right hand was placed with the knuckles at the small of her back, all joints extended fully and fingers joined. The right elbow cocked out at a sharp angle while the left was flush with the ribcage. She did not slouch, but merely defied gravity with her posture, and sternly looked forward with grim determination. In short, she appeared as if she were headed to a Military Tribunal and was awaiting her sentencing.

“If you’re waiting for my wife, you’re gonna be a while. She doesn’t get out of work for another hour, it’s a 20 minute drive at minimum, and the food won’t be ready for a bit after that. I’d actually prefer if you, you know, found a place to kick back and chill.” I saw no movement from her at first, but she slowly relaxed. I decided that, with some spare time between now and when I needed to actually make the sauce, I had the time to watch an episode of MythBusters. “Feel free to sit down somewhere in the meantime.” I indicated both couches and the dining room table as I moved around her to get to the television.

To her credit, she lasted well past Adam attempting to blow up a beer keg before she broke her stance and went to sit at the table. I tried to engage her in conversation after that, but she never responded in more than a few curt words. She faced away from the wall, both arms on the table with her hands slowly turning her cap. I could see very little of her expression, but it was blank when I could see it. 

Time clicked down until I needed to start the sauté. I left the show running as I moved back into the kitchen, grabbing a beer in the process, and turned to look at the strange girl from upstairs. She was focused intently on the rotating brim of her cap instead of me, and I knew that any further conversation would be worthless. I had seen that look too many times before.

The sweet sounds of Adam giggling and Jaime cackling drifted through the apartment, occasionally overriding the sizzle of the onions and mushrooms in the pan. It was only a short time before I set them aside and began on the real star: the brown gravy and mashed potatoes. I kept checking on her during my cooking, but her look never left. “You know you can ask me anything at all, right? I mean, you’ve basically been in my head for a while now.”

“It’s just...well, you’re my shooter now. I know how you think of me.” She kept eye contact with the rotating brim of her cap. “I know you think I’m just a gun. A weird gun, but still a gun, and you’re mostly right about that. I know all about what you think of me. What I don’t know is what your wife thinks of me.”

I heard every word. I understood her logic, but I still frowned. “What does my wife’s opinion of my gun have anything to do with it?” The pan was ready for the flour, so I needed my vision here. “Why worry about that so much?”

“What if she doesn’t want me? What happens when the woman you chose to be with doesn’t like that you have another girl in your life? What...what then?” Bless her, she tried to keep it hidden, but I heard that quiver in her voice.

“I see. Well, we have a bit of time before we cross that particular bridge. Wait, is that why you’re dressed for inspection? That she might get a good first impression?” The sizzling of the beef stock made a lot of noise, so I needed to almost shout to hear myself.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, now it is. Though, I don’t know how far you’ll get that way. It’s probably better than showing up in a little black dress. She’d kill me where I stand.” Setting the pan gravy to simmer, I laughed and filled up another pot with water to boil. “Come to think of it, uniform is probably your best bet in this family. I’m gonna grab some juice, did you want anything?”

“I, uh, no.” 

“Do you eat, at least? If you’re gonna be my guest, I can’t be acting like a shitty host.”

She was still seated, but instead of fiddling with her cap, she was picking at her nails. “I have the ability to eat human food, but it isn’t necessary.” 

“So what do you eat?” The hard part of dinner was over with, so now I just needed to wait for Duchess. What good host would deny a guest some basic introductory conversation?

“.30-06 Springfield, preferably AP ammo. I don’t ‘eat’, per se, because it’s only for use as a rifle.”

 “You only eat ammo? I get that you only eat a specific caliber, but only ammo?”

“Like I mentioned earlier, I have the ability to ingest other human foods, but they literally do nothing for me. It isn’t like your body’s need for calories. Mine, my real body, needs cleaning and oiling, and my current form is more of a shift. I can exist like this, but I will always revert to the gun.” 

“Well, that’s news. What about why -” The sounds of the front door unlocking made me stop mid-sentence. “Show time. You wanna introduce yourself, or should I?” As I turned back, I only saw a rifle occupying the chair that she once did. My wife opened the door, and as she made to put away her shoes, I moved the rifle off to the side corner where she could wait without being bothered.

“Well now, something smells good!” She shed her purse and other accessories while making her way farther in the house. “What have you been up to?” 

“Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. Cleaned a bit, talked to Mike, started dinner, and got a surprise when I was putting the meat into the oven. You?” I was already back in the kitchen and working on the gravy before I answered. 

“Wait, what kind of ‘surprise’?”

“Nothing much, just a startle. Anything like that happen at work?”

“Not especially. There was this one angry bitch that couldn’t believe ‘we’ had processed her forms when she clicked the submit button, but other than fixing password problems and the occasional millennial doing taxes for the first time, nothing interesting really happened.” She came into the kitchen to give me a hug and a kiss, our returning-home ritual. “Muah. Do I have time to get changed before dinner?”

I have to admit that fixing dinner is remarkably difficult when someone is holding your arms hostage in an embrace. It’s worse when that someone knows just how to act so that your brain shuts off and you start to think with the other head. “Sure, we have some...time...to, uh, change.” I smiled at her with a wink. “In case you wanted to shower after-”

>BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

“Dammit!” I swore, as she giggled, “Looks like we have about twenty minutes before dinner.” Sighing, I took out the meatloaf and started on the “instant” mashed potatoes. Luckily, that only entails boiling water, so I also had the time to check the gravy. I heard the familiar noises of Duchess opening drawers full of God-knows-what and prepared the additions to the boiling water. I added a bit more, because technically we would have three people eating. 

“You know, if you wanted to resume Parade Rest, now is probably your best bet. I’m shit at-” Sudden movement in my peripheral vision made me glance to where she had been, and noticed that she stood back in her previous position, facing the stairs. “...at introducing people,” I slowly finish. Shrugging, I turned back to my task.

I pulled three plates from the cupboard, cut and plated the meatloaf, then went back to plate the mashed potatoes. The mushroom and onion gravy went into an open-topped gravy boat (obviously) and then I grabbed the salad bowl. My preferred salad consists of equal parts romaine and spinach, with quartered roma tomatoes, whole green olives, shredded cheese (or feta, but that belongs in a different salad setup), and a few croutons, all topped with a bit of italian dressing. The best thing about that salad is that it takes literally two minutes to have ready, so after it was prepared and tossed, I took everything to the dinner table and set three places. 

“Dinner’s ready!” I called up. When I heard her footsteps coming downstairs, I continued, “We have a guest for dinner, too.”

“Oh, really? Who-” and I could tell Duchess had rounded the end of the stairs and saw my wife staring straight at my gun. Confusion showed in my wife’s face, seeing another woman in her house that was nowhere to be seen earlier, and she was dressed in Class A, ready for inspection. She looked to me, then back to the mystery, and addressed me. “Oh, THIS is going to be a good explanation, Duke.”

