As I walked into the rec-center turned arms market, I sighed. For better or worse, I saw endless waves of black, and not the bright wood of what I had actually come there for. Now, by no means was I  fudd, as I had a rather respectable AR setup, but simply put, that wasn't what I was looking for. I had gotten into WWII reenacting recently, so I was looking to pick up an M1 Garand of my own. I had finally pieced together my kit, but I always felt bad borrowing other people's rifles, especially how roughly we handled them at times. Nothing extreme, but stuff you'd feel uncomfortable doing with something that isn't your own. Unfortunately, it looked as though I was shit out of luck. I saw endless rows of Glocks, M&P-15s, and 10/22s. The only thing that caught my eye was a cheap Colt A1 upper, but I highly doubted I'd have the money for it considering how much M1s go for these days. I grimaced, scanning the room for anything. I decided I'd do one more round before packing my things and leaving. I guessed I'd just have to pay out the ass for an M1 off Gunbroker.
	I was going through one last sweep of the back when I found a small table with an ancient man behind it. And on that grey folding table was the prize: an M1 Garand. My heart began to race a little as I made my way towards it.
	“Excuse me, do you mind if I pick up your Garand?” I asked.
	“By all means. You're actually the first one's who looked at it today,” he replied. He had to be in his late 80s at best. It occurred to me that it was entirely possible he used an M1 in combat. He was certainly of age to have.
	I picked and got a better look at it. It was well worn, especially around the trigger guard and charging handle, but there was little wear inside the barrel, the loading mechanism, or the op rod. The serials were still very visible. What's more, everything matched. The stock was a bit beat up, with some dimples in the rear that I assumed were caused by someone pressing the rounds in the enbloc against it to straighten the bullets. I was probably going the replace the stock anyways, so I didn't care.
	“It's a nice rifle you have here. Certainly used, but taken care of. How much would you like for it?”
	“$750 sounds fair to me.”
	750? I thought. Shit, I'll buy right now for that price. I was about to make my offer when I was promptly cut off by the old man.
	“What are you gonna use 'er for though? You better not turn her into some goddamn hunting rifle or movie prop.”
	“Oh god no. I actually do World War Two reenacting, so I wanted to have my own rifle for it. Plus I've always wanted one since I was a kid. Just there's something to the M1 that's...timeless. Sexy. I don't know how to put,” I chuckled.
	His eyes lit up. “What unit are you reenacting? I was into the Civil War stuff myself when I was younger.”
	“1st ID, 16th Regiment.”
	“No shit? That's the outfit I was in! '42-'46.”
	“Damn really? You must have been there for all of it.”
	“Damn right I was. Best and worst time of my life. That rifle right there carried me through the entire war actually. By the time I reached Sergeant, I had become so attached to her I wouldn't let her go, not even for a Tommy gun.”
	I stood there with him shooting the shit with him for about an hour. We talked about the war, the music, the 50s and even Vietnam.
	We heard a voice come over the PA saying that the show would close in 15 minutes. I looked around, and noticed most of the vendors were packing up or had already left.
	“Well, hate to cut this short, but I guess I gotta go,” I said to the man, who told me his name was Jim. I reached into my wallet to pull out the cash when he said
	“You know what? I gotta good feeling about you. I'll sell it to you for $500. But you better take damn good care of her. She's almost like a kid to me. I just think it's time someone who would enjoy it takes ownership of it, rather than my shithead son when I die.”
	“I will, and thanks, Jim.”
	“Yeah, I know you will,” he smiled as I handed him the cash, and handed me back an original USGI carry bag for the gun. “Don't want to keep you waiting Anon. I had a good time talking with 'ya.”
	“Yep, you too.” I smiled and give a little salute with my two fingers, and turned away to go.
	“And Anon?”
	“Yeah?”
	“Don't give her a fuckin' stupid name like Gertrude or Dinah. Give her something unique.”
	I laughed at that odd but valid remark. Gun naming really wasn't my thing, but I didn't want to worry him. “I'll think of something good. See ya Jim.” I walked off, hoping to find that A1 upper I had seen before. Luckily the guy was still there, and another $500 later I walked out the door.
	During my ride back to my house, I had a hard time thinking of a good name of the rifle. Jim seemed pretty insistent on giving it a name of my own, and I felt like I owed it to him to do so, consdering how nice he had been. Finally, I thought of something that was unique enough that would be special, but not odd. Something that was pretty to boot.
	“Kudelia, that's it. I'll call you Kudelia.” I said. I had to admit, I was inspired by the character by an anime I had watched recently, but I liked the name. It had a charm to it I couldn't explain. Both a familiarity and an exoticness I guessed.
