"Oi, Panni, we're gonna be late to mass if you don't hurry your ass up!" >You look down at your watch as you stand just inside the door of the apartment, tapping your foot impatiently. >Your roommate and spirit of your yet to be fired Barrett M90 had disappeared into the bedroom to get ready for mass, saying she'd only be a moment. >That was half an hour ago. >You finally lose patience and begin to march towards your room when the door opens. "Bout damn time, what the hell took so... long... " >Standing before you with an annoyed look on her face, Panni is dressed a more formal attire than her usual garb. >An olive drab blouse with a navy blue tie, coupled with a knee length black skirt and black stockings. >You look over up and down, noting her lack of combat boots and that her fiery hair is in a bun and not a braid. >"The feck're you starin at, O'Connell?" she grunts, shoving past you. >The lack of boots stomping across the floor is a welcome change as her dress flats lightly impact the wood flooring. "Nothing, just... " >You blink a few times, trying to think of a response when you notice just how... /good/ Panni looks in a skirt, especially from a behind. >Bullpups. >You shake your head, mentally berating yourself for thinking in such a way, especially about Panni of all people. >"Whot?" she asks again, turning to face you as she nears the front door. "Where the fuck did you get those clothes from? I ain't buy em for you," you answer, moving your train of thought in a different direction. >"We Geists have our secrets, ye damn Gowl," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Now, are we goin or not? Consider ye were jus' yellin' at me." "Geists?" you ask, stepping outside and locking the door behind the two of you. "What's a 'Geist?'" >"I'm a Geist, ya git." >She climbs into the passenger seat of your Ford, pulling a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses from seemingly nowhere. >"Kraut speak fer whot I am. Waffegeist, or some shite. Means 'weapon spirit' in English." "So you can just pull random objects from thin air at will?" >You pull out of the apartment complex and onto the highway, the truck's engine roaring as you pick up speed. >"No, ya idiot. Accordin' to the whole 'Rifle Mother' heathen talk, we Geists are gifted with the ability to choose a few items to keep with us that won't hamper our rifle form." "And what's your take on that, being a Catholic...?" >"The good Lord has blessed us with the ability to carry with us those items we believe necessary to aid us on our journey of destruction. Somethin to help our minds wander from the debts and regrets we carry with us." "... Like a violin?" >You suddenly find a large hand gripping the collar of your dress shirt, lifting up slightly. You swerve a bit but manage to stay on the road. >You worriedly stare at the road, afraid to look towards the Barrett, whom you can feel staring daggers at your through her sunglasses. >"Ye don't mention that, ever," she whispers, voice seething with seriousness. >You frantically nod, white knuckle gripping the wheel. >She releases you and returns to the conversation as if you'd never spoken and she hadn't just nearly sent you both flying off the road. >"Fer example, an Armalite I served with had a damn teddy bear that she'd sleep with at night." >You glance over and find that she's staring out the side window, watching the buildings zoom past. >It's probably suicide, but you decide to press her for information as your curiosity gets the better of you. "You know, you still haven't told me about your time 'in service,'" you comment, turning off the highway and onto the street leading to the cathedral. >"Cause ye ain't done shite to earn hearin' me gab bout me time," she huffs, folding her arms. "What do I have to do to earn that privilege, then?" >You pull into the church parking lot and find a spot near the back of the lot. The last parishioners are filing in as the two of you step out of the vehicle. >"Yer serious, ain't ye?" Panni asks, falling into step along side you. "Well yeah. Like I've said, we're stuck together for a while, so might as well get to know one another. If it'll help, I'll tell you more about myself later, then you tell me about yourself. How's that sound?" >The two of you a few feet from the front steps, Panni removing her sunglasses. >"Tell ye whot. Don't feck up at the range this evenin, and I'll tell ye a bit bout me time in service." "What constitutes as fucking up?" >"If ye can manage ta keep twenty rounds on paper and in tha black of the target, that'll do." >Before you can accept the conditions of the agreement, Panni makes her way into the cathedral, dipping her fingers into the waiting holy water. "Fuck, that's half my ammo... " >Roughly an hour later, mass is over. >"Aye Father, twas a beautiful service and I am grateful to be welcomed into yer flock." >You stood off to the side as Panni and Father O'Sullivan talked, in disbelief that she was already on the clergyman's good side. >It had taken you nearly a year to move past being referred to as "the copper," let alone being able to have such a friendly conversation. >"So, ye ready tah make a damn fool o' yerself at the range?" she teases, approaching you. "Oh, and Father says ye need to come to confession soon, that ye've been slackin." "Just get in the truck," you groan, trudging across the parking lot. >She shrugs, following behind. You're soon on the road, cruising down the highway. >"So, what kind of poor excuse of a range are ye takin me to, hm? Some piece of shite 50 yard range in a farmer's field?" >You roll your eyes and look over to your long range rifle, finding that she has a box of ammunition in her lap. >She has one of the massive, man splitting rounds in her gloved hand and is examining it. "They to your liking?" you inquire, looking back to the road. >"Hornady 750 grain A-Max," she reads, rolling the round across her palm. "Damn expensive, ain't it?" "Now you're concerned with cost? Never mind that you go through a none too cheap beer like tap water... " >"Shut yer damn mouth, ya muppet, just makin an observation," she huffs, punching your arm. >You jerk the wheel slightly at the force of the punch, swearing as you nearly veer into the oncoming lane. >"Watch yer damn drivin, feck." "... " >You ignore her comment and rub your arm. Yeah, that might bruise... "Anyway. Yeah, it's not cheap. Guy at work owed me some money from betting on the Super Bowl, though, so I finally called him on it." >"The gimp bet against the Patriots? I don' even like American football and I know that's stupid!" >You nod, flipping on your blinker and turning onto a dirt road. "You're telling me. But yeah, he's the one who shelled out for your current 'food,' so don't worry bout the cost. For now, anyway." >You stop the truck as you come to a gate, rolling down your window to scan your key card for entrance. The metal bars roll away to the side and you put just enough pressure on the gas pedal to trundle through. >"So, ye didn' say what the deal with this place is," Panni asks, peering through the window. >She arches an eyebrow in surprise as you pass what appears to be an outdoorsman's lodge next to a rather large fish pond. "Gun club I'm a part of. Costs about $500 a year, but it's worth it. Skeet, trap, sporting clays, .22 range, two pistol bays, two 100 yard rifle bays, the fishing pond... " >"Feckin shite, not too shabby," she says with a nod of approval. You can't see past her mirrored sunglasses, however, but her eyes say otherwise. >You slowly drive past the skeet and trap fields where a few older gentlemen are sitting under the shelter, chewing the fat between rounds. You give them a friendly wave, one of them tipping his cap to you. >"100 yards, eh?" your Irish companion asks, nodding to the shotgun wielders as you pass. "Gotta get you sighted in, yeah?" >As you come around a corner of the dirt road, multiple dirt mounds come into view, some roughly as tall as a small convenience store. >"I suppose," she sighs, looking at the dirt dividing the ranges. >You're grinning like an idiot as you prepare to drive pas the first mound and rifle bay. You slow down ever so slightly, just enough to ensure she reads the sign hanging from one of the shelter posts. >"YOU BASTARD!" she yells, turning so fast in her seat it rocks the Ford. She tears off her mirrored aviators, eyes wide in surprise and annoyance at your withholding of information. >"How long were ye goin tah hold out on me, ye bastard?!" "What, is 500 yards a bit much?" >She holds up a balled fist and shakes it at you, but you can tell she's ecstatic despite her annoyance. >"Ye be walkin a thin line, O'Connell," she grunts, sitting back and folding her arms over her chest. "An' no, it ain't. I'm viable out to 2500 yards if'n ye be havin a need tah blast a poor bloke in half from a county over." "Well, I doubt I'll have the chance for anything over 500, but this will suffice I hope?" >"I suppose... So long as ye can keep yer shots on target, mister copper." >You snort, waving off her comment. You move to put the truck back in drive, but stop as you hear Panni opening the passenger door. "Where the hell you goin? The 100 yard ranges are still a ways down and we gotta get you sighted in." >"The feck ye do! If ye'd bothered to look in me case, ye'd find a notebook with how many clicks ye be needin. Now, park this junk and grab me case!" "But you're still in Geist- !" >She slams the door before you can finish your warning, leaving you groaning in frustration. >You quickly park and pull the massive hard case from the truck bed, rushing to try and catch Panni in the event there were other shooters present. >As you approach the smaller shooting shelter, you're met with the sight of Panni leaning against one of the support beams, smoking as she makes small talk with a platinum blonde decked out in all black. >If it wasn't the hair or leather trench coat that made her stand out, the bright red eyes sitting behind her glasses and oddly shaped belt buckle did. >It looked like the... Ruger logo? "Friend of yours, Panni?" you question, easing yourself up