>Another day, another dollar.
>Provided you finish the orders on time, that is.
>Luckily for you, your perseverance and dedication to your craft ensured that you'd have a little pocket money.
>And of course, what else is there to do but pay a visit to your good friends at the local gunstore?
>Good friends that may as well be the only friends you can hold a conversation with, that is.
>As you step into the aged corner store styled building, the owner greets you with a voice reminiscent of an actor from an old western.
>"Heya, Anun. How's the shop been?"
"Evening, Frank. Been busy as hell. New customer wanted twenty parts and didn't have any idea how he wanted them on paper. Had to talk him through making a print. Can you believe the guy didn't even know what tolerances he wanted?"
>Frank chuckles and runs his hand through a slightly receding mane of grey hair.
>"Shoot, if'n he couldn't tell ya that, then I'd hate to ask what all he needed his hand held fer."
>Browsing the racks of shotguns, you let out an exaggerated sigh.
"Well for starters, the guy didn't know what material he wanted it made from, how he wanted the cuts, or even what kind of finish it'd need. He just told me what he wanted it to do and gave me the part it was supposed to mate with. Took damn near all week to figure it out, but it was easy enough to crank them out when the details were finally ironed out. Anyways, what's your week been like?"
>Frank lets out a sigh of his own and checks around the drawers behind the counter.
>He pulls outs a ring of keys and sets them on the counter.
>"It's been a mite slow, but there've been some new faces round here. Nothin much to talk about, 'cept this portly feller asking for a 'moist nugget', didn't know what in the blazes he was on about. Don't suppose ya'd know anything about it?"
>You chuckle nervously and try to keep your spaghetti cool at the reference.
"Not a clue. Sounds like a real wierd guy to me."
>"Figured as much. Anywho, catch!"
>The aged pseudo-cowboy tosses the ring of keys at you, which you catch with muscle memory.
>"You know the drill, see something ya like, take a look at it. Got some new things in the back that might tickle your fancy."
"Thanks, Frank. I'll let you know if I see something."
>He gives a nod as you turn to browse.
>Taking his recommendation, you make your way through the racks and shelves to the back of the shop.
>The back wall is usually reserved for oddities, like antique revolvers, or some fancy new rifles Frank managed to get a hold of.
>If it weren't for the online market, he'd probably never have half the variety of firearms circulating through stock.
>Frank telling you to have a look means he probably found some strange clone or one-off, since he knew you had a slight fetish for that category.
>Unfortunately, you've only really looked around a bit and talked a bit with Frank, never really buying much more than some ammo for your 10/22 and M&P9. 
>You promised to change that as soon as you made it through some of the larger orders and had a sizeable amount of pocket money.

>Looking through the display cases, you spot the usual antique revolvers, well aged and covered in patina.
>You're not really interested in antiques, especially with the pricetags hanging on the pistols.
>Browsing more, you spot the more modern rifles, including an Stery Aug, a couple of Kel-tecs, and a variety of higher end AR15s.
>All very interesting, especially the Aug.
>There's a certain charm in the bulky plastic stock and foreign origin
>Continuing to browse through the ARs, something unusual catches your eye.
>It resembles a Stoner 63, but you can see some of the details aren't quite right.
>Reading the pricetag, you call out.
"Hey Frank, I think I found something I like! Mind if I bring it up?"
>He calls back with an almost uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
>"Sure thing, pardner! It's about damn time!"
>You unlock the case and open it, pulling the rifle out and lock the case up.
>Glancing at the markings on the side of the receiver, you make your way back to the counter and set the rifle down.
"Frank, I'll take it."
>The nearly elder man gives you a wide toothy smile when you make your declaration.
>"Figured ya'd find somethin back there ya'd like! Let's hurry up and get the paperwork done and get you on yer way."
>The 4473 doesn't take too long to process, and after paying the $1,100 pricetag, you carry the rifle against your shoulder and make your way for your car.
>Before you can exit the door, Frank calls out one last time.
>"Now you better treat her right, Anun! She's a special one."
>You're confused slightly by the use of female pronouns, but figured it was just Frank's endearment for firearms.
>He certainly treats his personal firearms like classy ladies when you shoot with him on his property.
"You bet, Frank. I'll take good care of her."
>"Attaboy, now git yerself home."
>There's no need for his order.
>You're already out the door and heading for your car.
>The rifle is secured in the trunk, and you take one last glance at the rifle's rollmarks and model stamp, and read it quietly to yourself.
"M96 Expeditionary Rifle. Welcome to the family, I guess."

