Ch.11) The longer the wait the more pretentious the dialogue

“Look, I don’t want any trouble here. I’ve seen him around before on occasion, but I don’t know his name and I don’t know who would know.”

“Like I said, this guy is the one causing problems. He gave me some reloads and all of a sudden she… my revolver loses a front sight? That’s no coincidence. Has anyone else-“

“I said I don’t know, okay? You probably had a lemon… wait you’re that guy in the cowboy costume?”

I wince. I can just imagine the man over the phone regretting picking up my call. That damn costume. At the moment though, it doesn’t matter so I push back the embarrassment deep into my consciousness to haunt me when I can afford it.

“Yeah, that’s me. The crazy guy with the revolver. I just want to know who that old guy giving out reloads is and if there’s a pattern between guns randomly having major failures and his ammo.” The bile rises up my throat and I swallow it all down. Yeah, I’m living up to image that was unfortunately thrust upon me. I tried to be clandestine at first; it didn’t work out so well. I was so caught up trying to avoid being found out that I didn’t recognize something very apparent.

This was a very niche hobby with a very small, almost incestuous community. Every attempt I made at hiding myself and my intentions only served to hamstring my further efforts. Such an insulated group very much rejected my snooping around, so perhaps honesty is the last tactic I have.

“Like I said, I don’t know anything and I can’t help you.”

The line went dead. Just like this lead.

Rubbing the pressure of frustration out of my eyes, I pick up a marker and cross out another name. The list I have was already quite short and I barely was able to get this information as it is. Cross referencing the out-dated information off that antiquated web-site to a phone book didn’t really provide anything substantial to work with. I had tried a more in-person approach, but the guy at the gun store clammed up and gave me the run around.

The same one that everyone else gave me. Don’t know, don’t care.

I fling the marked-up paper away from me in disgust and it denies me any sort of satisfaction by simply flitting in the air before completely slipping off the desk to lie underneath my seat. I’m out of leads and almost out of hope. Throwing myself onto my bed, my mind wanders in the same track it has for what feels like forever.

Was that man really to blame? Could this have been a mere fluke of bad luck? Hell, Sylvie’s sights were rusted to hell before; could the metal have weakened so much that a normal round could cause them to fall off? In all honesty, it didn’t make sense to see malice in that course of events and my brain, like every time before, almost reaches that logical conclusion before my heart bitchslaps it with cold, unrelenting intuition.

Those eyes of his were looking straight at her when she screamed. That moment is etched in my mind. He knew; somehow, he either has the same sight I do or something. I don’t know how, but he knew, he’s responsible, and he will pay.
Turning over in my bed, I face the only other piece of evidence I have: the remaining bag of ammo that he gave me. I already used the analytical balance at my university’s chemistry lab to see if there was a tell-tale sign of sabotage in terms of mass. What online research I did told me that it was unlikely but not impossible that an overly potent load could cause this sort of damage, so I did the most basic work to see if that was the case. Taking the mass of each round, I could see if there were any outliers within the rounds I had left.

The results were inconclusive, at least in determining if the man actively planned on sabotaging Sylvie. Each round was consistently inconsistent. Even beyond the mass of the round overall, each round was wildly different from each other from brass to bullet. I simply had nothing to go off of; the old man was either sloppy as hell with his reloads or maliciously clever in hiding his tracks. I might be able to prove that his ammo caused Sylvie’s sight to break off, but I had no way of proving he was anything other than a careless reloader. In any case, the fault was mine for accepting the rounds.

I flip over from my side onto my back and stare blankly at the roof, my eyes lazily connecting the various stains and marks in different patterns as if I were cloud watching.

Patterns. A person over here, a face over there by the corner, a tree left of the light.

It feels so long since I last saw Sylvie.

Another face, this one with a smile. A boot. A woman. A bird.

It feels like it’s been over a year. I close my eyes and sleep overtakes me.

Or at least it would if I didn’t know better.

I count down in my mind. ‘3…2..”. My bedroom door slams open and I sit up. Funny, rather than angry like I used to be, I’m more impressed that she can keep the volume and cadence of this daily action constant. And here comes the usual…

She throws the bundle of rope right at my face and I catch it.
“Hey buddy, feel like hanging for a bit?”