“It’s actually a pretty simple one. She is my gun. My 1903A3, specifically. Remember when I told you that ‘it’ was a ‘she’?”

“Well, yeah! But I thought you were treating it like pilots treat their planes, or sailors and their boats!”

“Actually, Ma’am…” began the girl, but she was immediately cut off.

“YOU don’t get to talk yet.” Duchess was actually jabbing a finger at her at this point. “As far as I’m concerned, you were hiding in a closet until I went to change because you were doing shit with Duke behind my back.”

“That’s only about half right,” I commented, shifting in my seat.

“YOU better start explaining! What the hell do you mean ‘half right’? Is this some of that ‘half truth’ bullshit that you use?”

“No, actually. She was sitting on the couch when you came in. Earlier, she was sitting at the table, waiting for you to come home, and before that she was standing exactly as you see her now. She’s wanted to introduce herself for at least two hours.”

“And what’s this shit about her ‘being’ your gun? Is that some new kink that you developed?”

“No, honey. Just...watch.” I turned and spoke to the girl in front of us. “Can you shift, but remain standing? Not fall over and crack the tile or anything?”

She nodded an affirmative, and within the blink of an eye, was once again the rifle I knew and fixed up. One look to Duchess confirmed that her brain was stuck trying to process what just happened in front of her. The girl dressed in full military regalia was now a rifle with dark walnut finish, standing on its buttplate, facing Duchess almost as if in an inspection. Duchess looked to me questioningly, and I motioned for her to pick up the gun. So she did.

This was a point I was glad to have taught my wife how to use all of my guns, because she immediately proceeded to check and clear the bolt action. Satisfied that the chamber and magazine were empty, she continued to inspect the rest of the rifle gingerly, like it was a snake about to bite her if she moved too quickly. Completing her inspection, she once again closed the action and placed it back on the bottom, trying to stand it up. To her credit, it stayed for a few seconds before starting to lean. The rifle shifted to the girl, again in impeccable uniform, but she was leaning a bit at the shift and straightened herself. She looked in my wife’s eyes for a moment before speaking. “I hope that helps explain what I am, if not who.”

“It, uh, yeah. It answered, uh, some of them,” she stammered, “but you never did any of this beforehand.”
“Ladies,” I interrupted, “I hate to say it, but dinner is getting cold. And nobody likes cold gravy.” I stepped back to motion to the spread on the table, and Duchess moved around the soldier to take her place. I gestured to the other open spot directly across from Duchess for my gun to have a seat. I picked the side to Duchess’s right, and immediately poured some gravy on both the potatoes and the meatloaf.

“So,” my wife started, “since you’re obviously not a normal human, what exactly are you?” Food was passed around so that everyone had their chance to eat what they liked, and as we all readied our forks, the interrogation began.

“I am a gun. Springfield’s Model of 1903, third alteration, produced in 1942 by Smith-Corona.” 

“That sounds a bit robotic, you know,” I said between bites.

“I am technically a machine.”

“But, you sit here, speaking with us, and are eating food. How?” Duchess always was the one to cut to the heart of the issue.

“That is true. I can understand why you think I am not real, or could not be. In essence, you probably don't believe I should even exist. Is this true?”

“It’s pretty damn close. Because I married this bonehead,” I smiled at her reference to my many shenanigans, “I can believe a lot of craziness, but those all have some logic involved. It literally doesn’t make sense to have a machine be so human and simultaneously...not.”

“Then you probably want to know why I am.”

“I…well, I sure as hell do,” I threw out. 

“Right. I have no idea.”

“Well, that ma-WHAT?” I just about choked on the meatloaf.

"I do not know why I exist, only that I do. I wasn't born, but i was made. After being made, and learning that there was a difference in myself that wasn't mirrored in all other rifles, l found fulfillment in being a rifle. However, when I first started showing myself I was not, uh, a lot of people didn't like the fact that I existed. So I hid."

"You mean to say that people tried to kill you?" Duchess had paused a moment to take this in. Or maybe it was my meatloaf.

"No, not to kill me. They wanted to keep me for themselves; sometimes as a trophy, sometimes as a mistress. But no matter what, someone always wanted me until I went into hiding."

Duchess and I stared. Here was this woman, and God knows what she had been through because she was both woman and machine. Our eyes met briefly before I dug back into my mashed potatoes.

"By 'hiding', do you mean you let yourself only be seen as a gun?"

"Not just seen, but also heard. Duchess, do you remember when you touched my bolt upstairs, while you also held a beer?" She nodded the affirmative, but her mouth was full. "You could hear me speaking to your mind, and I could also hear you. When I hid, I made sure to keep my thoughts to myself. I could hear them, but they couldn't hear me. After enough time they forgot that I, as I am now, ever existed."

"That explains how you snuck out of the army," I mused, "but how did you get here? How did you wind up in the civilian market, or even in my house for that matter?"

Her eyes brightened a little but then quickly faded. "I was sold off to a company called National Ordinance in the late 1950s because everyone, even the armorer, thought I was just another gun. We were parted out, swapped into new receivers, tooled back into serviceable condition, and finally sold back out as surplus guns."

"How did you stay in one piece?"

"I didn't. Remember, my body is nothing more than a collection of parts. Me, who I really am, is contained in the bolt."

"Are there more of you out there?" Duchess, ever thinking of the big picture. "Are there other guns like you out there?"

"Yes, and we call ourselves 'geists' after the German word-"

"For 'ghost'," I finished. "Don't look so surprised. We don't only speak English here." 

"...right, and we aren't unknown. Do you remember the stories of people naming their rifles?"

"I heard about that in some boot camp stories. I never understood...wait."

"Exactly. In order to try and get us to show ourselves, people would name us and treat us like a person. Sometimes they would be as a confidant, or to help with some mental health issue by just listening to the ramble of talk. We aren't exactly common, but we aren't unicorns, either."

I leaned back in my chair and mulled over this new information. Duchess was still slowly eating, but I could tell she was also processing everything behind her green eyes. There was something she was trying to word the right way, from what I could see. 

"That doesn't explain how you wound up on sale at a price that my husband couldn't believe."

"He...his wife wasn't happy with the fact that he would talk to me."

Duchess only clicked her tongue and raised an eyebrow.

“No, I never showed myself. Neither to him nor to his wife.” Another empty pause. “And I never spoke back to him, either. He just…he either knew I existed or hoped for it. After she heard him talking to me about how he didn’t think she cared about him because he had cancer, she burst into the room and demanded I be sold because it was obvious he loved me more than her. She even went as far as to try cutting right through my stock and barrel with a saw, but thankfully she didn’t understand that metal needed to be cut with a hacksaw. So, after she messed that up, I went into a case until I was temporarily fixed and sold. You already know the rest.”

