The last time I fired the gun was about three months ago.

They chased me into the subway. As I ran downstairs to the platform, the train to Nochnaya closed its fucking door right in front of me. Shouting all kinds of swears I can think of (most of them probably don't make any sense) I almost tripped as I jumped down the last few sets of stairs.

I took a risk and look back, there are five of them, though judging by the size, the one in the back can count as two. Their eyes bulged, veins visible on their necks. It's going to take at least six minutes till the next train is at the station. The streets of Via Martinase and the city center is not like other areas of Faust. Cops still exist in these parts, I make a mess in broad daylight on the street, the cops might finish the job for them.

And as far as I know, the police will most likely turn a blind eye when they see who are the persecutors.

And there are no safe houses or establishments I could hide since they're all run by the fellows chasing me.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide......

Killing afflicted members of any gang would have severe consequences but as much as I don't want to. At this moment I can't find another way.

I ran towards the bathroom on the far left next to a wall full of graffiti of racial slurs and an old couple who immediately move to the other side of the platform as they saw me and five angry Japanese racing in their direction.

"Wish I'm half as smart as they are." I thought to myself as my shoulder bump opens the public restroom's door.....

***

The muscle of my left thigh tighten up around the stitch mark. A shapeless hand clutches my sixth and tenth rib, tearing it outward, harder and harder.

"In my defense......a 200kg, grim-looking motherfucker was going to drill a wakizashi into my brain. I ran out of bullets. And there's a parabellum-looking cartridge on the floor. So....." I raise my open palms giving him an honest to god sorry smile.

Malcom closes his eyes and scratches his cheek full of scars and stiff beard. "Iris. Throw the rubbish in the bag and go help your brother." In an instant, she swipes all the parts back into the plastic box without a word. When she walk passed me our eyes meet, she tilt her brow.

"And laddie..... Guessing you're in the mart for a new piece eh?" With a smile of a Komodo dragon on his face, he opens his eyes. The same mischievous glint shines.

I wonder if he has a switch to turn on and off his accent?

"Depends. I could always go back to using my sig. Unless you have some new toys?" A hum stuck in his throat due to coughs, making it sound like a purr.

"I do, laddie. I do...... A new batch just came and besides the regulars. I got some real quality stuff. Come!"

Following Malcom across the storage room, some folks are still giving me curious glances. But compared to Icebreaker, the new faces here are relatively less. 10th Street always has high standards Even at the brink of war.

The two guards in front of the doorstep aside when they see Malcom approaching, nodding their heads as he walks by.

The loading area is bustling. Cases of

'car parts' are getting unloaded off the truck. Crates stacking in the empty space next to them. I see Damoh leaning on a cart while Iris's crunching down checking the exterior of the crates.

Remembering Malcom told the girl to help her brother. I'm starting to see the resemblance between those two.

I notice the Talaria of Mercury logo by the side of the truck and on the uniform of the driver smoking while leaning on the wheel.

Straight out of port.

"Kennel! No fash on the road?" Malcom stopped by the almost empty truck and shouts at the driver.

"Meh. A dog shouted at me while I drive by, fucking animals spite on my truck." Malcom left corner lip drops lower.

"What kind of dog?"

"Xolo." Malcom's pupils look like cold, hard stones with cracks all over them due to centuries of rain.

"Was it a big one? Or a skinny one?"

"Big one. Well fed."

"Aye...... Nothing else except rude animals?" The driver shrugs. "Splendid. Don't worry about the dog. A fat dog doesn't run fast." Malcom pats the driver's shoulder and resumes his way to the crates.

Damoh immediately walks away when he sees me leaving his unaware sister. Iris stands up seconds after she's done examining the batch. She looks around, signs, and pushes the cart to the storage room by herself.

Luthier picks up a hard rifle case that stands out amongst all the ammunition boxes and wooden crates with 'Context fragile. Handle with care.' printed on them. I noticed a red cross on the case.

Humming a three-note melody, he leads me to the empty 'shooting range'.

***

Calling it a 'shooting range' is a bit too classy for it. The place used to be a narrow hallway between walls which nobody ever uses. One day, luthier found out the wall between Glasgow and the skyscraper next to it has a thick layer of acoustic foam panel in them. Installed by the last owner before he and his father bought the place. The guy couldn't stand the sound of construction noises when the 10th street was just founded alongside Euforia, so he spent a fortune to make the wall facing the constant noises completely soundproofed.