>The rifle is sitting on the table next to your laptop while you read up all you can on it.
>There's quite a few bad things to be said about the company's owner, but the rifle seems to be a fairly solid design.
>The serial number on the rifle points towards the later end of the production run, which means the parts should all be post recall updates.
>You go over all the features of the rifle, and strip it down for inspection.
>Removing the barrel via the quick change button makes you giddy.
>Checking the bolt for the necessary features, you're relieved to find that it has the roll pin in the rear section of the bolt group, which indicated it's perfectly fine to shoot.
>The piston is also the newer style without the rollpin fixing it to the carrier.
>Older models seemed to have an issue with shearing or snapping the pin.
>Which is a big relief, because there is one major concern on your mind.
>There is almost no support for the rifle, and spare parts aren't going to be an easy find.
>It's one of the major reasons for the dislike for the company and its owner.
>Robinson Arms geared up solely for the new army rifle trials, and decided the M96 had no place in their catalog compared to the XCR.
>A rifle which ultimately flopped.
"Son of a bitch. Got too greedy looking for a military contract like that..."
>Letting out a sigh, you scoot out of your seat and head into the kitchen to start on dinner.
>Taking out all the ingredients and a large pot, you start the prepwork for a simple stew.
>"Are you going to take me back?"
>Your hand pauses midway over the stove, nearly reaching the temperature dial.
>Snapping around and pressing against the stove, you prepare to defend yourself against the owner of the unfamiliar voice.
>It's a girl.
>Slightly taller than you and of average build.
>You quickly snatch a knife from your cutting board and ready it.
"Who the hell are you and how did you get in my house?!"
>Her raven black hair swishes as she recoils back in fear.
>Brown eyes, so dark that they almost appear black, show her panic.
>"I-I'm sorry! It's your new rifle!"
>You glance past the girl into the dining room.
>The M96 is gone from the table.
>Slowly, you advance towards the girl.
>Anger creeps into your voice.
"What did you do to my rifle. Where is it?!"
>Her eyes widen further as she takes a couple messy steps and trips onto her back.
>Arms curl up as if to protect her from you.
>You're almost to her feet when you notice her silently sobbing.
>The anger building up quickly disperses as you lower the knife to your side.
>Even if she broke in and messed with your new rifle, you can't bring yourself to be mad at a crying girl.
"Hey. Come on. You snuck into my house and messed with my new gun. Just tell me where it is, and I'll let you go no problem."
>The girl peeks at you from behind her arms.
>You spot the build-up of water in her eyes.
>She takes a second to try and choke out a response.
>After a moment, she finally responds clearly.
>"I am your rifle."
>You stare dumbfounded into her glistening eyes.
>An unequipped hand comes to your face as you set the knife on the kitchen counter with a sigh.
"Jesus Christ, why did a crazy have to break in and mess with me the day I finally get a new toy?"
>The girl replies with a slight groan.
>"I-I'm not a toy! I'm a firearm! You shouldn't treat us like toys, the manual even says so."
>You can only offer a deadpan glare in return.
"Give me my rifle and get the fuck out. I'm going back to making dinner."
>Retrieving your knife, you turn the stovetop on and start chopping and dicing the assortment of vegetables.
>After not hearing any noise for a couple minutes, you look back while expecting her to still be on the ground.
>The girl is nowhere to be found, but your new rifle lies where she was.
>Guess she wised up and left.
>You hope.
>Maybe you should have escorted her off your property first.
>Welp, if you get murdered in your sleep, at least you'll know why.
>Because you're a dumbass.
>Making a few quick passes through the nearby rooms, you return to the kitchen and finish gathering everything into a stew.
>You let it set to cook and pick your rifle up from the floor.
>A quick inspection is in order.
"She better not have fucked with anything."
>After checking that nothing was damaged externally or internally, you set the rifle back on the table and head back to check on the stew.
>It's coming along nicely.
>You turn back to the dining room to read some more on the rifle.
>Only to see the girl sitting on the tabletop where the rifle was with her head tilted forward, said rifle nowhere to be seen.
>The anger you suppressed earlier quickly builds back up.
"Okay, miss. This is getting old. Tell me right now. Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"
>She slowly raises her head to look up at you, and with the sad eyes of a wounded puppy, she softly replies.
>"It's me. I'm your rifle."

>Before you can even react, the girl disappears in a flash of light.
>After the distortion of your view settles, you see that your M96 is again on the table, right where the girl was sitting.
>The display sends you reeling back.
>You take your turn at tripping backwards.