We both sat in silence as she finished. I chewed the meatloaf and my thoughts slowly, but Duchess was already ahead of me. “So why did you show yourself to my husband?”

I knew she emphasized “my husband” as opposed to using my name for a reason. If anything, this was a power play, and I knew it. I hate these kinds of things.

“When he shot me, he re-broke me. I still wanted to hide, but I feared being actually cut down more than anything else. I was new to him, and had barely made any mental contact. So, really, it was self-preservation, nothing more.” She had hunched herself during this, peering up to meet Duchess’s gaze through her eyebrows. Interestingly, she had started to pick at her food. 

“You know,” I drawled out, “she introduced herself by whacking the shit out of me. I was knocked flat on my ass, if you believe that.” Duchess’s eyes widened a bit, but I saw the corner of her mouth curl upwards. “Then, after screaming about how I should treat a lady, she shifted back into being a gun and fell over. So, yeah, I’ll believe her.”

“That’s because you’ll believe anything with a pair of tits and a decent smile.”

“Not entirely true! I didn’t trust that one stripper, and her teeth were straight!”

“As far as I’m concerned, that would be the exception that makes the rule. And you,” she pointed back to the geist guest, “do understand that you’re going to be considered a gun, regardless of whether or not you are in that form, right?”

“Yes,” she answered meekly. “Does that mean that I am to remain locked up? Kept in my weapon shift?” Her face looked drawn, rigid, almost steeled and prepared to hear the worst.

“No, you don’t. I’m not an uncaring bitch. Just don’t be a nuisance, and you can stay wherever. But if I catch you in my stuff, I have access to a bandsaw and I won’t hesitate to use it.”

“That will not be a problem, ma’am.”

“And don’t call me ma’am, either. It makes me feel old. You can call me Duchess. Wait, what was your name, again?”

“I don’t officially have one, just a serial number.”

“Well, what would you like to be called, then?”

“Elizabeth. I like the name Elizabeth.”

“Okay, then,” I said as I scooted my chair back, “Elizabeth, I guess that means that we’re roommates with the added benefit of firepower. That in mind, dishes need to be done. Come on, I’ll show you where things go.” 

“No, you made dinner, Duke. I’ll show Elizabeth some ropes.” She collected the dishes as she got up. The discussion had apparently ended. It was a short reprieve. 

The newly named Elizabeth was a quick study. Duchess showed her where the flatware and utensils went only the once. It was almost as if she was trying to prove to us that she would be a good roommate before we even cared to ask. Bearing this in mind, and skipping my usual pastime of dabbling in video games, I decided that bed was a much more preferred option than dealing with two women in the same tiny kitchen.

-------------------------

“I still can't believe you brought another woman into my house.”

“I told you before: I only bought the gun!”

“Right, and now that we have a new, shape-shifting roommate, you’re still responsible for having brought her in the house. Which MEANS–“

“That I haven’t broken any of our rules! You said that if I brought-“

“ANY woman into this house. Not just some bar bitch, not someone from one of your classes, or anywhere in particular. ANY. And she is definitely a woman.”

I tried to roll over, but it would have been easier to collect pearls from oysters without a shucking knife. “Okay, I can agree that I brought a woman into this house, but only through acknowledging that she *is* the gun. Not only does this mean she’s older than both of our parents, but that she’s stuck in some weird “Picture of Dorian Gray” version of reality.”

“Are you telling me that you think she is immortal?”

“Only as immortal as her gun self. Think about it. If Dorian was injured, the picture took the damage because THAT was his true self. If the picture died, or was seen by Dorian, the true self made manifest its destruction and Dorian died. I think that if her gun died, and I still don’t know what would cause that, then she would die.”

“Are you trying to argue that she isn’t a woman because she won’t die from being shot?”

I rolled back over and put down my phone. “No, I’m saying she is as she says she is. She’s a gun. Definitely more than a pile of metal and wood, but definitely not less. I don’t know. But the rule was NOT broken.”

“Okay, on that technicality, you get a temporary pause while the jury’s out. Don’t expect much more than that.”

“I never expected the current situation! But…be that as it may, you still know there’s only one woman for me, right?”

“There had better…” she adds, a slight smile on the corners of her mouth.

I slept well that night, even if I went to sleep a few hours later than I planned.

-------------------------

I dreamed again. Instead of simple, bizarre, monstrous dreams that normally came, this had a sense of order to it. 

First, my head began to pound, but not in the sense of a hangover. Something caused the intense percussive pressure. Second, I realized I was running through a field. It might have been a farmer’s plot at some point, but it was now pockmarked with craters and body parts. Deafening noise blasted from all angles. I looked left and right, and saw men in uniform run beside me, their rifles clutched tightly to their chests. Fear and anger and determination all flashed on their faces intermittently. Facing forward again, I saw what I assumed to be my destination – a ditch, across from which came the bright starbursts of machinegun fire. 

All effort poured into pumping my legs. Dodging the flying clods of dirt, I dove into the ditch. Men piled beside me and backed up against the defilade, clutched weapons checked and readied. Dirtied faces, eyes wide and teeth bared, looked to me, as if to wait for…something. A break in the gunfire gave me the chance I needed to lob a grenade and follow it with fire of my own. These wide-eyed men next to me took the opportunity to fire in the same direction. 

Through my weapon’s sights I saw sandbags and man-made berms with obvious machinegun nests. Small puffs of dirt popped all around them, and I saw silhouettes moving through the divots in the line of sandbags. Slowing my breathing, I line the front sight up with the target’s head and take up the slack in the trigger until I can feel the catch of the sear. The world slows, the target stands still, the trigger inches backwards, my shoulder silently prepares for the punch of recoil, and…


BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

I roll over, blearily looking at the alarm clock. “Ffffuuuuucking alarm.” As a reminder that it’s only a weekend, I hastily slapped the “off” button and tried to roll back over, but Duchess’ arms wrapped around me made movement a difficult prospect. “Why can’t this thing know the difference between weekends and weekdays?” 

“Because you like old shit that hasn’t died yet,” my wife mumbles in half-sleep. “Use a phone for your alarm and go back to sleep.” She moved a bit to let me get comfortable again, so I readjusted and pulled her back in to lay on my chest. Eyes closed, arms wrapped comfortably around my torso, she drifts back to sleep.

I, on the other hand, could not drift back to sleep. That dream was too vivid. The memories of my own service fought for dominance, likely to assert that they were “real” and not dreams, but the directness and how normal everything played out started to weigh on my mind. Sleep was definitely not on my list of things to do.

