One Shot Panni 1

>It's been a long time coming, but you've finally got the money for your next purchase in the bank, as well as found exactly what you're looking on one of the multiple firearm auction sites.

>It's a stressful week of outbidding others looking to purchase the same rifle, but you mange to maintain the highest bid by the time the auction clock hits zero on Tuesday night.

>Come Friday, you're walking out of the backwoods FFL with a massive rifle case in hand. It barely fits behind the seat, but you manage it.

>You're giggling like a madman as you enter the apartment you call home, nearly tripping over yourself as you tote the behemoth of a case through the door.

>Setting the case down on the coffee table, you waste no time in unlocking the treasure chest sitting before you. Legs bouncing one hundred miles per hour out of excitement, you gingerly open the case and ease the lid down onto the table.

>Now open and exposed, before you sits a weapon that many drool over, have dreams of owning. Or so you like to think, anyway.

>Barrett M90, .50 BMG bolt action bullpup.

>Your hands hover over the instrument of long range precision, unsure of just where to start in your exploration of the nearly four and a half foot rifle.

>You finally decide to remove the firearm from the foam lined case, taking care to easily lift it from its bed. You fold out the bipod and gently set it on the floor atop the blanket you keep on the couch.

>You make to reach for the optic inside the case when you're suddenly hit by the call of nature.

>Annoyed that your naturally occurring bodily functions are interrupting your time with an inanimate object, you leave the living room and head through your bedroom to the bathroom.

>As you sit on the porcelain throne, browsing ammunition and accessories on your phone, you swear you hear a slight thud over the din of the exhaust fan.

"Probably nothing," you say to yourself.

>You turn your attention back to the mobile device in hand, crying internally at the price of match grade .50 BMG.

>THUNK!

>You know you heard something that time.

>Assuming it was just the rifle case falling from the table due to your neglect, you rush to finish and clean up so as to make sure the accessories in the case weren't damaged, especially the scope.

>Rushing into the living room, you're met by a site that stops you dead in your tracks.

>The rifle case is indeed on the floor, however you are no longer the only person in your small apartment.

>Standing on the blanket where you left your newly purchased rifle is a mountain of a woman, easily reaching six and a half feet in height.

>Donned in a pair of olive drab BDU pants and a woodland field jacket, the amazonian easily sticks out in your white walled urban apartment.

>Her flowing, fiery red ginger hair adds to her distinctiveness, as if her garb and size weren't enough. Tied into a ponytail and draped over her shoulder, it almost seems an honor cord for her uniform.

>"Are you the gimp who bought me off ol' Alby?" she asks, her bespectacled gaze falling upon you as you stand dumbstruck. Her voice carries the sweet melody of the Emerald Isle, your mind wandering to images of sheep and whiskey.

"Uh... And you are?" you finally stammer out, unsure of how exactly to respond to this unknown woman in your abode.

>"Ya damn spanner, I'm your rifle. Haven't you ever seen a weapon spirit, before?" she snorts, hands on her hips as she leans toward you.

>It's at this point you notice that she is standing where your now vanished Barrett was once sitting. You look to the case and see that that the optic is gone, leaving only the three magazines and cleaning kit in the foam cutouts.

"Wait... The Barrett, where- "

>She holds up a gloved hand, cutting you off. Without saying a word, she pulls her glasses from her freckled face and holds them out to you.

>"Take them," she orders.

"How will- "

>"Take the damn glasses," she barks, brows furrowed in annoyance.

>You nod and quickly reach out to take the eye wear from her out of fear of further reprisal for your questioning the amazonian.

>The moment the glasses leave her grasp and enter yours, you suddenly find yourself holding your Barrett's high powered optic.

"You've gotta be shittin me."

>She quickly snatches the scope from your hand after she's proven her point.

>"Now, if you're done gawkin," she huffs, replacing her glasses.

>Glasses once again resting upon her visage, the rifle woman makes her way into the kitchen, your ears picking up the sound of her rummaging through the fridge, pantry, and cabinets.

"Scuse me!" you protest, trotting after her. "I think I'm entitled to some answers!"

>As you enter the kitchen area, you're met with her top half buried in your fridge in search of something.

"If you are, in fact, some kind of weapon spirit or whatever, and you are also /my/ Barrett M90, that means you owe me some kind of explanation!"

>"Oh shove it," she grunts, pulling herself from the fridge.

>She towers over you, one of your beers in hand. Slamming the fridge shut, she closes what little of a gap there is between the two.

>Now, you've always been on the rather short side for a guy at roughly 5'10", but you've never met a girl that was more than an inch and a half taller than you, maybe an inch.

>Now, however, you have a woman that's nearly six and a half feet tall staring down at you, her pale green eyes drilling through your own. You shrink back slightly, but do your best to maintain your ground.