I throw it back at her and, like every single time before, it hits her square in the face, prompting the same grunt she made every single time before. Damn, she’s really dedicated to the bit.

“What now CZ? Planning another flame war? You should know by now that 10mm is best millimeter.”

With surprising alacrity, the heterochrome fashions a noose and begins dangling it in front of me. She’s been picking up a lot of slightly concerning skills and habits from that one Bolivian fluteplaying imageboard. I’m not sure what she means by ‘smelt the Tavors brand wars now’ nor am I sure I want to know why she accuses Hipoints of wanting to parts mix with Berettas. I really should limit her internet time now that I think about it.

The CZ tosses the noose at me and half runs and half skips to my computer. I don’t even bother trying to stop her. All I want is to slip into a coma and wake up with everything back to normal. Untying the noose, I toss the bundle of rope back to some forgotten corner and try to fall asleep.

“What’s with the phone numbers? Your usual phone sex operators going out of business?” The CZ arcs her neck so far back her eyes are almost at parallel with mine. She waxes poetic with an actor’s grimace. “Truly, a dying art.”

I try to ignore her. Something about her makes it impossible. She’s an expert at needling people, defrosting cold shoulders, demanding any type of attention. I turn my back to her, but she wheels the computer chair towards me and starts fanning me with the paper.
“I can be your operator for tonight. Just don’t tell the cripple.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh wait, you can’t. Are you even trying to find…”

I kick the computer chair with as much strength I can muster from my current position. And just like that she reminds me why she’s my least favorite roommate. At least the AR knows how to keep her mouth shut. Even if the silence she keeps makes her at least ten times more creepy than I thought possible.

The kick doesn’t even phase the CZ. She just takes the momentum and throws herself into a wild spin, snickering and giggling like usual at some inside joke only she knows. I can’t stand it. I need a drink, of what I don’t really care. Groaning, I pry myself off the bed and, with uneven steps, stumble down the stairs towards the kitchen.

It’s a bare affair. Countertops dingy and dirty, but nothing on top of them besides dust. My eye lingers towards one particular cabinet, but the temptation passes. Here I thought I didn’t care what I drank; guess even now I realize that particular escape leads down a path I don’t want to follow. I force open the rusty refrigerator door and pull out a tall white can. I’ll save the alcoholism for when I decide to become a writer. I crack open the pull tab.

Nice hiss.

I gingerly take the can to my lips and savor the effervescent fluid, feeling the chemicals kicking in and covering my weariness with a thick coating of liquid energy.

Gotta love that first sip of the night.

Nursing the drink might be a bad idea, considering my lack of decent sleep this past week, but that’s a problem for future me. Present me has other things on his mind. Namely, what the hell is that pair of glowing red eyes doing right th-
“Oh god! What the hell is your problem!”

I fumble backwards, damn near spilling everything all over the place. My left hand grabs the counter and I barely brace myself in time. Out of the corner she was lurking in, the AR strides out.

“What will you do when you find him?”

Every word was laced with some weight. I asked myself that same question every night and every day since the incident. Yet, there was something drastically different in either her manner or meaning.

“I’ll get my answers from him. Then I’ll make him pay.” I wish my will was half as resolute as my words.
Those knowing eyes crinkled in some grim amusement and her poison lips almost imperceptibly turned up in a grin.

“I almost envy you, your capability for devotion. It’s almost tragic though that it can never be reciprocated.”
I know where she’s going with this. And knowing I know, she continues.

“You’re able to go to such lengths, risk your life and your freedom, simply on vengeance. Vengeance you don’t even know is substantiated by any actual offense. All for something that not only would kill you if held by the wrong hands, but for something that can’t even understand why you never wanted to use it in the first place.” She closes her eyes, a small mercy.

She says nothing I don’t already know. Sylvie is a machine, a tool. The person I see is simply some type of specter or delusion. No matter what sweet nothings she whispers in my ear, no matter the promises she makes to protect me, all are meaningless. As a weapon, she has no ability to disobey the hand that holds her, even if it means my life.

“Yeah, I know.”

“And still you are willing to sacrifice so much for so little?”