-------------------------

The car was only half-full, but I was already dealing with a headache that would make a hangover look good by comparison. 

“Do you have enough ear protection?” The question was flung, rather than directed, over her shoulder as she busied herself with rearranging the living room.

“Duchess,” I began, “I have both earbuds and muffs. I have enough ammo. There’s snacks in case I get peckish, and I have Gatorade and water in there, along with some BC powder. Now, you aren’t usually this invested in a range trip.” I turned her around so I could see into her eyes. “What is it?”

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but I could tell she was thinking about how scathing she wanted to be. “You are going…somewhere, alone, with /her/, for fuck knows how long. And you don’t see how this is cause for /concern/ for me?”

“I...okay, yes. I see your point. It definitely doesn’t sound good when you put it that way.” I dropped my hands and adopted a non-threatening posture, hands half-hidden in my pockets. It would not do me any favors to piss off the woman I love, not just because I love her, but because she also has a father with a lot of land and a backhoe. “It doesn’t sound any better to say I am headed out to the middle of nowhere to shoot the new girl.” 

Her reaction was telling of her mood change, because she finally smiled. I might actually survive the next night at home. “I know you mean it one way, but be careful that I don’t need to actually shoot the new girl.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her tied up, locked, and stuffed in the trunk.” 

“You sure know how to treat a woman,” she smirked.

“I’m not hearing any complaints from you.” I smiled back, and took the opportunity to wrap her up in a hug. “Honey, you don’t have to worry about a thing. Okay? I promise.”

“I know you have guns, and now another person going with you, but be safe.”

A thought struck. “You weren’t doing anything until tonight with Alice, right?”

“No…?”

That earned her a devilish grin from me. “How about you chaperone us? I know you haven’t come out since before the AR, and now we have a lot of different guns to try out.”

“Chaperone? For what…You know what? Sure. I’ll only go with you to make sure nothing happens. But, I’m going to do my own thing while you’re shooting. Deal?”

“Deal.”

-------------------------

Two hours, one pitstop, and twenty dollars for an open-air lane later, and I could finally unpack the car. True to her word, Duchess was doing her own thing with Facebook on her phone. There were only a few cases, each used as a double-case, and two trips’ worth of ammo cans, but it still took me about half an hour to fully set up. After double checking the last of the targets and walking back to the firing benches, I noticed that Duchess had put down her phone. 

“What’s on your mind, babe?”

“Just wondering if I should record this.” She glanced back over to the case where Elizabeth was held. “I mean, I blink and she’s there.”

“Well, I don’t necessarily care, but don’t forget she also has her free will. Just don’t post about it on Facebook, okay?” The locks on the case make a deep *clack* when being unclasped.

“Sure, but how do you wake her up?” We both looked at the open case, with the dark brown of the walnut staring back at us.

“I don’t actually know. I’m pretty sure you just…talk to her?” I had already picked up the ammunition and, lacking any stripper clips, simply emptied the box onto the table and started sorting them into groups of five. I had nearly finished wrangling all of the loose rounds when a hand I was not familiar with picked up one of the ungrouped bullets and turned it over. 

“It looks like mine, but why does it have plastic in the tip?”

“From what I’ve read, it has to do with consistent expansion after it hits the target.” I looked over to her, perched on top of the bench, with her feet on the part where I was sitting and her rear sitting in the case itself. “You know it’s kinda weird that you just, you know, appear, right?”

Duchess had frozen in place, eyes wide and questioning. “You, uh, weren’t there a second ago. Were you?”

“No. I was laying still in the case. I could only move when you opened it.” She placed the spare round back with the others, neatly making four groups of five rounds each. “We’re going for,” she glanced backwards, “about a hundred yards today?”

“How did you…?” Duchess managed to sound both impressed and confused. “You didn’t… Are you sure you’re even real?”

Elizabeth turned and directly addressed Duchess for the first time since cleaning up after dinner. “I assure you, I am real, but you seem to think I’m human. I am truly a machine.”

“Aaaand on that note, I’m putting on ear-pro.” I donned my own pair of over-ear muffs and handed another pair to Duchess. “Do you, uh, need any?” I held out the earplugs to the geist.

“Machine,” she reiterated, and flashed into a weapon again.

“So, babe? You want to join me?” Her eyes moved from the now-gun to me, and slowly curled into a smile. “He-he…I thought so.”

--------------------------------

Duchess, despite having grown up knowing how to shoot anything between a .22 and a 12 gauge, had never really liked shooting. “I know HOW, and if I need to, you already showed me how to use yours. Why bother practicing more?” Some logic you just can’t teach. She always enjoyed learning a new firearm, but I somehow thought it to be like advanced fingerfucking. Enough to get a rough idea of how the gun worked, but not enough of a base to rely on it when adrenaline spiked and your muscles were on autopilot. 

I made sure Duchess knew about the action (“I know how a bolt action works, Duke. Your grandpa’s squirrel-gun does the same thing!”), covered how the safety works and how to remove the bolt (“oh…that’s different...”), and asked her to practice dry-firing. After a few “rounds” I asked if she wanted to give it a real shot, and my ever-thoughtful wife insisted I take the first shots in case the new wood joint explodes. I love my wife.

/Please don’t explode on me,/ I thought. /That would suck./

/I promise not to hurt you more than you hurt me./

/Well, since you put it that way, fair’s fair./

Focused, and a little apprehensive, I loaded the first clip and closed the bolt. A sandbag stack here, stock and shoulder adjustment there, butt wiggle a few times, and I finally felt ready. I breathe in, breathe out, slowly increase the pressure with my finger, and can’t help but start to close my eyes behind my shooting glasses.

/DON’T YOU DARE SHOOT BLIND!/

My eyes immediately snap back open with that mental shout. /It isn’t like I want to watch the splinters going into my eyes! Or be caught staring at a half-naked girl while my WIFE is standing next to me with loaded guns right next to her!/

/For your sake, I promise not to show any skin if you blow my stock up. I can not, however, promise to not punch you if you do so./

/Fuck it,/ I thought, /that’s the best offer I’ll get./ I began the slow squeeze process again, keeping my eyes focused on the front sight, until the deafening BOOM and satisfying punch kicked me in the shoulder. I glanced to my left and saw Duchess recording with her phone and smiling like an idiot. A smile curled itself into my face while I racked the bolt and finished the remaining rounds.

“Okay babe, it doesn’t look like we have any explosions to deal with. Want to check the paper with me?” Hopefully, involving her somehow would get her more comfortable with shooting.

“Nah. Well, why not. I get to see how badly you did,” she giggled.

