Hasty Business

>You close the door behind you in frustration and plop down on the couch.
>Another unsuccessful attempt at fixing your PTR91.
>Nothing worked.
>The rollers, springs and even the bolt group was replaced to no effect.
>Failure to eject.
>Failure to feed.
>Failure to extract.
>Even a failure to fire altogether occasionally.
>Not a single thing you tried fixed anything.
>The door opens as you pull out your laptop.
>It then promptly slams shut.
>"Oopsy."
>You suppress a sigh and check your emails.
>Nothing of interest is in your inbox, and you briefly consider sending an email to PTR Industries to have your new and only rifle fixed.
>Said rifle plops down on the couch next to you and bounces a bit while giggling.
>"That was fun, Nonny! When are we going to the range again?"
>Unable to suppress another sigh, you close the laptop and place it on the coffee table.
"It's gonna be a while. I'm out of ammo."
>The rifle stops bouncing and you briefly look at her.
>She looks like a scorned puppy almost.
>Except a puppy might have a chance at getting you to do what it wants.
"I'm also out of money. I blew it all trying to get you to work right. Now be quiet for a bit, please."
>You almost feel regretful for the harsh tone you used.
>Her posture droops completely.
>"O-Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad, Nonny."
>Your face relaxes at the apology.
>It's really not her fault.
"It's okay. I know you didn't."

>Dinner is a quick affair.
>As usual, the PTR wastes a good portion of the lasagne and makes a complete mess of the table.
>And as usual, you usher her away to clean up and tidy the table.
>This time there is a little surprise.
>A crash comes from the living room.
>You run in to see what happened and nearly have a heart attack.
>PTR is lying on the floor with a dusting rag in hand.
>Covering her and the floor surrounding her is the ashes of your father with the urn that once contained him in pieces.
>Your rage flares up in an instant.
"Up! Get to the closet, now!"
>She jumps up with fear in her eyes and runs off to your room.
>Satisfied that she is staying out of your way, you find the dust pan and handbroom and clean both off.
>Setting down a large bowl next to the pile, you set off to clean up your father's remains.

>It's been two hours since cleaning up the living room and checking every nook and cranny for the smallest speck of ash.
>You're running low on whisky and decide it's a sign that you should turn in soon.
>After placing your glass in the sink and rinsing it out, you stash your bottle in the cabinet and head back to the living room.
>Grabbing your laptop, you head to your bedroom.
>After removing your jeans and climbing into bed, you open your laptop and check your email once more.
>There's a few messages of interest in your inbox this time.
>You respond to a couple before something distracts you.
>Through the quiet your empty house, you can hear a faint noise.
>The muffled sound of sobbing reaches your ears.
>It's PTR.
>Even after what she did, you can't feel angry at a sobbing girl.
"You can come out if you want."
>She doesn't.
>Deciding to let her have her privacy, you close your laptop and turn off your lamp.
>Just as you snuggle into your sheets, the closet door creaks open.
>Light, but clumsy steps approach your beside.
>The bed rocks slightly as PTR climbs up onto it and slips into the covers next to you.
>She pressed lightly against your arm and places an arm around your waist before snuggling her face against your shoulder.
>Shortly after, her breathing deepens and becomes rhythmic.
>You give her this much and let yourself drift off to sleep.

>The next morning has you driving down the highway, PTR buckled in next to you.
>She looks happy as can be.
>Occasionally she asks a question to break the silence.
>"Are we going back to the same place to shoot?"
>And you respond as hastily and as short as you can.
"Yep."
>Finally you reach the parking lot for the indoor shooting range that you tried tested your fix attempts at.
>After spotting a lone car in the far end of the lot and driving alongside it, you make PTR assume rifle form and get out with her in hand.
>The driver of the lone car gets out himself.
>It's a somewhat overweight man, doesn't look too well off financially.
>But who are you to judge, you're broke as shit after this month.
>He reaches out and offers to shake your hand, which you hesitate to return.
>After giving him a moment to inspect PTR, he pulls out his wallet.
>Retrieving a handful of crinkled bills, he gives them to you to count.
>Satisfied, you turn away as he places PTR in his rear seat.
>As you sit in your car and turn on the ignition, you glance out of your window.
>PTR is pressed against the glass of the backseat window staring at you.
>Tears are running down her eyes.
>You abruptly break eye contact and shift into drive, pulling out of the parking lot.
>As you drive homeward bound on the highway, you struggle to get the image of a teary eyed PTR staring at you.
>Her heartbroken demeanour haunting your thoughts.
>You'll need more whisky before you go home.
>That lone bottle in the cabinet won't be enough.