>The landing isn't quite as graceful as the girls, as your head slams into the hard tiles of the kitchen floor.
>All you hear before blacking out is a gasp.

>The first sense you regain is the feeling of touch.
>And something is pressing down on your chest.
>There seems to be a strange dampness on your shirt.
>The second sense to return is hearing.
>And there is a weak sobbing coming from whatever is weighing your chest down.
>Finally, the sense of sight comes with your eyes slowly creeping open.
>The girl- no, your rifle, strange as it may be- is weeping with her face pressed against your chest.
>There's no denying what you saw with your own eyes.
>She lets out the occasional "I'm sorry!" between sobs.
>Your protective instincts quickly bring your right arm around her back to comfort her.
>There's another gasp, not unlike the one from before fading out.
>The girl tries to back away, but your arm quickly brings her back in.
"Hey, it's okay. I believe you now."
>She sobs out a strained reply."
>"No it's not! I made you get hurt! I'm supposed to protect you, not hurt you. I'm a terrible gun! Y-you should just r-return me for a better one."
>Bringing your second arm around her, you hold her securely.
"Now why the hell would I take you back because I tripped on my own feet?"
>"Because nobody loves me. Even Mr. Robinson just wants to forget about my sisters and me. I'll eventually break and they won't even take me in for repairs. You should get a rifle people still make."
>Oh jeez.
>She knows about the discontinuation.
>Your grip tightens and you use your right hand to stroke her soft, wavy hair.
"I would have bought an AR if I wanted something everyone has. You'll have to try harder than that to get away from me."
>She turns her head to look at yours.
>Her moist eyes scan yours as if scanning for any hints of truthfulness.
>Scrunching her eyelids closed, she brings her arms up and around your head, supporting it from behind.
>She hugs you closer and presses her face back against your chest.
>You can barely make out what she muffles.
>"Thank you. Thank you so much."
>A smile tugs at your face.
"No problem, but you're gonna have to do something for me. I need an explanation for this whole 'my rifle is a girl' thing, because I'm pretty sure that's not how guns normally work.
>Her only response is a small nod that rubs against you.
>Should rifle-girls be this cute?
>Signs point to "yes".

>Finally, both of you are off of the floor.
>You're back to tending to your stew, and the M96 is sitting at the table.
"Would you like some stew? I'm not really sure if you eat or not."
>"Yes, please. Thank you."
>You pull out two bowls and silverware to match.
"It's no problem."
>The pot is set on the potholder near your rifle, and after a quick trip back to the kitchen, two bowls are now in front of you and her.
>You scoop some of the steaming stew into her bowl, and then yours.
"So, do you have a name? I don't know how to call you, yet. Sorry."
>Her expression droops slightly.
>"No, nobody ever gave me a name. Just a serial number."
>She raises her face to look at you, a somewhat hopeful glint in her eyes.
>"But you can give me a name if you want."
>You ponder over what you could call her as you scoop some of your meal into your mouth.
>There's not too much floating around in your head.
>Creativity isn't quite your best trait outside of work.
>An idea comes to you and your fingers snap to show it.
"I got it! How about I call you Robin, like Robinson Arms?"
>She quickly grimaces.
"What, no good?"
>Her only response is a shake of the head.
>Guess she really doesn't like the company.
>You should have figured that after what she sobbed out earlier.
>Nice going, dumbass.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have been that dense. Tell you what, I'll think of something after our first trip to the range. That sound good?"
>She nods slightly and takes a sip of the stew.
"Okay, cool. Now, can you tell me you are exactly?"
>A look of deep thought overtakes her expression, and she sets the spoon down into her bowl.
>After a short moment, she turns her head to face you.
>"I'm a weapon spirit."
>Well that kind of answers the question.
"So like a ghost of the gun or something?"
>"Not quite. Some rifles have an emotional charge to them, and it manifests in the form of a human. At least, that's what the others told me."
>That makes you think.
>There are others like her?
>How many?
>Does your handgun have one?
"So there are more like you? Does every gun have one?"
>Oh god the poor M&P.
>How often has it sat on your desk during "private time"?
>You have to make it up to it.
>"I don't think so. It's hard to say. Some guns are more reluctant than others to show themselves."
>Oh man you fucked up.
>You swear to buy premium 9mm for the next range visit.
>And a trigger job.
>But what if that's like a boob job for guns?
>Shit.
>"Are you okay? You seem a bit worried about something."
>You quickly wave her off.
"Nah, I'm fine. Just worried if I left the stove on at home.
>Confusion flashes across her face as she turns to the kitchen.