I brought the spare paper with me and learned all about what Duchess’ friends were posting online. I never cared, truthfully, because I preferred to be in person for dude talk or gaming. Alas, Amy and Gary were having a fallout while everyone’s reasonably sure that Rae is fucking around behind James’ back, but she only started to do that because James wasn’t giving her any, which usually means he has a side piece. Thank God I didn’t have to hear about what fresh hell Andy was going through because we had arrived at the targets.

“Where exactly were you aiming?”

“Right in the center, actually.”

“You didn’t get anywhere near that.”

“Yeah, but at least they all stayed in one little area. It looks like I was shooting high and a bit right.”

“Those are REALLY HIGH though! You’re almost off the paper! I thought you were a better shot than that,” she added with a sly grin and a camera shot of my first target.

“Yeah, well…new gun, unfamiliar sights, didn’t know where the zero point was, and-“

“Excuses, excuses. Do you need to put that new one up?”

I considered spending more time doing just that, then decided against it. “Nah, lemme just mark these out, and we can reuse the same target.” Marking done with an ever-handy sharpie, we headed back to the bench. I should have expected it, but Duchess certainly didn’t expect to see Elizabeth absently rearranging the ammo clips. 

“Shooting high, aren’t you,” she stated. Duchess and I glanced at each other when we heard that. “I was last zeroed to 200 yards. Why didn’t you ask?”

“I…never, uh,” I stammered. 

“I know. There aren’t many of us out there, and the ones that are don’t like to flaunt themselves. Before you ask, unless you change my front sight out for a different sight, you won’t be able to get a 100 yard zero.” She cracked her neck and stretched for a second before asking, “You ready for more?”

“What about windage? Anything I should know?”

“Windage?” Duchess asked. Like I mentioned earlier, she knew the basics but was almost lost with the fine-tuning of shooting for accuracy. I still would not like to piss her off if she had access to any of my guns. Or her dad’s guns. That guy probably had all of his tweaked to shoot a flea’s legs off at 50 yards. 

“Yeah, babe, it’s the left and right adjustment. Remember how I was shooting to the right?”

“Oh yeah…How do you fix that, anyway?”

“I have a standard windage adjustment knob to the right of the rear sight. Right now, at this distance, each click is an inch. How far off were you?”

“I want to say six inches or so…wait, Duchess do you have that picture handy? The one you took just now?”

As we looked at her phone and compared the rings on the picture to the rings on the paper we had nearby, a thought dawned on me.

“Elizabeth, how am I supposed to hit something 100 yards away if-“

“You aim lower. In this case, aim for the balls if you want to hit them in the heart.”

I had never heard her use that kind of language before. Duchess obviously had not, either. Elizabeth was oblivious to both our surprised looks and the fact that neither of us were looking at the phone any longer. After an empty moment of idly looking at the empty brass, she continued.

“If they’re closer than that, you don’t have to aim as low. So if the bastard’s about 50 yards, aim for his gut, and if he’s around 20 yards, you don’t really have to aim as long as he fills your sight. Same as going the other way from 100, you don’t aim as high, and getting back to zero at 200. Now, if you see a bunch of them 300 or so yards out, aiming higher or at the guy’s head behind him would work better.”

“Elizabeth?” Duchess asked.

“And if they- Yes?” she finally stopped, realizing that the world had come to a relative halt. “I was rambling, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Duchess drawled out, “just a little bit. How long have you known all of that?”

Elizabeth leaned back, sitting on the table with her feet on the bench, and stared at the sky for a second before answering. “I…don’t know. I guess I always knew, from the time I was test-fired during production. They tried to teach the soldiers some basics, but not all of them caught on right away. Sometimes the smart ones would just guess and work their way to a target using the puff of dirt as their marker. Other times, the dumbasses would just point in a direction and hope they shot someone. When they started using those Thompsons and Garands, us bolt-guns were held back and changed to fit service as a sniper. Now, their training stuck with them. They could adjust on the fly, kept cool even when shit hit the fan and everything went FUBAR-“

“Whoa, hey now. Since when do you use that kind of language?”

“Since she’s seen some shit, hon,” I replied. By this point I was seeing her in a new light. “You good to talk about that?”

“Yeah…uh, yes. I’m okay.” She stood up and brushed away some scattered brass, tried rearranging some clips of ammo for the umpteenth time. “We’re good. So, back to shooting, right?”

---------------------

“Can she hear us in the trunk?”

We were headed back home, range trip complete, after more groupings to show where Elizabeth was impacting. Duchess and I spoke little about her brief revelation while she was in the open, barely deciding that we would discuss it in the car on the way back. Now that we were in the car, even ten minutes down the road, nothing had been said until now. 

“She did mention that I was singing along to the radio that first range trip I had, where the stock blew off.” I decided against mentioning the exact circumstances for that particular interaction, mostly for my sake. “Also some specifics about bitching to Pandora. But she was in the case in the front seat. Far more padding between her and us now.”

“So what are we going to do about her, uh, issue?”

“You don’t have to pussyfoot around it. She has PTSD, probably pretty bad, and was just able to hide most of it until recently.”

“How did you deal with it?” Instead of looking at her phone or out to the fields we were passing, she had twisted to face me almost directly. 

“Before I met you?” I was not uncomfortable speaking about this now, but I had spent years on my own and in various toxic relationships.

“Yeah. I still see it in your face from time to time, but I know it took you a while to even get a handle on it. You never talk about that.”

Our drive was still going to take a bit, so my silence did not say I was avoiding the question. That was another reason I loved this woman: she knew the difference between gathering and organizing complex thoughts and apparently ignoring her. I finally did answer when I sorted everything out in my own head.

“At first, I hid behind my idea of macho. Fronted it, postured, façade, whatever you want to call it. When I left the Corps I was less organized because I was still too young to consider it. Didn’t have an objective. But I was old enough to drink, so I did. A lot.”

“That bitch didn’t help much, either.”

“Heh, no…no she didn’t. Anyway, staying good and not running back into the law is where you found me. By that time, I was already on the mend. I just needed someone to tell me that, despite my fuck-ups, I was not a fuck-up.”

“So, what do we do for her? What can we do?”

“First, we let her take her time. Once she’s comfortable enough around us, even if it’s just when we’re the only three in the house, she’ll talk about it. I have an idea that seemed to work with the guys I knew.” I smirked. There was very little chance Duchess would let it fly, but if it worked, it would get her loosen up, too.

What was supposed to be a long drive was made quite short by my plan to help out our unique roommate.

-----------------------------------------

“Okay, Elizabeth, you can come back out,” I called after we had unpacked the range bags. Naturally, with a blink she appeared. But instead of her more relaxed appearance she had reverted to her formal, almost boot-camp robotic programming. “Hey, chill. You’re okay, you’re okay,” I tried calming her with a friendly hand to her shoulder. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

“Nothing, really.”