Broken

>The abandoned PTR finds herself alone in the bedroom of her new owner.
>A man she isn't particularly fond of.
>His mannerisms creep her out.
>The physical shape he keeps himself and similarly his house in are lacking in care.
>Dirtied and crumpled posters of unfamiliar cartoons line the walls of the bedroom.
>The desk is covered in miscellaneous drawing tools and paint brushes with frayed ends from improper cleaning.
>Trash littered and scraps of food littered the floor, and there seemed to be an odd mess here and there.
>Much like the stains on the tent of a shirt he wore when he received her from her old owner.
>She misses him.
>When he wasn't mad at her for being so clumsy and useless, he was very kind and accepting.
>He was always so patient when trying to diagnose and fix her.
>Delicately picking up each piece and going over every detail.
>Why couldn't she just work properly?
>Why did he give her up?
>She curls her knees into her chest as the tears return once more.
>At least the new owner seemed to want her.
>He didn't even mind that she frequently jammed when he tested her at the range.
>Maybe he would even find a way to fix her unlike that jerk!
>Even with the twist of thoughts, the PTR can't get over how filthy the atmosphere is.
>The door opens rather too enthusiastically and the bang against the doorstop startles the PTR.
>"My apologies, m'lady. I didn't mean to scare you. I have come simply to clean you after our range trip, as I have finally learned the proper procedure to disassemble and clean you. I found it an easy task, as you are simply elegant in design."
>The plump post-adolescent man says as he produces the PTR manual.
>Minus the cheap pleather coat, he is wearing the same outfit as when they went to the range.
>A stained off-white T-shirt with a cartoon horse graphic, tan cargo shorts in similarly poor condition.
>Old, white sneakers filthy with various streaks and white socks that seemingly have never been cleaned with bleach of any kind.
>Or maybe haven't been cleaned at all.
>To top it all off, he has a simply black hat covering his unkempt and greasy black, curly hair.

>The sight of him banishes any and all positive thoughts she had tried to have of him.
>His very presence feels unclean, and the thought of him performing maintenance and cleaning her only made her shudder in disgust.
"Th-that is unnecessary. You haven't fired enough to foul me up."
>The rifle tightens her grip on her knees to bring them closer.
>He chuckles with the pretense of experience and knowing.
>"Now, now. No firearm, or flower such as you, shall go uncared for with the most gentle of... care."
>His falsely wise smile falters slightly.
>The stumble in speech is quickly forgotten and the smile returns as he approaches the bed.
>"Let us proceed with the disassembly, shall we?"
>He climbs onto the bed by her feet.
>The rifle tenses further in fear.
"P-Please, no."
>There is no response as he wraps his chubby fingers around her ankles and pulls them apart and towards him.
>This causes the rifle to roll onto her back.
>She covers her face, trying to hide the tear streaks.
>"We only need to get access to your chamber, m'lady. Allow me to take care of you. I will be very gentle as you will soon see.
>His hands slide along her legs and up her skirt.
>They rest on her hips for a moment before receding, dragging her leggings and undergarments with them.
>After having "field stripped" her, he climbs further, now looming over the dainty figure of the PTR.
>He discards his lower half's clothing with ungraceful wiggles and kicks with some assistance with a hand.
>In the instances where he removed his hand from the bed beside her, he rested his large gut on top of the disgusted rifle.
>It made her realize just what kind of experience she was about to have.
>The sobs weren't suppressed any longer.
>He finally gets into a comfortable postion.
>Legs reminiscent of tree trunks resting on his knees between her slender pale thighs.
>Arms pressed against the sides of her ribcage supporting his mass above her.
>She tries to plead once more for him to stop, but he only takes the opportunity to silence her with a sloppy kiss, forcing his tongue against hers.
>Her will to resist crushed as he once again rests his torso on her to lift her skirt.
>Despite his promises, he is not gentle.
>He isn't capable of it.
>She feels claustrophobic with every thrust.
>The bed creaking in protest are the only thing breaking the silence.
>That is until he breaks the unwanted kiss to grunt and pant along with the motions.
>Soon after, her squeaks and sobs mix in with the animalistic grunts.
>He lets out a howl as he fouls up her chamber before collapsing on her side.
>She curls up away from him, unable to flee as he pulls her against his girth.
>His snoring adding to the discomfort she feels as his mess leaks out along her thighs.
>She sobs as she thinks to herself.
>"Why did he give me up?"