I understand deeply what she means by the word ‘sacrifice’. It’s not just my life I would waste. A human life. Any human life. Is it moral to throw away the life of a human to avenge a tool, no matter how much attachment one has to that object? The math is simple; no. But is Sylvie just a tool?

“What do you care if I kill someone? I figured especially someone like you would welcome it. Hell, isn’t that what you all want? To kill?”
The witch with glowing red eyes didn’t show the slightest recoil. I wasn’t expecting any to begin with. But her voice, an octave lower than her usual husky timbre, belied my expectations.

“I’ve long since had my fill of wanton bloodshed. Would you believe me when I say I have no desire to gorge myself further?”

I took a drink from my can. Not because of the sudden dry throat but to buy myself time to think, to compose my thoughts. Honestly, I couldn’t believe her. Those eyes burn into me each time I look into them, searing me with some malevolent force that seemed to wish death on all they laid upon. They say eyes are the window to the soul.

Can a gun have a soul?

I have to ask.

“Those eyes. They aren’t just reflective of your red dot sight, are they?” The CZ has heterochromatic eyes, just like her sights being different colors. The logical part of me assumed that I was just paranoid, that those crimsons irises were just some strange weapon spirit shenanigans. But my animal instincts feared that gaze of hers.

“You humans see it too, don’t you? That evil deeds wear upon the psyche and mark the flesh? That the eyes of madmen are never quite the same as others, that long after their works are made manifest the darkness lingers inside them? Does it not make you wonder if being the tool through which such works are performed would leave their own kind of brand upon you?”

“It makes me wonder whether your owner was the songwriter for a teenage emo band and you his muse.”

“He was a pastor. One who never expected to truly learn the meaning of the words, ‘those who take the sword shall perish with it’. “
She didn’t seem to take offense, but that only made me feel like more of an ass.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. I… uh… I didn’t mean to…” Flabbergasted, my words died in my mouth.

“Would you care to hear a story?” Without even the slightest pause she continues on, eyes coolly examining her long nails. “A foolish, peace-loving man on a whim bought a weapon. He never had a need for it, but he liked to look at it and enjoyed buying nice things for it.” After their thorough examination, she uses her nails like tweezers to pick off some invisible, at least to me, piece of lint off her ebony dress. “He found it amusing, that a man like him would own a weapon like that. The weapon did too, secretly. It was hard not to laugh to see such a pacifist spending so much time making a weapon that was purpose built to kill.”

I unconsciously swallow what little saliva I have in my dry mouth. It was almost imperceptible, but I could see the vague hints of emotion leak through her dialogue.

“In the end, the weapon killed. Someone grabbed hold of this weapon and killed the pastor. Then this thief escaped and sold this dirtied gun. And the gun killed and killed and killed even though the weapon had only ever wanted to stay with that stupid old man.” Her lips tore into her face, a fissure that could scarcely be called a smile, and she laughed. A hollow laughter borne of loathing and exhaustion.
Just like Sylvie when I first met her.

“Yes, I killed and killed innocent after sinner after innocent. I would kill and be passed on to the next murderer and so on and so on. I’ve been stained every time a man would look down my sights and tighten my trigger. “She continues, no longer caring to continue the pretense of who that weapon was. “Every hand that held me left its mark on me and every shot has scarred me. How ironic is it that a rifle first held by a man of God worries about its own soul?”

And as a candle blown out, her crescendo drops into the air and she pulls her large, signature hat to cover her eyes. Without a sigh, she slinks back into the dark corner of the kitchen. Whether she waits for me to speak or to leave, I don’t know.

“You said you were made as a killing weapon, but your owner never wanted to kill. Wouldn’t that frustrate your kind?”

“At first, yes. But let me ask you, do you think we are all the same? That we all share the same motivation? We all dance in the winds of fate, but not all of us like the music. That silly little chit of yours for instance-“

“Pretty sure she’s older than you. Just saying.”

“Yet age doesn’t necessarily bear wisdom. That girl has her own reasons, her own demons that move her to be at your beck and call. I do not deny her any reason to have enjoyed the role she played for you. I envy it, in all honesty, that she could be wielded by one who she wished to be held by. However, her desire is molded by her own fears. Just as she wants to be used by you to prove her own worth, I have long since known what works I can accomplish. If nothing else…” She trails off for a moment and the moment is lost to the ether.

