TWELVE, in one of Dax’s dusty warehouses. Old halogen spotlights beaming down the wooden rafters, splashing over empty warehouse floors. Used-up sandbags dangle from chains all the way across the building. They dance like puppets as the firecrackers begin to pop. Training rounds, tiny guns held by tinier hands; spent brass ringing like winter bells.
Near the boarded-up entrance and rack laden with hooded coats, a small clearing in the dusty cavern where the lights shine brightest. Two tables, five plastic chairs, cheap holoprojector spitting electric-blue snowflakes and crackling holiday music. Festivity in the air, drinks in the veins. Outside, icy sludge sloughs over the Vents. Inside, we have a space heater.
Dax, not so big then, slyly watching a stream of the annual winter tournaments they hold out in the rustic villages far beyond the capital. Half a pint of eggnog already gone. Beside him, Krey and a six-foot Malice tankbuster, dark skin, white teeth grinning over at me as he slots a bullet as wide as his forearm into the magazine. On the other rickety table, me, tiny Emilia Mori, all elbows and knees and freckles, struggling to hold up a Quicksand rifle while Sarah laughs and tipsily paws my limbs into the right position. Starburst hair a rebellious red-orange, couple strands dangling near my nose.
I blow the strands to the side with an angry puff of breath. “I don’t like it. It’s too big.”
“They’re all going to be too big, kid,” Sarah sighs. “The point is to try them and see if we find one you like.”
“I already know what one I like,” I pout.
“That’s what Krey said, and he found one he liked even more. I’m not giving you my gun right from the start, you little fuzzball.” Arm thrown over both my shoulders, Sarah scratches my hair and tipsily moves a projection in front of me, swiping through the hundreds-long arsenal of ranged weapons a JOY can fabricate for Gunslingers. She taps at the screen with narrowed eyes and a silly smile on her face. Every time, a web of nanolines wraps around the gun and reforms it into a different shape. “Look, look! You could have a cold fusion rifle, a sixty-mag submachine, or- oh! A gunblade! Or even a rocket launcher. You wouldn’t have to aim at all with one of those…”
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Beside me, Krey settles in behind the Malice, eyes for the scope and a toothy smirk for me. “Come on, Emmy. Pick your next one quick. I want to shoot again.” He braces for another round, all confidence. Elbows on the table, stock rocked against his shoulder. Never sees the heavy hand Dax distractedly lays on the back of his chair to stop the recoil.
Powerful fists thud into the sandbag behind us. Ulysses rocks the dummy back on its heels with a vicious four-hit sequence. All punches, those taped-up knuckles, a straw dog boxer who still has some of the glory days left in him. As competent in his domain as Sarah is in hers.
He grins as he leans against the bag, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “You could keep browsing guns all day- or you could be a martial artist,” he says. “Sometimes the simplest solution is the best.”
Dax belts out a laugh. “Might as well tell her to be a Magus, bury her nose in a spellbook!” The crowd on his stream lets out a roar for the current fighters.
“Don’t give her any ideas,” Sarah growls, still lost in the arsenal. When I don’t say anything, she glances over with a raised eyebrow. “Rule number five?”
“If you’re close enough to punch someone, you’re doing it wrong,” I grumble. “Maybe I will be a martial artist. Ulysses would let me pick whatever gun I want.”
“Ulysses would also give you candy and ice cream for every meal if you asked for it. If you want to blackmail me like a big girl, let’s see you back it up.” Swaggering to her feet, Sarah unbuckles her gunslinging rig and slaps it down on the table in front of me, holster and all. My eyes widen. “Go ten for ten with my Sixer and we’ll call it a day, kid. Sound fair?”
I draw the heavy revolver from its leather holster with a grin on my face. “Deal.”
Dax shakes his head, barely holding back his laughter. Krey sinks low behind the Malice. Ulysses pours a shot and takes a seat beside me. Sarah strikes up a lighter with a smirk on her face, boots kicked up on the table. A lazy trickle of smoke drifts from the burning end.
My finger tightens against the trigger.
And I don’t get to go home until I’ve tried every single one of those four hundred guns.