With a bit of redecorating, a table, some white chalks to mark the distance on the floor, three practice dummies(that change a lot), and some LED tubes on the wall. Malcom made a shooting range in the middle of a city with theoretically strict gun controls. Which cost less than 500 bucks.

Luthier kicks open the half-closed door and put his left arm on my shoulder. The range is currently empty. A bunch of 9mm shells scattered at the the half forcibly pushed me towards the workbench at the corner of the room. A big fucking grin on his face.

Placing the case in the middle of the bench, his fingertips taping a rhyme on its carbon surface. My nose twitched as I catch the scent of gunpowder, burned metal, and the particular smell that only materialize after a considerable amount of bullets were fired in a crank space. Is like burning coal and saltpeter.

Reminds me of Viv........ shit, I need to call her back quick.

Refocusing on the reality, I found Luthier still standing in the exact position with a crude grin. His eyes are filled with excitement like a teenager showing his friends his booze stash underneath the vent.

"Right. So, enough of the ceremonial suspense sir." I place my left hand on the table imitating his pose and grin. "What do you have this time?" He exhales loudly, head shifting back.

And with a dramatic motion, Luthier unbuckled the safeties and opens the rifle case.

"Luthier."

"Aye?"

"What happened to the 'limited stock' rule."

"Meh, that's for the big motherfucks. These babies are still on the table.... for the right fellows."

Custom and competition stuff.

I only know two of them, and it will already cost a fortune even in the most gun-friendly country to obtain them.

"See anything you like, laddie?" Malcom raises his eyebrows with a genuine smile on his face.

"I see my own bankruptcy, sir."

"Eh well.... the price of these are..... fluid. So don't just fucking stare! Feel them!" He slaps his palm on my back without a warning I almost elbowed him in response.

"Here. I know you got a thing for these vintages." Luthier says while handing me a variation of 1911.

"45 as always. Carbon and stainless steel, 43oz is a bit heavy for others if they're trying to one-hand it, but you're probably used to it by now."

Wooden grip with textures. Smooth fucking slide.....too smooth.

"Standard 7 plus 1 in the chamber. Easy thumb safety. Feed ramp refined to the point it can load a round even if you're in hell or Desalos."

There's a smell on it. My thumb grazed an extremely small plump on its frame. If it weren't for the fact that I'm so familiar with this model I would never notice.

Black oxide. Freshly done. The serial number was removed not long ago.

"So." His left hand slams down on the table making the entire case move. "What do you think laddie?"

The grip is a bit unnatural compared to my own, the rest feels like one of those remastered version of Ferrari. Newer, faster, smoother. But just can't stand up to the original.

"Extremely satisfying weapon." I placed it back on the case. "But I'm not looking for a new 1911 as long as this one is still around." I slowly pull out my own 45 with my finger off the trigger. The extreme comparison between the two somehow made me like the one in my hand more.

"Eh." Malcom raises his hands in the air. His sagging lip couldn't be more obvious right now. "Not forcing you laddie. And don't worry. I got a hunch that thing will still be here when you decided to come back." A sly smile forms on his face as he moves on to a pistol with smaller frame.

"This is a glo...."

"No sir."

"......."

"Sorry sir. Really not a big fan of that model." Malcom signs. And moved on to a revolver.

".357 Double action. Six shooter. Best of the series. Walnut grip, I got some other models if you want a snubbie. But all in all, this thing is the most balanced one. I've done some..... personal adjustments to the trigger. Most revolvers will jam the fucked up if you don't pull the trigger all the way down. And it's a pain in the bawbag to pull.....I changed that."

Looking at the pistol with a small smile before handing it to me.

It's heavy. Different kinds of heavy. The same weight and smaller frame make the sensation more obvious. I weigh it out in my hand and check the cylinder. I'll admit the grip is good, a tight fit for my hand. The barrel could use some work but overall I can see it saving my life in tense situations.

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I know a lot of people who carry revolvers. I couldn't judge them since it's my own problem of never getting used to these.

I raise my head and see Malcom's little smile still there, the left corner of his lips twitches as the muscle tries to form a normal smile but fails. He knows I never use revolvers but still wants me to feel it.

A cheeky smirk flashes through my face before I put on a serious one. Placing the revolver in my shoulder holster with my left hand (It doesn't fit of course.) I stare at the wall in front of us. And count to four.