>"But... the stove is right there."
"Contain your spaghetti, Anon."
>"What?"
>Shit.
>Ya blew it.
"Never mind then, just being a goofball."
>She giggles slightly.
>Oh, that's cute.
>You're slick like Nick, bro.

>After eating two bowlfuls, and the M96 eating one despite your insistance that she could have as much as she wanted, you start cleaning up.
>Your new companion gathers the bowls as you take the pot in both hands and bring it into the kitchen with her in tow.
"Just set those in the sink, I'll wash them out."
>Placing the pot on the stove top, you turn the to sink.
>She already has the sleeves of her black blouse rolled up to her elbows and is reaching for the dish soap.
"Hey, you don't have to do that. I'm the host here."
>Head turned to face you, she gives a hesitant smile.
>A girl smiling at you is a rare sight, and it quickens your heart's pace.
>Such a stereotypical kissless virgin.
>"I'm your guest, and your gun. This is the least I can do."
>You quickly turn back to the stove to avoid looking dumb.
>Reaching for the cabinet, you pull out a lightly decorated ceramic container.
>The soup is packed up in the container as the other occupant of the kitchen rinses out the bowls.
>Occasional glances are made in her direction.
>Along with her obviously well kept blouse, she has a pair of black slacks to compliment the top.
>Women's dress shoes and cover her relatively small feet with black stockings visible just below the slacks.
>Your observational glances turn back upward.
>It's like she's trying to look presentable.
>Considering the development of the rifle as a special issue experimental rifle, it makes sense that she would be made to look classy.
>If that's even how the whole "gun is a girl" thing works.
>Still need to buy that premium ammo for your handgun, you sick pervert.
>Speaking of which, your gaze is lingering on her slender ass.
>Your gaze travels back up.
>She's staring at you.
>"I-Is something wrong?"
>Oh man, you're smooth.
"Sorry! I was lost in a thought."
>A thought about ass.
>You dumb shit.
>"Oh, it's okay."
>Stare more.
>No that's a stupid idea.
>STARE.
>MORE.
>You quickly snatch up the ceramic pot and place it in the fridge to get your mind straightened out.
>Stare at the ass if you're straight.
>'no'
>Faggot.
>Ignoring that thought, you call over to the girl.
"Hey, would you like to accompany me to watch television?"
>Talk normal, this isn't the robot board.
>'no'
>She sets the now cleaned soup pot on the drying rack and turns to you.
>"I'd like to, yes."
>She follows you out of the kitchen and past the dining table to the couch.
>As you sit down, you kick your feet up onto the coffee table out of bachelor's pad inspired habit.
>The rifle-girl doesn't seem to mind your disgusting slobbishness as she walks around the table to the seat next to you.
>She carefully sets herself down on the cushion.
>Right next to you.
>Her leg is touching yours.
>It's all you can do to keep your nerves calm.
>She leans against you slightly.
>You can feel her arm touch yours.
>The scandal!
>Remaining perfectly calm, or as calm as you can be with a tightening throat and sweat forming on your forehead allows you to appear, you grab the remote and flick the TV on to browse the channels.
>You settle on the Military History channel just as the intro of a documentary of the Navy SEALs starts.
>Not really the most interesting, or unbiased, of documentaries, but it catches enough of your attention.
>Your guest seems to be glued to the screen though.
>Wonder if she ever watched TV before.
>She can't be straight from the factory, right?
>You make a mental note to ask her what her previous owner was like after the show is over.
>For now, you'll get lost in the over-exaggerated story being told by an interviewee.
>He's not even a SEAL.
>Just a seaman.
>A salty load if you ever saw one.
>This is why nobody wants to hang out with you in town, creep.
>Before you can start an internal argument, an old photograph of a SEAL team is shown on screen.
>It's colorized, and the man kneeling in front catches you instantly.
>He's holding a Stoner 63 and smiling a big goofy smile.
>The kind you'd only expect to see on a badass in the middle of a jungle war.
>You wish you could be that badass.
>He's wearing a tiger striped jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and jeans tucked into his jungle boots.
>A quick thought pops into your head and you crane you head forward and turn to your guest.
"I think I have a name."
>Her focus is broken as she leans away and turns her head to face you.
>"What is it?"
"Jean."
>Her tiny smile is answer enough, and she leans back into you.
>This time her head is on your shoulder.
>Should think about opening a window sometime, your face is getting a little too warm.
>"I like it. Jean."
>She snuggles in closer.
>Only one thought prevails in your mind about the happy girl leaning against you.
>Is this second base?