>"Now you listen, and you listen good, yah damn yank," she growls, prodding at your chest with the can of Budweiser.

>"You may have bought me, but all that means is that you're the fuckin Gom I'm stuck with until you decide to pawn me off to the next Yank who thinks they're man enough to handle me. I ain't yer mate, I ain't yer 'buddy,' I ain't yer rifle. Ye ain't done shiet to earn none o' that."

>By the time she's done speaking and prodding you with the beer, you've been backed against the wall of the kitchen. She walks back into the living room, popping the tab on the can of brew as she goes.

>"And get some better beer, damn it! This is piss water!" she yells.

>It takes you a moment to compose yourself. Never before had you been... Well, you're rather unsure what that was just then.

>Walking on eggshells, you poke your head into the living room.

>The bully of a Barrett is sitting on the couch, booted feet propped on the coffee table as she channel surfs. She stops once she comes across a soccer game.

>"Feckin Yanks can't play ball for shiet," she swears at the television. She takes a swig from the blue can of alcohol, making a disgusted face as she swallows.

"... So what the hell am I supposed to call you, then?" you ask from the kitchen threshold.

>"Just call me rifle," she says flatly, eyes not leaving the television.

"Alrighty then... "

>Rolling your eyes, you pick up the now much lighter rifle case and head into your room to seek out some answers by way of your computer. You type up a quick email to the former owner and seller of the rifle, being sure to word it to seem like you're simply wanting to be sure there are no "out of the ordinary" problems to be expected.

>Looking back through the earlier emails between yourself and the dealer, you begin to realize that you might have stumbled upon something rather fishy.

>He'd asked about your family history, religion, job, etc. You'd figured it was simply some older gentleman being overly careful about who he was selling such a powerful firearm to.

>A few hours pass before you finally get a response. It simply reads: "Be patient. Guinness and steak pie, Guiness, and Bailey's will open the door. She'll kick you around, but that's the nature of such a large weapon. You work with her, not her with you."

"The fuck?" you wonder aloud.

>You begin to write a response, but the door to your bedroom swing open as the Barrett walks in.

>"Ah'm headin to bed," she yawns.

"Let me get the couch ready for you," you offer, standing from your computer.

>"For me? Nah, lad, I'm takin the bed."

>You're caught off guard by this, but begin to think maybe she's finally starting to settle in. She is, after all, your rifle. Maybe this is an opportunity to become closer?

"Oh, uh, sure, I suppose we can share the bed, it is a full sized."

>"Hahaha, that's funny," she snorts. "What the hell did I just tell ye not but a few hours ago?"

"What?" you stutter, caught off guard.

>"I ain't yer mate and I sure as hell ain't yer 'snuggle buddy' like other whore Geists."

"Then why the hell don't you sleep on the couch?" you protest.

>"I'm a lady, and a gentleman always allows the lady the bed while he takes the couch."

>A smug and victorious grin adorns her face as she watches you try to formulate a response.

>Throwing your hands up in defeat, you storm out to the living room after being vacated from your own bedroom for the foreseeable future.

"Talk about a rough Saturday," you groan, laying down on the couch.

>You notice the pile of empty beer cans on the coffee table numbering the amount you had had in the fridge. Sighing, you roll over to face the couch.

"Well, guess that gives me a reason to go buy groceries tomorrow."

>It's one of the one of the most restless night's sleep you've had in ages.

>You're awoken Sunday morning to your phone alarm going off, much earlier than you would like, yet at a time that you've become used to.

>Back aching and groggy from sleeping on the couch, you stand and crack your back a few times before slinking into the kitchen for a glass of water.

>You look over to the clock on the microwave as you drink deeply from the plastic cup, still unsure how some people can operate earlier than 7 in the morning, especially on the weekends.

>Thirst quenched, you slowly creep into your darkened bedroom, taking care not to wake the sleeping Barrett under the covers. Grabbing a fresh shirt and shorts from a drawer, you quietly change into your exercise clothes before stepping out into the early morning light.

>You return from your run an hour later, out of breath and drenched in sweat, but feeling the good burn all through your body.

>The hot shower you find yourself enjoying not longer after you get back eases your screaming muscles, the steam cleansing your lungs. Your period of relaxation is cut short, however, as a pounding on the bathroom door interrupts your thoughts.

>"Oi, hurry the fech up!" you hear the Barrett yell.

"You can wait, damn it," you shoot back as you step out of the shower and begin to towel off.

>"Oh, somebody grew some balls overnight!" you hear her holler through the door.

>Ignoring her for the time being, you take your sweet time in donning the suit hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Shaved, showered, and suited, you step out of the bathroom.

>"Took ya long enough," complains the spirit. She looks at you over the brim of a coffee mug she's drinking from. "Why the get up? You goin for an interview at the McDonald's?"