I hear a clattering upstairs. The CZ probably knocked over my chair in a fit of anger. Probably got reverse trolled again. My attention divided, I look back at the woman who uncharacteristically spoke more words this night than I ever heard her speak in the period of time I’ve known her. Her eyes burned a dull red and her smirk was gone. The grimace she wore told me that there would be hell to pay if I broke confidence. I nod my head and she closes those eyes that terrify me.

“If the need arises, boy, do not worry about adding your sins to mine. Knowing you, they’ll be lighter than the ones I already carry.”
I say nothing. I hope it doesn’t come to that.

For her sake.

I leave her behind and she completely ignores me. Up the stairs I go, half my can still full. As predicted, the CZ has grabbed my monitor and is cussing loudly at it, as if the person on the other side can hear her.

“I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.”

She lets go of it and turns to me, her scowl immediately replaced by her usual Cheshire smile.

“Oh, hi Mark. How’s your sex life?”

“Who the fuck is Mark?”

I return the chair to it’s proper position and sit down on it. Wheeling myself over to the computer, I not-so-gently move her aside so I can take the helm once more. Briefly looking over the thread she was so clearly invested in, I see what seemed to be a long flame war about CZ and Sig Sauer and which is superior to the other.

“Huh. I didn’t know CZ had gone downhill so much. Are you safe to fire?”

“Shut your whore mouth.” She grabs my drink in retaliation and swigs it swiftly. Huh. So I guess these gun girls can drink. Who wouldathunk? “I bet it’s that dumb SP2022 bitch who said that. She’s just ass ravaged that she’s chambered in .40 Slow and Weak. Stupid polymer framed skank.”

“Wait, you’re talking to another gun through the internet?” Looking at the URL, I notice that this imageboard was slightly different from the one she would usually peruse. “Wouldn’t that leave a trace? How come no one has ever realized you girls exist besides me?”

“Come on. It’s common knowledge to delete your browsing history when you’re done, right? OPSEC bitch, learn it. Don’t sweat the details though.” She grabs the mouse and scrolls upwards and points to some inane post. “So after I had pinpointed the location of the geriatric who kaboom-ed our favorite phantom of the opera wannabe, I found out this Sig hoe was talking shit ab-“

“Hold up, you found him?” I grab her by the shoulders to face me. Ignoring the little “kyaa” sound she made, I then grab her head to look her dead in the eye. She looked back at me, those multicolored irises staring blankly at me, as she nodded patronizingly. “You found him and you didn’t tell me.”

Odd, I thought the phrase “seeing red” was just hyperbole. Strange to see it come true.

“You were busy listening to that goth bitch and her sob story.” She whines almost like a child exasperated with her mother. “She gets all angsty and angry when I butt in, so I waited like a good little girl.” At the drop of a hat, she changes personalities again. Coquettishly she looks at me with upward eyes, almost flirting. “Do I get a reward? Can I cuck that revolver girl?”

Feelings whirl up in me. Anger, definitely. Fear, undoubtably. The AR’s story and my own experience in the woods oppose the desire in me to do violence. It all swirls inside me like a tempest in a teapot.

Suddenly my face is about 90 degrees to the right and my cheek stings. She slapped me. Kind of hard too. With my full attention, she now grabs me like I did her a few seconds earlier. I see madness in her eyes and it starts to devour me.

“Leave the morals to the nun downstairs. It’s you and me. We got the place and now we need the plan.  We’re going to be taking care of business.”

She pauses, motioning for me to pick up where she left off. I shake my head no, she nods her head yes. She stares at me with expectant eyes, eyes like that of a young girl waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney unaware that on the roof of the house stood her father in a cheap red costume contemplating why he didn’t just pull out instead of having to drop down into the fireplace like the world’s shittiest chimney sweep just so he can keep lying to some kid that in all honesty doesn’t even look like him actually now that he thinks about it-

She clears her throat.

Fine. I’ll say it.

“And working overtime.”