Pulling out the revolver as fast as I could, I put one at the imaginary guy's stomach and brain. Two clinks sounded louder than it is in the soundproof room. He's right, the trigger is amazing.

I hand it back to him with a grin. He returns me with a nod.

But before he place it down on the case, I noticed there was a small shape of color at the butt of the gun that was lighter than the grip itself.

Another one freshly removed.

"Picky wanker innit?"

"When I have options," I shrug. "Sir, mind if I ask..... where did these batch come from? These aren't factory ones. They're custom stuff." I point at the hard case.

Malcom was going to move on to the next piece but stop his motions when he heard my question. Turning around, body facing me. Luthier knit his eyebrows slightly.

"If you're worried about if it could be tracked. Don't. They can't be. As for where they came from...." Malcom pauses and starts tapping the case again. He looks at the red cross on the rifle case, deep in thought.

"Let's just say they fell off a truck." As he raises his line of sight towards me again. A crooked smile curls on his face. Mischievous on his face, warning in his eyes.

"And does the truck driver know something fell off?" I ask in a manner as casual as it gets.

"He doesn't. And he won't. Like I told you. Dinna fash yersel!"

I raise my hands in the air like I'm surrendering. Malcom nods in approval and moves on as if nothing happened.

"Next up. This is a new one, invented last year. Not on the global market yet. A multi-caliber pistol, it can hold 7.5mm, 9mm, 10mm, .40 Smooth experience and transitions in all types of barrels, this one is probably the easiest to modify. But the safety is small as fuck you might need some practice."

He hands me a gun that looks like it's from one of those cheap sci-fi movies. A big fucking dustcover area at the front. The thing is fully black.

"Polymer frame. 38oz. You can put a light or laser sight under the big chunk of plastic. I ran through some field testing on all calibers it could fire. I can guarantee it's a bloody powerhouse even in 9mm."

It looks like a CZ, weighs like a Barreta 92, and feels like a Jericho. It's just......

"It's fucking strange innit?" I raise my head and stare at Malcom raising my brows. He shrugs and continues.

"Honestly, couldn't blame you, laddie. I don't like it either! It's like...... a dirty hurdie eh? Anything you put inside her, she takes it. She's just waiting for it..... And it looks like a polis gun."

I can't help but let out a laugh.

"Like I said. Everyone's picky when they have options." I hand back the pistol. Malcom grins as he places it back in the case. There are two more we haven't tried. The one on the left I couldn't tell which part is the slide. And the other one...... It doesn't have a bunch of weird or flashy designs which makes it stand out among others.

"What about that one." Malcom's mouth becomes an 'O' shape as he sees where I'm pointing.

"Good eyes laddie. That's a work of art. Americans make guns like they're merchandises, Germans make guns like they're pocket watches, Russians make guns like they're tanks. But the Italians. They make guns like they're bloody guns."

He hands me the pistol with excitement in his eyes.

"That's a Pardini GT9. You're in luck! I got a full set for this model, any modifications you want, old Malcom can do it for you." For the right price. "It used to be a competition pistol. Invented by some Italian shooter that's way too picky with guns just like you so he made his own dream gun."

Full black, wooden panel grip, very pronounced beavertail. Fret checkering at the metal parts plus the fact that it uses a double-stacked box makes the grip a bit bulky but manageable. The whole thing is about the same weight as the last one. But much more balanced.

"Semi-auto, chambered in parabellum or Italian 9mm(21). 17 rounds. 5-inch barrel. Some don't like the sight, I could change that if you want. Feed is a bit tricky at first but once you get used to the angle it will become a second nature for you. Oh, and this one also has a tilt barrel like your blasted FN 509."

Holding it with my left hand. To be honest I can live with the weight is just the thing is still a bit big. My left-hand gun is usually for me to quickly draw in the middle of a confrontation, I need it to be fast, to be smooth.

I rack the slide a couple of times and found it to be even smoother than the new 1911 I just tried.

Holstering it in my jacket. I let both of my arms drop down by my thighs. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and imagine the wall in front of me has a head, body, limbs, and a gun in his hand. In an instant, I pulled out the Pardini, unlocked the safety, and put two bullets in his face. Feels slower than usual.

My palm has a slim red mark on it. Caused by the grip.

"Full steel?"

"Aluminum alloy frame, steel slide."

"39oz?"

"38."

"Feels a bit bulky overall. Could you make it lighter?" Malcom tilts his head for a moment.