"I'm going to Mass," you state, pulling a rosary from a drawer and placing it in your breast pocket.

>You turn to face the Barrett, who has a brow raised in your direction.

>"Catholic?" she questions.

"Born and raised."
>She grunts an affirmative at your answer, literally biting her tongue as she considers you as you begin putting on your dress shoes.

>"I woke up earlier for a drink of water," she begins, leaning against the frame in the doorway of the bathroom. "You were out, yeah?"

"I was out for my morning running, yes," you sigh, rolling your eyes.

>"The hell's with that attitude, ya gowl? I'm just askin ye some questions," she says with a sneer.

"If you're going to insult me or get on my ass about somethin, just get it on with it," you retort.

>"Hurt yer feelins, did I?" she snaps, moving to fully stand just inside the bathroom. "Well feckin grow up an' learn ta take some harsh talk like a man."

>She slams the bathroom door shut.

>You have to do your best to yell through the door at her, but instead manage to force yourself out of the bedroom and back to the kitchen.

>A quick breakfast of toast, coffee, and a yogurt and you're out the door for the day.

>Mass goes as it always does, ending with you standing in the parking lot afterwards talking with friends. You join a group of them for lunch, the topic of your new firearm purchase surfacing.

"Oh, that?" you stammer, fishing for something to say. "Well, uh, it's a whole new ball game with that kind of rifle. Like nothing I've had to deal with beforehand."

>This suffices as an answer to their questions about the large caliber rifle, as well as promising to take a few of them shooting eventually.

>Afterwards, you make a run through the market to pick up a few things, making sure to grab the items the seller mentioned to you in the email. You have to check your phone no less than ten times to make sure you have the right ingredients for the dish you're planning to cook that evening.

>Back home after the day out, you're met with the Barrett spirit once again on the couch.

>"Oh,so ye actually had the stones to come home, eh?" she asks, staring at the screen.

>She's got a PlayStation controller in hand, and if the noise from the sound system is any indication, she's playing FIFA.

"I don't remember having a soccer game," you comment, ignoring her jab. You scurry past the screen as you take your load of groceries into the kitchen.

"Ye left yer card information saved on the PlayStation store, so I took the liberty of buyin somethin' better than those shitty war games ya've got."

"... How much was it?" you ask, gritting your teeth as you begin to prep dinner. You prop your phone up on the counter with the recipe pulled up.

>The more she talks, the less sure of why exactly you're following the old man's advice.

>"Bout forty, I think," she says with a shrug, still focused on her game. She's hammering away at the trigger like mad, leaned forward on the couch. "If ye can afford me, what's a lil game in the gran' scheme o' tings?"

"I'm not made of money, it took me a long ass time to save the money for you," you yell over the clashing of pots and pans as you begin cooking.

>"Did somebody have to scrimp and save their McDonald's wages in a vain attempt to impress the girls?" she snickers.

>She suddenly jumps to her feet, arms tossed in the air above her head. "GOOOOAAAAL!"

"I'm not that bad off, but civil servants don't get paid nearly enough," you shout over her victory celebration.

>"Oh, pardon me for insultin the county clerk! Ye must be so exhausted after sittin on yer arse all day, starin at a computer."

>Tossing the controller on the couch, she beings to walk towards the kitchen to investigate what it is you're cooking. You quickly intercept her at the threshold between living room and kitchen, a wooden spoon held up between the two of you.

"Don't even think about comin in here, you'll get your food when it's done," you bark, tapping the wooden utensil on her ALICE pistol belt.

>Your brief moment of bravado is cut short as her visage changes from one of surprise, to one of annoyance.

>"Oh, the bureaucrat thinks he's hot shit, eh?" she chuckles, cracking her knuckles. "Let's have a go, then."

>The next moment, she's rearing her arm back and sending a right hook barreling towards your chin.

>Out of instinct, you duck and her blow goes over you, leaving her wide open as she tries to assess what just happened. You take that moment to turn the tables on her, turning yourself to face away from her and grab her arm over your right shoulder.

>In a blur of olive drab and woodland camo, you use all your strength to pull her up and over your shoulder, sending her right down onto the kitchen floor with a massive thud.

>Wind knocked out of her, she lies there, eyes wide as she tries to assess what just happened.

"Corporal Anon O'Connell, Heimlich County Sheriff," you say, catching your breath. "Top in the department for hand to hand."

>"Y-Yer a feckin peeler?" she chokes out, eyes coming back into focus.

>She sits up, rubbing the back of her head before slowly climbing to her feet. She towers over you once more, staring down at you with squinting eyes as she gauges you.

>"And what the feck did ye say yer name was? O'Connell?" she hisses, curling and uncurling her fists.