“My ears hear what you’re saying, but my eyes tell me you’re lying. That, and I have way too many sisters to believe that when you say ‘nothing’ you actually mean ‘nothing’.”

“I’m good, I promise.”

I gave her a glance, then decided to drop it. This was not going to help her, and it was nowhere near what Duchess and I had decided to do. “If you say so. I’m going to game on the xBox for a bit. Duchess went to snag some food, and there’s beer in the fridge for you.” With that, I turned and left the spare room to grab myself a beer before starting the game.

Naturally, I choose a first-person shooter, and naturally it’s a World War 2 game. It held no particular place in my heart, but it killed the time as well as Nazis, and we all know that any good Nazi is a dead Nazi. Also because the online gamer these days is roughly 12 years old, I opted to take the scenic route and play the campaign. Plus, there’s a solid sniping mission, where I get to use a 1903A4. 

Somewhere halfway through one of the boring tank-assist missions I hear the fridge clink open, some rummaging, and then hear a bottle pop open. I have about another 10 minutes before I get to snipe people from a belltower, so I chug along and toss as many grenades as I can in order to finish the mission. During loading screens I toss back a swig or two and hear, barely, that Elizabeth has decided to join me in the living room. She sat on the other couch, but the point is that she is here instead of doing whatever guns do when they are left alone. Some people claim that they murder people, but that is a discussion for another day.

“Which game is that?”

“Call of Duty, World at War. You want to join in?”

“You can do that?”

“Well, yeah. Not everyone wants to finish a storyline alone. Let me get you the controller.”

She toyed around with the introductory level while getting used to the commands and controls while I went and refreshed our drinks. She was by no means good at the game, but the point was to acquaint her with it. 

“Okay, ready?”

“…sure?”

First missions are usually an easy level anyways, so making sure my newest gaming buddy stayed alive was not too difficult. All we had to do was take and hold an objective. 

“The game is wrong.”

This was new. This was also what I was hoping to achieve. “About what?” 

“Almost all of it. There were very few submachine guns, but every person in this squad has one. Another thing, this is what they call a squad? It’s five guys! That’s barely a team!” She looked like she was winding up for a longer rant, but Duchess thankfully arrived before that.

“Is she calling you out for being a bad Team Leader?” I heard from the entryway. 

“She’s explaining that everything’s wrong, starting with weapon loads.”

“And it doesn’t end there! This is literally the wrong way people would give orders, make radio calls, and even talk to each other!”

“Let me help you unload the car,” I said, turning off my controller. This let Elizabeth play solo, and she was already comfortable enough with the controls to keep her busy.

“How’s it working? She talking more about it yet?” Duchess inquired once we were out of earshot.

I laughed and grabbed some of the larger bags. “Babe, she literally just opened up before you got home. She’s only had about a beer and a half. And she’s also just barely started having a personality.” I tried opening the door to the house, but like the dumbass I can be, I forgot that I needed a free hand to do it.

“Just as long as she’s improving,” Duchess admonished while she opened the door. 

“THAT ISN’T HOW THE GUN WORKS AT ALL!”

Duchess and I shared a look and continued to unload in silence. Elizabeth, for her part, continued ranting about the inconsistencies with the portrayal of World War Two. Most of them were new to me, but then again, I never met my granddad and my step-granddad was only involved with Iwo Jima in a support role. 

I snagged two more beers and went back to the couch. “How do you know so much about the other guns in there, anyway?” I asked casually, handing her a freshly opened container.

“Because I was there. I may not have exposed myself that often, but I was always aware of what was going on even if I was just a gun. Besides, when I did look like a soldier, it was easy as hell to just hide the hair and look like a teenage boy. There were more than a few in any of the units I was in, and everyone was always dirty, anyway.”

“You don’t exactly look like you’re…uh…90 years old or so.”

She gulped back some more beer with the game on pause. “Thanks, but we guns don’t age the same way. When we break, or wear out, or explode,” she let out a snort and I caught her looking at me with a smirk, “and if there’s enough of us left to save, we usually get parts swapped back in until we’re good as new. After that, our only real enemy is neglect and rust.”

Duchess popped her head around the corner and said, “Well, if you still have time to drink and reminisce, maybe I could get some help with the stew. If it isn’t too much trouble. Or anything.” Then she was gone.

“Dibs on cutting the veg!” I exclaimed as I dashed to the kitchen. 

“Then…what can I do?”

“I need someone to cube the meat. Try to have them all be under half an inch cubes,” Duchess directed. 

As we moved to our assigned areas and duties, Duchess oversaw everything and kept the conversation flowing almost seamlessly. “So if you’re constantly replaced, how old are you really?”

“I was first produced in 1942, so it was a bit after Pearl Harbor but well before D-Day. I did make the landing, but I was wrapped in plastic at that point because that was the first time I went to the field for anything other than an exercise.”

“Those cubes are about the largest we need for the stew. There we go, that size is perfect.” Duchess went back to checking her pot and whatever kitchen witchery she did with it. “You said ‘produced’ in 1942. What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I’m obviously not a human.” I decided to keep my mouth shut because she was talking far more than we expected. My original plan was just to loosen her up with some booze, get her distracted, and then keep her talking about anything other than war itself. I also wanted to be quiet because I could only assume that anything I said about her obviously being a human would be taken as hitting on her, and Duchess is scary good with knives. “So, I wasn’t born. I was produced, just like any other rifle that Remington or anyone else crafted. Are these a good size?”

“Yes, perfect. The pot’s not ready, so you can move them to the side. How are my veggies going?” she called out.

“So far so good,” I answered, leaning to the side so she could see. I was almost halfway done and took the opportunity to break for another swig of beer.

“Good. Elizabeth, you mentioned that you were always aware, even as a gun. Did you know that you were different than the other guns?” I was so glad my back was turned and I was already doing something, because I would have quit just to listen. I was curious as hell.

“That’s…difficult to explain. I knew, in a way, that something was different. I knew that I could see and feel, but I didn’t have any control over myself. Or my abilities. I just..” she faded off, now forgetting that she was in the middle of a story. 

“What do you remember first?” God, I love that woman. “You don’t have to…”

“No, it’s fine. I never had anyone ask, so it’s somewhat…difficult.”

I was not going to interrupt if I could help it, but the vegetables were nice and diced. “Babe, veggies?”
“Yeah, right here,” she pointed as she moved to the side to grab bouillon cubes. After popping out two, she handed them to me. “One cup oughta do it.”

The number one rule in my profession is “build good rapport,” and I was not so sure if this was good or bad rapport. Bad or negative rapport is bonding over pain. That, while still rapport, is never as good as good rapport, things that make the other person smile or laugh. I mulled over this particular issue while heating water to blend the beef bouillon. 