"The mag is full steel. I could. Theoretically makes it lighter. But it won't change much. The slide is already perfect as it is, can't change it.....although I could do something to the grip."

He carefully get all the guns in the rifle case out and removed the first layer revealing a lower deck full of all types of gun parts and tools. He rummages through the unorganized mass for a while before he shows me an ergonomic wooden grip in deep red color.

Clutching it, the same slick wood touch at my palm is as good as the original one. But the slight curve makes my PIP joints suffer less at the vertical part where the frame and panel meet.

It won't make it lighter but will make it easier to draw.

"This could work." I passed the grip to luthier. Within 20 seconds, he changed the panels and screwed the new one in.

"Try it now."

It feels like a completely different gun. Initially, I only carry the 1911 around. The big chunk of iron was goddamn unbearable at first, especially for someone who's always been skinny, but over time it became a part of me. Being extremely familiar with one particular gun can be a double edge sword.

On one hand, you can utilize it to the fullest, on the other hand, every other gun feels strange in your palm.

The Pardini's weight is alright for me. The main problem is the double stack and wide grip. And now with a new one. The thing feels natural in my hand, the ergonomic grip feels comfortable and easy to handle.

"She’s ready, sir. Can I have a test drive?" A small dose of adrenaline rushes into my blood.

"Ha! Haven't seen you in high spirits for a long time laddie." Malcom's sagging lip twitches again. He bents down and pull out a box of cartridge under the bench. "Old rules, one mag. Standard or something hotter?"

"Standard's all good." I grin as I add. "Can't give you more reasons to rob me."

***

Standing in front of the table. I raise the Pardini to align the sight with my eye. The iron sight might need some adjustments indeed.

With a striker fire pistol. I always like to pull the lever first even if I don't have to. I gripped it as hard as I can since it's a new one, the first round might be rough. My right thumb presses on the 'made in Italy' mark..... a small buzz rings in the back of my head, signaling something out of place. I tilt it and check the spot I pressed. But there's nothing but the line of words.

Resuming the motion, I aim at the dummy 10 yards away with two open eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. My left index finger moves from the lever the feeling came again. But this time I decided to ignore it.

Finger on the trigger, breath in, breath out....

I'll admit I got spooked when I pull the trigger and it immediately fires with zero resistance. Just a crisp, almost silent 'tik' before the powder ignited the 9mm in my chamber, making it swirling through the barrel. The rifling keeps it steady as it drills through the air until it made an impact on the dummy's throat.

"Nice recoil...... considering how robust it seems." And considering it's a new gun. Malcom nods with a knowing smile.

I turned around to face the targets. 15 yards, three rapid shots. As my ear rings, I noticed the steel slide racks perfectly and fits the frame tightly which also reduces recoils.

Putting another three to the 25-yard dummy. I'm starting to appreciate the accuracy. But every time I press down the trigger it always fired before I anticipate it to.

I change to a bullseye stance facing 90 degrees away. Left hand, one-handed and put three more rounds in all three of them. Even while one handing the pistol's recoil is still amazing.

I holster the gun in my jacket again. Staring at the dummy 10 yards away I change back to a normal shooting stance. Some shoots while holding their breaths. I don't, since most of the situations I ran into will all be over in the manner of seconds before your gun have the chance to sway off target.

Breathe in. Breathe out. I sneak my left hand into my jacket, palms against the new grip making the initial uncomfortableness disappear.

Pull out, hands extended, eyes on target all the time, as soon as the iron sight blocks half of my vision I squeeze the trigger. The dummy shakes after I made a new eye on its forehead.

The slide racks back completely. I tilt the gun to 45 degrees and check the chamber like always. The pleasant smell of burned coal hits my nostrils. As my left thumb brushes past the 'made in Italy' a weird pressure on the back of my head appears again. I take a closer look.

There's nothing on this side of the frame except the the model name and place of production.

Wait.

I check the other side where my index finger was placed but there's nothing neither.

Where's the serial number on this gun? Or the trace of removing it?

Checking the butt, barrel, inner chamber, grip, even the trigger guard. But I found nothing but the Pardini logo on the slide.

Flipping the gun I found a small carve on the under barrel. It's in cursive font. Latin.

Casus Belli

Cause of war.

The adjusted trigger, smooth firing, and slide needs no 'break-in' whatsoever. This was someone else's piece.

"Sir. Where did you get this?" I ask as I show him the inscription. Malcom doesn't even look at it.