	I had recently got a cleaning kit for the rifle, and as I got home, and decided that while I trusted the man to keep the rifle in shape, I wanted to start getting a grasp for the mechanics of the rifle. As I turned up some music of the era, I began to disassemble the rifle. It was simple at first, however it quickly lived up to it's name as “the most complicated simple rifle” ever made. After a particularly vexing half hour figuring out the fire contral unit, the rifle was finally oiled and greased. As I was happy with my handiwork, until the next song came on. The familiar opening chords to “Tu Es Partout” by Edith Piaf. It had been a few weeks since I heard this song when watching Saving Private Ryan, and I had forgotten how depressing it was. I had just gotten dumped and ghosted by the woman that I had thought was the one, so the song was particularly poignant. While my day had been good, my night was instantly ruined. I tried playing a bit of Fallout New Vegas to get my mind off it, but to no avail. I still thought of her. I decided that I would just snuggle up with my laptop, and watch some Let's Plays until I got tired. I leaned my new acquisition against the USGI footlocker I had across from my bed. At least it would bring me some solace. A sat in bad for a few hours, sad and alone. Finally, I began to feel weary, and put my laptop down, not bothering to close the lid, the folder of my aesthetically pleasing 2D elf women still visible. I glanced at my rifle, and managed a small smile. I put my head on the pillow and soon drifted off to sleep.
	I woke up late in the morning, being able to sleep in due to it being Saturday. I stretched out of bed, and made it. However, I noticed my rifle was not leaning against the footlocker. I wasn't worried, thinking that if someone had broken in, they surely would have taken the laptop instead. I figured I had moved it during the night and just didn't remember it. Suddenly, my stomach growled. I checked the clock next to my bed. 11:23 AM. I guess I couldn't be surprised my stomach was bitching having not ate since last night.
	What I saw when I walked in was about the last thing I thought I would ever see when I got up for a quick meal.
	A girl with blond hair was by my stove, cooking what smelled like bacon and pancakes. I got quite a good glimpse of her perfect hourglass figure, considering she was only wearing an olive drab t-shirt what looked like shimapan panties. And the most puzzling part was around her head. It looked like she had elf ears.
	I gasped as I instantly went from groggy to focused as a bolt of adrenaline shot through my body.
	She must have heard me, as she turned and gave me a warm smile. “I'm glad you're awake. I didn't want your breakfast to get cold, though I wouldn't mind giving someone as cute as you breakfast as bed,” she said with a bit of a giggle.
	I got a better look of her now. She was absolutely gorgeous, with bright green eyes that had a certain softness to then, that fit well with the soft contours of her face. Her breasts were about the size of cantoloupes, and were firm and circular in appearance. She must have caught me staring at the lumps in what had been my 1st Infantry Division t-shirt.
	“I'm sorry for the choice of clothes. It was all I could really find. But I wonder who's panties these were?”
	“...They were my ex-girlfriend's. She must have forgotten to pick them up when we broke up. Now, I don't mean to sound rude, but who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?”
	Her face suddenly became flush with red, and she began to twiddle her fingers as she averted her gaze.
	“Oh, I'm sorry, I never introuced myself. I guess it would be weird to have a random women in your house cooking you food. I'm Kudelia, y-your new rifle. S-sorry.”
	I had heard rumors of so-called waffengeists before, but it seemed about as real as bigfoot or Santa Claus. The estimates the “experts” were that 1 in a million guns had a geist attached to it, and most were born during times of hardship or battle. So by maximum, there were about 875 of them in the world  I had dismissed it long ago as nothing but soldier's lore, but here one was right in front of me.
	“I-I don't believe it.” I stammered out. There's no way this is real. Am I going crazy? I thought to myself.
	“Oh yeah? Then I'll prove it to you.” She leaned up to me, put her arms around me, and gave me a light kiss on the lips. I blinked, and suddenly, the M1 was in my hands. I stood there for a few moments as what just occurred took its time to register in my head. I was still confused, but I was beginning to get a grasp on what was occuring in my life. I set the rifle down on the floor, and in an instant the girl was back again.
	“Did you like that?”
	“I'd be lying if I said I didn't,” I said a little sheepishly.
	“Well, there's more where that came from. But not right now. I'm not that fast darling. Just wanted to show my appreciation.”
	“But why me?”
	“I overheard you and Jim's conversation. I don't think I could ask for a better owner than you. I have a feeling you'll take good care of me. And if he trusts you, I think I should too.” She went over to the stove, and put the now-finished food onto two plates.
	She gave me a playful smile as she passed by me with the food, which smelled damn good. “And don't worry, nothing ever happened between us. He was more of a father figure actually. Now, would you like to eat, darling?”