to the pair. >The way they were talking and laughing with one another made it seem as if they were already familiar. >"Aye, this is Selene, another Geist. Ruger Precision Rifle," she says with a nod, blowing a cloud of bluish smoke into the air. *A pleasure,* the Ruger says, offering a rather pale hand. >You accept and shake, almost doing a double take when you notice her toothy smile: fangs? "O'Connell," you warily greet. "How do you two know each other...?" >"If ye be thinkin I jus' sit around yer apartment all day, lad, yer wrong. Girl's gotta stretch her legs, an' Geists have a way of communicatin'." >The Barrett chews on the end of her smoke, looking around the bay at the few shooting bays. >Where'd she get those cigarettes, anyway? And when did she change back to her camo and fatigues...? >"So, where's yer shooter, Selly? 'Bloodbag,' aye?" >The Ruger nods, opening a black umbrella you hadn't notice before as she steps from under the shelter. *He and Lucya are down at the hundred yard range, but he forgot my ammo when we finished here,* she says with a roll of her eyes, pulling a box of 6.5 Creedmore from one of her trench coat pockets. >"Jus' like the muppet he is. Ye headin back down, then?" *Mhm, I'm eager to return to teasing Lucya about her sticky bolt,* she laughs, pocketing the rounds. >With a wave, the black-clad Ruger begins to stroll down the dirt path towards the 100 yard ranges, umbrella shielding her from the sun, leaving you and Panni alone at the 500 yard range. >Once you believe her to be out of earshot, you turn to your rifle. "Another Geist?" >"Aye, thas' whot I said, innit?" "What was with the black? And the eyes? And the whole... " >You set down the rifle case and gesture with your hands, referencing the rifle's entire appearance. >"Ye know how Rugers have the reputation fer bitin ye?" >You nod. >"The ones that have Geists are somethin called 'Vampirwaffen,' vampire guns or some shite," she says with a shrug, smoke curling from her cig. "That's... Huh." >"I dunknow, buncha weird occult shite that a good God fearin Geist has no business with." >She takes a final drag and tosses her smoke to the ground, grounding it out with her boot. >"Now, how bout we get to shootin, eh?" "You wanna get set up here while I take the Mule down to set up targets?" you offer, gesturing to the 4x4 at the end of the bay. >"Aye, jus' be quick bout it," she orders, waving you off. >You toss the stack of silhouette targets and other target supplies in the bed of the Mule and turn the keys, the engine sputtering to life before you thunder off to the end of the 500 yard stretch. >A few minutes later, you're back at the shelter and find Panni sitting on one of the shooting tables, legs dangling off the edge. >A shooter's mat covers the table, her three magazines sitting to the side, fully loaded. "So, twenty rounds on paper?" >"In the black. Hell, if ye manage a head shot we'll count that as two," she snorts, grinning cheekily. >You can tell she doesn't expect anything of you. >In all honesty, you're not sure if you expect much of you yourself... "Alright, let's get to it," you affirm, donning your shooting glasses and ear pro. >In the blink of an eye, you're left staring at your long range anti material rifle. "First time in quite a while that I've had a chance to see your rifle form, eh?" you comment, pulling the stool up to the bench. >You relish the silence and lack of smart ass comments. >You peer through the scope, blinking a few times as your eyes adjust to the power of the optic. >Shouldering the Barrett, you're thankful for the bipod, as having to hold the entire weight of the rifle would easily effect accuracy. >Despite the weight, you find she's easy enough to swing side to side for target acquisition. >Lining up with the target at the opposite end of the range, you can't help but admire the power of the glass attached to the rifle's rail. Clear sight picture all the way. >Giddy with excitement, you grab a mag and slide it into the magwell at the rear of the rifle where it locks into place with a satisfying click. >Working the bolt, you can feel how smoothly it rides back and forward while flawlessly picking up and chambering the defilade defying round. >For being an older model Barrett who saw time in combat, she was obviously well cared for and maintained. >Shaking with excitement, you slowly ease into a pattern of steady breathing as you once more bring the scope to alignment with the target. >Range clear. >Round chambered. >Tucked into shoulder, no wiggle room. >Click. >Safety off. >Ease on the trigger, squeeze, don't pull... >... >THWUMP! >It's not so much the sound as it is the pressure as the round is sent flying down range. >You nearly jump in your seat even though you were expecting it. >Laughing, you peer through the scope to see how well you hit. >Not even on paper. "The fuck?" you swear, brow furrowing. >Was she fucking with you? >You contemplate saying something to her as you cycle the bolt. You move to grab the empty casing from the cement floor when you notice something