"It fell off a truck laddie......A different one."

"Italian truck?" Luthier shrugs.

"Does it matter?"

"Will it matter?"

The old man inhales deeply before he says in a plain tone without an accent.

"I wouldn't sell you a gun that would get you killed laddie.......Aye, it was someone's piece once. He was smart enough to erase the numbers a long time ago, and the Latins under the barrel..... I can't remove them since the cunt carve it so deep that you can't scratch it."

I put the gun down and take a step closer. Luthier's eyes are heavy, the burden of a lifetime long tragedy and roughness. Come to think of it now, he can also be considered the successful example of a dreamer in Faust. And look what that made him now..... I see a tired old man in him. A real man, but tired. He arms himself by disguising the tiredness as a calm and unmoving solemn. Since both will look emotionless in others' eyes.

But I see something else. Hiding deep down under that rusty iron which had been penetrated by over the years of living like this. I see sadness. To me? No......to the owner of the gun. He knew the person.

Sometimes I look at seniors in the organization such as Igor or Eugene they will occasionally slip, and show this kind of expression in their eyes before quickly hiding them under ruthlessness and crudeness.

"If you say so, sir." I nod slowly. Grabbing the gun and handed it back to him. "It's a fine piece. Exquisite one. But it's someone else's."

Luthier nods stoically and put it back inside the case.

"So I'm going to need two more ..... adjustments before I take it." Luthier raises his eyebrows. Confusion in his eyes.

"I want an inscription too on the frame. Next to the takedown lever, along the slide."

"Aye..... I can make quick work of it......" Scratching his beard the old man nods again. "What do you want to put on it?" I think for a moment before answering him.

"Causa latet, vis est notissima."

***

It took him quite some time at the workbench in the storage room before it was done. He uses the same cursive font as the one under the barrel, the space is a bit crank so he has to break it into two lines. But the finish is perfect.

My fingertips swipe through the impression. Without it, it feels like I'm still holding a stranger's firearm.

"That's all I can do with the machines here."

Pulling out a brand new violin case, he puts the Victorian box from earlier in the space for the violin body, the unloaded Pardini in the space for pegbox, three spare mag, a box of 9mm, and a tiny screwdriver for me to readjust the trigger in the box for strings or rosin.

Putting a cover cloth on top of the box and the gun, luthier locks two straps at the corners of the violin case making sure the products won't shift around. And the interior pillars also help with reducing bumps and jolts. The services of Glasgow are as good as always.

"The gun itself, the grip, the words which are a pain in the arse to engrave, and the check up. That will be....... 45 hundred ."

"There's one more adjustment though." Luthier knit his eyebrows. "The price. It's a used gun after all." The old man rolls his eyes.

"Fine 42."

"35"

Luthier opens his right palm with the back of his hand facing me. Saying this is bullshit without saying it.

"4 large." I extended my open palm and rolled it back like I'm throwing a ball towards my back. Meaning that's not going to work.

"39 Laddie. Don't push it."

".....36 and I won't charge you extra on the job you mentioned earlier."

He froze for a second. After a mouth click he extended his right hand.

"Deal."

***

Carrying the violin case in my hand, Malcom walk me out of his store with his arms around my shoulder all the time. As I step into the long hallway that leads to the storefront my mind drifts to other shit I got the do today.

A route forms in my mind once we got back to the display area full of all kinds of instruments. But a thousand ravenous borers infested on my stomach wall suddenly starts dragging their little mouths. Making me feel like they're trying to turn the thing inside out.

A quick mental math later I found out all I consumed in the last 18 hours are either cocktails, vodkas, cigarettes, or drugs...... Ok, I had an espresso this morning but that just increased the hunger right now.

1:14 After checking my watch I decided to change the route and go to Noriyaki's place first.

The sunlight have become more unforgiving than earlier. I fish out the sunglasses and put them on. Arseny is still on the phone, noticing the sound of the door opening he raises his head and gives me a nod.

"Hey, laddie!" The sound of luthier rings behind me. I turn around. Luthier puts his hands on the belt as he stands at the doorway head subtly tilting to the right. "What does that mean? The sentence you want me to put on it?" A smirk creeps up my face.

"The cause is hidden, but the result is well known."

The old man finally succeeded in smiling normally for a second. Before his skin forces his lips to drop down again. He nods in an obvious motion like he's silently agreeing with me. Arseny by the door knit his eyebrows looking at the pair of us and shrugs.