>You nod, meeting her gaze and returning it full force. This standoff goes on for what seems like hours, but in reality is only a solid minute at best.

>"So... " she begins, stepping back to lean against the wall, folding her arms across her bust. "Yer a Catholic cop with an Irish last name, who also knows how to fight. What's next? Ye gonna tell me bein a cop runs in the family?"

"Dad was a cop up in Boston, grandad a cop back in Ireland," you affirm, walking past her to peer into the oven.

>"And here I thought you some Protestant paper pusher," she says, a shit eating grin crawling across her face.

"Maybe if you'd actually tried talkin and gettin to know me instead of bein a bitch right off the start," you retort, reaching into the fridge.

>"Yeah well, feck off," she chuckles. "Thought I'd been bought up by some pansy lil' 'new age man,' who don' have no class or know how to take care o' himself."

"My upbringing saw fit to make sure I could handle myself, thank you very much. Here."

>You close the fridge and toss the Barrett woman a bottle of Guinness stout as you reach for the bottle opener on the refrigerator door.

>"The feck is this?" she asks, turning the bottle over in her gloved hands. "Did ye really go an' buy the good stuff fer my sake?"

>She looks from the bottle in her grip then back to you, then back to the bottle, then back to you. She reaches out and accepts the offered opener after you've opened your own bottle.

"Little birdie told me that might calm you down, but it seems I just had to whoop your ass," you joke.

>She pops the top and brings the bottle to her lips in one fluid action, the cap clattering on the floor. After a long swig, she lets out a satisfied sigh.

>"Next time, it'll be yer arse on the floor," she argues. "I wasn't expectin that bullshit you pulled."

"Hey, always expect the unexpected."

>You watch her over your bottle as you drink, grinning as she rolls her eyes and continues to drink deeply from her bottle of booze.

>"So if you ain't a lil tool like I thought, what was up with the beta act last night?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

"How the fuck do you expect me to react when suddenly my new gun has turned into a ginger amazonian? I was fuckin confused and a little scared, thought you were a damn demon or some shit!"

>She nearly chokes on her beer as she begins laughing, pointing at you with her bottle.

>"Y-ye thought I was some kinda red haired demon come ta steal yer soul?" she laughs, bespectacled eyes watering.

>It's at this moment the over timer goes off, signalling that the dish is ready.

>"Whatcha cook fer me? Ye makin a good house husband out of yerself?" she teases.

"Keep that talk up and I'll have you on the floor, again," you shoot back, shaking your head with a slight grin.

>Now knowing that her banter is in good fun, or so you hope, you don't take it seriously as you would have.

"Steak and Guiness pie," you answer, pulling the dish from the oven.

>Setting it on the stove top, you fan it lightly for a brief moment with your oven mitt before turning the exhaust fan on low. The light humming fills the kitchen, but it's nothing more than a small annoyance.

>"Look at ye, ye've done yer homework!" she chuckles, tossing the now empty bottle in the trashcan. She fishes another bottle from the fridge and begins drinking once again, albeit slower this time to actually enjoy the taste.

"You go ahead and eat, I'm gonna shower and get prepped for bed. I gotta be on duty in the mornin at eight. Plates and cups in the cupboards, forks and such in the drawer by the fridge."

>She nods and takes a bowl from the cupboard and fork from the drawer, while you head off to shower.

>You exit your room a while later, refreshed and ready for bed. You find the Barrett spirit passed out on the couch in a food coma. You snort at the sight and make your way into the kitchen, finding the entirety of the pie gone.

"Fuckin hell," you swear under your breath. "Well, hopefully this helps things settle."

>You resign yourself to go and search the fridge for something quick to eat. You're met with a surprise, however, when you find a plate covered in plastic wrap sitting on the top shelf, a piece of notepad paper sitting on top.

>You remove the plate and begin eating the still warm dish, savoring the flavor of steak and booze while you stand at the counter. A few bites in, you open the note.

>"Thanks for the beer and beef, take the bed, I'll crash on the couch."

"That's mighty white of her," you mutter, tossing the notes in the trash.

>Meal finished and plate in the sink, you quickly grab a spare blanket from the linen closet and gently cover the sleeping rifle woman before heading off to bed yourself.

>You're barely five steps from the couch when she calls after you.

>"Oi, O'Connell," she whispers groggily.

"Hey, thanks for savin me some and for the bed."

>"Eh, it's only right. But, hey, do me a favor."

>Oh God, she's going to ask for the bed back...

"Yeah, wassup?"

>"Call me Panni," she grunts, laying her head back and covering her eyes with her beret.

>You can't help but smile a tad, happy that progress has been made.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Panni."

>She lazily waves a gloved hand in your direction before attempting to return to sleep.

>Thankful to be back in your own bed, you quickly drift off to sleep.