“Well, okay. The first memories aren’t clear. They’re muddy, like a dream. Or a half-remembered dream, anyway.” Elizabeth’s slicing slowed a bit as she tried to focus on her past. “Honestly, it’s better if I showed you.”

“Hang on,” I paused the muddling of the cubes in the hot water and wondered aloud, “how would anyone be able to ‘show’ us a memory?”

“That’s actually the simple part. You know how we can read each other’s thoughts when you shoot me?”

“You can do that?” Duchess asked incredulously. 

“Well, yeah. Like that time you held my stock and I swore I would do nothing to hurt either of you.”

“I thought I heard voices in my head…”

“Right. That was me.” She finished cubing the last of the meat and looked around. “Uh…the meat?”

“Perfect, dump them all in the middle. How’s the bouillon?”

“Just about there,” I respond while grabbing for my half-empty beer.

“So. Okay. You can swap thoughts while you’re a gun?” She waved the wooden spoon in the air as she was trying to figure out how to phrase the question, almost like a conductor with a baton. 

“Not just as a gun. I can do that as I am now, but it can look like a séance,” she laughs. “Definitely not something for right now, but maybe another time.”

“That’s fair, because it’s dinner time when the stew is ready. How long is that, babe?” I ask as I trash the empty beer.

“Maybe another 45 minutes to simmer. If you don’t want to burn your faces off, you’ll need another 5 or so after you put it in the bowls.”

“Awesome. We’ll finish that next level and call it quits by then. Elizabeth, wanna head back and see how many Jerries you can bury?” Her grin was all I needed.

--------------------------------------

Dinner, as always, tasted fantastic. Duchess and I had to suppress a few laughs when Elizabeth burned her maw with the too-hot stew, but beer helped to ease the burn. Conversation stayed relatively light, a few jabs at the game we were playing, and Duchess claiming the superiority of Lego games.

“But Lego didn’t even close the third act of The Lego Hobbit!” I countered.

“Oh, they were totally going to do it because it would make no sense to leave it unfinished, but it’s not the dev’s fault that Warner Brothers decided to pull the project.” Truly, the amount of gamer knowledge she had access to boggles the mind, if only for the specific games she played. 

“What else was that kid’s book turned into? A radio broadcast?”

“Elizabeth, it was probably a radio broadcast, but I can guarantee that it was at least 3 different movies, a cartoon, and has plenty of spinoffs that are only tangentially related to it. Lord knows how much else it was turned into over the past….80 something years,” Duchess continued. “Wait, how old are you again?”

“I would be 76, but I don’t age the same as…”

“As humans, right,” I finished for her. “Hey, it isn’t like you’re made of the same stuff as we are. Or even made the same way as we are, for that matter.”

“Yeah, you said you would show us how you…uh…were born? Or came to be? Something like that, I was kinda busy with the stew. I remember you said it was like a séance.”

“I said it would only look like one, because I can transfer memory and thought through touch, but yeah, I can show you. It will be a bit weird for you, though.”

“Weird? How do you mean?” Duchess asked, leaning forward.

“Okay,” Elizabeth began, “you know how when you remember something, something really strong, and you recall it moment by moment? How you forget that there is a world and time that you are currently in, and get lost in that thought?”

“Yeah, I call that spacing out.”

“You mean your natural state of being, Duke?” 

“…huh? You were saying something, babe?” I grinned.

Elizabeth, to her credit, did not try to interrupt. When we finally stopped ribbing each other, she continued. “Those thoughts are -yours-, and it that way you are able to recognize what will happen next and skip forward if you want.”

“Kinda like a movie on DVD or tape,” Duchess agreed.

“Yes, except this time, you won’t have control. I will be showing you, and you’ll be along for the memory. So you will see what I saw, how I saw it, and in the same order.”

“The ride never ends,” I quipped. Duchess responded by hitting me in the shoulder. I deserved it. “So how do we set this up?”

“We, uh, join hands. We’re already sitting around the table. So, hold my hand, both of you, and close your eyes, and just…clear your head.” Her voice drifted, became less present, and started to lose her singular location as it enveloped us to become thought.

------------------------

Loud banging, like a blacksmith’s shop, rang incessantly. Darkness surrounded us, me, I…wait, I was alone. 

/Where am I?/ I heard Duchess ask.

/Both of you are in my earliest memory. You can’t feel each other because it is -my- memory./

We waited, then felt a ghost pain. Something beat into us, me, from all sides. Heat scorched, beatings came, ear-splitting noises and bone-piercing drills bored into me. 

/AAAAAAAHHHHHH! WHAT IS HAPPENING?/ I hurt such that I was unsure if I or my wife had screamed, and frankly, I could not care, so long as the pain stopped.

/They are creating me. The bolt, really, -is- me. It holds my memory. You are seeing as I saw, and feeling my birth./

I had always been told that birthing pains would kill a man if he were to feel them, but hearing Duchess’ screams of pain told me that she would probably have killed any man that was nearby anyway. Thankfully, the pain and noise stopped just long enough to notice that I could see. It was murky, compared to what I could normally see at home, but I noticed sparks in front of me. Sparks that outlined a large shape, which I could see a vaguely human resemblance.

I was not alone. Dozens of other, extremely similar shapes to mine sat next to me, and another copy dropped into the pile each time the sparks stopped. We moved, finally, into another room. Loud grinding blasted into me as the door opened and it tore into my very soul as does the sound of a dentist’s drill, but this was a sound I -felt- more than heard. My pile steadily shrank as the machinist grabbed each blank, fitted it into a much larger machine, and pressed a button. The sounds increased, then died after a moment. Then, I was picked.

/MAKE IT STOP!/ I screamed. 

/I’m sorry…I can’t. This is what I felt. You will understand soon. For now, you will feel as I did./

Grinding, burning pain, bad enough that a nasty case of road rash would be more preferable. I (and Duchess? Or Duchess?) kept screaming but the machinist heard nothing. This was pure torture.

/Remember, this was all I knew of life. My life -was- pain. Brief respite from pain, then more of it. It gets better, I promise. Just a bit longer./

She lied, I thought, it was never going to end. I knew nothing of how long I was being ground down. Blinding pain systematically moved all over me, all over everything that I was able to feel as me. Time enough passed, though, and eventually I was released from the pain. A new pile greeted me as I fell from the machinist’s grip. It is entirely possible he tossed me after removing me from that machine. Either way, I now took another moment to breathe and look around.

I could see more clearly! Instead of a shower of sparks shining light on the world, I saw the back of the room! Looking about, I saw that I recently left a milling machine. 

/Why can I see more?/ I asked.