near your foot. >A small worn-out notebook, no bigger than a cellphone. >Weathered and worn, the pages are slightly yellowed with age. >But as you flip through the first pages, you notice that the neatly scrawled words and numbers are still legible. >Clicks for 100 yards, 200 yards, 3, 4, 5... all the way to 2,000, even, with relevant notes for each range increment. "She did say to check her case... " >Mentally smacking yourself, you find the numbers you need and dial in the scope for 500 yards. >Once more, you go through the motions and prep yourself for firing. >THWUMP! >Round out, you only jump a tad this time and manage to keep your eyes down the scope. >On target, roughly half an inch to the right and up of the center of target. >You cycle the bolt, round 3 chambered. >THWUMP! You're ready this time, though, and maintain your composure and follow through. >Right and up of center again, nearly the same spot as the previous round. >Gears in your head working, you chamber the fourth round and adjust your aim accordingly. >THWUMP! >Center ring. "Must be the ammo, different from what they used... " you say out loud, nodding to yourself. >Round five once more lands in the center ring of the target. >Satisfied, you step back from the bench after removing the round and clearing some space on the bench. >Panni once more sits before you, a smug look on her face. >"Well lookitcha, gettin the hang of it already!" "Told you I could shoot," you chuckle, climbing back into the Mule. >This time, you set up three targets across the center of the berm. Good thing no one else was using the 500 yard stretch... >Back at the shooter's shelter, you find Panni once more in rifle form, the magazine you had just used reloaded. >Easing back to the bench, you follow through the motions and secure a mag and slide the bolt home. >Target Left. >1 round. >Fire. >THWUMP! >Dirt kicks into the air well below the target. "The fuck is this horseshit?" >You look at the notebook then the scope. >The knobs have been turned well out of wack... "You cheeky cunt," you swear, adjusting the optic back to it's 500 yard zero. >You swear you hear a certain Geist's chuckle in the back of your head as you rest your cheek back onto the rifle. "Play fair now, Panni, alright?" >Work the bolt, align the glass. >THWUMP! >Target Left, center. >Cycle the bolt. >THWUMP! >Center. >THWUMP! >Head shot. >THWUMP! >Head shot. >Change mags. >Target Center. >You fall into a rhythm, sending man tearing rounds down range and cycling the bolt. >Freshly spent .50 BMG brass clatters to the floor around you, smoke curling from them as they fly from the chamber. >Finally, you put the fifth and final round in the right target. >18 of 20 rounds on target. Two head shots. >Final score: 22/20 >A satisfied sigh escapes you as you stand from the stool and step away from the table. >Panni appears on the table, leaning back on her hands, her freckled face flushed, her chest rising and falling as she catches her breath. >"I'll be damn O'Connell, ye can actually shoot," she pants, shaking her head in disbelief. >She finally sits upright, fishing her smokes from her camo field jacket. She offers you one after she has one tucked in her lips. "Thanks," you say, taking the offered smoke. >She produces a flip lighter from another pocket and lights her own smoke before tossing it to you. >A few moments later and the two of you are quietly smoking, basking in the afterglow of your first shooting session. "Not bad for a cop, huh?" you say, breaking the quiet. >"Aye, not too shabby. Yer shoulder's goin tah be hurtin come tomorrow, though," she chuckles, rolling her eyes. "Hey, it was addicting! All that raw power, damn." >"Alright, slow yer britches there, hot shot." "So, you'll tell me about your time in service, yeah? Part of the deal?" >She sits in silence for a moment, chewing the end of her tobacco stick as she thinks. >"... Don't know what yer talkin bout," she mutters, taking a last drag and tossing the butt off into the dirt. "The fuck do you mean, 'don't know?'" you protest, standing from the shooter's stool. >"I ain't sayin shite, alright," she mutters once more, sliding from the bench and turning to look down range. "Don't you pull that kind of shit on me, you're the one who came up with the whole thing," you argue, throwing your own smoke away. "Ever since I got you, any time I've tried to get to know you better, where you came from and what you've experienced, try and grow closer to you. You just shut me out and turn into a stone cold bitch, like you're too good for me!" >You realize you're loosing your cool, but you're unsure if you can stop at this point. "I've bent over backwards to accommodate your sorry ass, and all I've asked for in return is to get to know you because you're my God damn rifle and we're stuck together!" >You take a step closer to her, her back still turned to you. "Is that why your last shooter sold you? Cause you're nothing but a self-centered bitch who cares only for herse-" >The last thing you see is a gloved fist rocketing towards your face.