/You can also hear better and feel more than pain. That mill made you more complete, closer to the finished product. The other blanks are being fitted, same as you. The assembly line is next./

Something dumped my pile onto a conveyer belt. Hands, rough from years of work, expertly grabbed my form and fitted something into me before tossing me back on the belt. Another pair of hands, unnaturally quick from the time dedicated to the mindless autonomy, snapped more devices into and onto me. The process continued, each iteration expanding my awareness just a bit more than before. Something…was not right. Not yet.

Finally, at long last, I felt finished. /I’m done!/ I cried out.

/No, not yet. Wait./

She was right. Yes, the bolt itself had been completed. Yes, the fittings finally fit, but I did not feel complete. What was missing?

The other bolts, now assembled, sat waiting next to me in that pile. Instead of being dumped into another box, we were organized by another person in this never-ending line. Neat, orderly rows now marked where we stood in the box. 

“Function check! New bolts, ready?” called out one voice.

“Move them! I’ve got room, table on my left. Take the ones on my right,” came the response.

The box moved to the indicated area, but I felt something in that box that left after we were set down. A kindred spirit? Who else would have that kind of feeling around them? I could hear and see the machinists and workers, but there, in that other box, I truly -felt- a presence.

Click, clack, BANG!

/Test firing? I knew they had to at the factory, but this is something I’ve never felt before,/ I asked.

/Yes. Feel it. This, I think, is where it happens./

/Wait, you only-/

I never got a chance to finish the thought. The tester had grabbed me by this point, began checking me with calipers, wrote some notes in his book, and loaded me into a rifle. I felt him adjusting something, something that made me feel better. I can only make a reference to feeling self-adjusting clothes for the best possible fit. Finally, I sensed he was finished. My anticipation rose, and if I could sweat, I would have.

The chamber opened and held a newly placed bullet. His hand pushed and I grabbed the casing. I clicked closed, feeling somehow primed, and felt that moment before the roller coaster drops but after the front seat has gone over the ledge. 

BANG!

LIFE flooded through me! My eyes truly opened, power coursed through my being, the sounds and echoes of my scream…my scream? I did not remember screaming, but the joy of feeling completed was more explosive than anything I had ever done! I threw the empty casing away as it meant nothing to me. Does your engine care about the fuel it burns as it turns the crank? Does your stomach care as it digests food? No, all that mattered was that I had -more- to replace it. I craved it, I -needed- it.

Click, clack, BANG!
Clack, click, click, clack, BANG!
Clack, click, click, clack…click.

That last click left me empty. Torn. Almost…broken.

Placed in a pile on the other side of the tester, I see the him grab the next bolt and rifle in the lines. I remember. That was where I was mere moments ago, still dead, sleeping, yet to awaken. It could…it could live!

The tester continued his routine. Nothing had changed to him; he did not feel what happened to me, and he would not feel what happened to the new rifle in his hands even as he joined the bolt and receiver. 

Click, clack, BANG!
Clack, click, click, clack, BANG!
Clack, click, click, clack…click.

Nothing. Nothing came from that rifle except for smoke. Not that rifle, nor any of the others in the pile of bolts that came in with me. I hoped to feel another life, another like me, another awakening, but I only felt despair. Even the other presence from the box before, the one that was taken after I was brought in, did not have that breath of existence flowing from it. Only emptiness tainted by hope. By the last bolt, the last rifle test, the final notes being taken, I broke.

Loneliness had invaded. 

I existed, but I was alone. The pain of the fire, the hammer, sander, even the drill…none of them compared. My soul cried in pain. I had no mouth, but I -must scream.-

So scream I did.

Pain, sadness, anger, fear…everything negative emotion I have ever felt, I compressed and funneled through that ethereal wail. I kept that note, emptying myself, draining into it all the failed hope that I would not be alone, until I could no longer support myself. I fell and hit the wall with my back, sliding, moaning, all the way to the floor. I had to. Nobody else would mourn the lives that would not happen, those lives like mine, who would never know the joy and power of life. I screamed for so long that I had no strength left. Behind me, I heard the first words I ever heard as a living being.
 
"Oh, shit."

-------------

I jolted back, letting go of Elizabeth. Duchess did the same and I saw an expression of fear, sorrow, pain, and confusion. I am almost certain I mirrored her exactly. “What…was that?” she almost accused.

“I told you, you would feel what I felt. It was my memory. That, that whole process, is how I came to be.” Elizabeth spoke more softly now. Her eyes downcast, hands folded, shoulders hunched. “You did ask, and I complied. I’m…sorry.”

I had never before been so scared of an experience that was not even mine, but at the same time, I had never before been so happy to know that she came through it with her mind intact. “How long were you…human, or whatever, before you went back?”

“No more than a few seconds. After I heard the tester, I froze. I froze and became the gun again. That taught me that I could hide.”

“When did you come back out?” I pressed.

“Months later. The factory workers chalked up the ‘screaming ghost’ to a superstition, which probably saved me from being torn apart. After I was transferred to an armory I started practicing shifting when nobody was around. Later, after I hit the front, was when I shifted and blended in as a human. My shooter…” Her eyes kept drifting away into the distance the longer she spoke. I could swear I saw tears forming.

“I remember him, you shared that in your dream. You don’t need to get into it.” My head pounded and my mouth had dried up. I needed a beer.

“Right. Well, after him, I acted like I was one of the combat replacements in the unit. I had to hide in plain sight until we were shipping back. Then, one night, I shifted back into the gun, slept, and some dumb Joe decided to take me as a trophy. That was why my stock was cut. I was brought back, sold in a lot at his estate sale, and essentially waited. I couldn’t show myself, that was asking for death by this point.”

Duchess, catching her bearings, finally spoke up. “Is it even possible for you to die?”

“I…don’t know. But I don’t want to find out.”

“Why me?” I asked, between swigs of beer. “Why show yourself? To me, of all people?”

“You…” she searched my face. Once she found what she wanted, she continued. “You knew. And I knew you could be trusted.”

“I knew? I didn’t know shit until you punched the shit out of me.”

“Simmons?” Oh fuck. “Eisentraeger?” Goddammit, no… “Bar-“

“I get the point,” I snapped. “Please, don’t keep going. I’m sure you have me beat, anyway.” 

To her credit, Duchess stayed silent, intent on being a witness. Her family had a long history of this as well, dating all the way back to the first World War. They all taught her how they dealt with it, but even she knew firsthand. Luck alone kept her off the bus that flipped and drowned all her friends. “So, what now?”

“Now, you know who I am. What I am. I don’t even know why I am the way I am, but now I guess you decide what to do with me.” Her eyes almost closed, but I saw her knuckles go white.

“Well, it seems obvious to me,” Duchess began while stretching, “that we have a third member of our family.”

I still remember Elizabeth’s face to this day.