Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bullets slammed into the paper target, each shot piercing the rippling sheet. All aimed at the head dead-center; all but one successfully hit. The last bullet had jammed.

Another attempt with near-equal results. Another jammed bullet to be taken care of.

The rifle had performed, but not to Matilda’s standards.

Because there was a fine line between equipment failure and injury. In the shooting range, a jam caused a loss of time; in a battle, a jam often morphed into something worse. The deadliest mistake could arise from the simplest of errors—the kind that if you met it, you would not be able to undo it. So proactivity was key. Meticulous care of your equipment.

Matilda lowered the rifle, enabling the safety, and deposited it into the right-hand pile. That made five out of eleven guns defective now. Not a good sign.

She picked up her pen and began to note the gun’s shortcomings.

Most of the guns had fallen into disarray through neglect. An expected outcome, given that these were secondhand. But this gun was unique in its plain lack of wear and tear. She understood the reasoning behind its condition much more now: it was not by any fault of its own nor of its owner, but rather of its manufacturer—the built-in sight was misaligned, the firing pin defective, and the overall part quality abysmal.

Matilda concluded her notes with: It can fire, but I would not trust my life with it in a fight. Much less anyone else’s. Recommended to discard.

Finally, the final gun of the dozen. She proceeded to disassemble the pistol, inspecting each part before reassembling it. Then, in her hands, it sat. A satisfactory slide, smooth loading, and clean barrel. Well maintained. With the press of a button, a fresh target sheet came into view.

For the twelfth time, she aimed and fired.

A splendid performance befitting its immaculate inspection.

Matilda murmured, “And that’s all twelve done.”

Habitual fingers locked in the safety and set the gun to the left. The protective earmuffs and eyewear came off next. A rush of crisp air coated her ears, alongside steady claps. She turned around, finding the sound’s source standing behind by the wall. A second pair of earmuffs rested around the woman’s ribbon-covered neck, encircling red and white hair.

Surprise swept over Matilda. “Shalom? Sorry, did the noise disturb you?” She eyed the Schorl hanging in the air. How long had they lingered there, unnoticed?

“No,” Shalom said. “I just like watching you. You’re very precise.”

“Oh.” Her blunt honesty caught Matilda off guard. Their past interactions had been strictly business and could be counted on one hand.

“Ah, on second thought, I do have a question.”

“Yes?”

“There are a dozen guns on the table but none are part of your usual wear. Any particular reason why?”

“A request from Chief,” Matilda explained. “They were donated to the Bureau recently, but they vary in condition.” Glancing at the smaller pile, she continued, “Some of them only require slight adjustments while others necessitate full decommission.”

Shalom drew near. Her attention shifted towards the pile as well. “Full decommission?” she asked curiously. “Won’t repairs suffice?”

“The Bureau doesn’t have that kind of manpower. Both our supplies and specialists are already stretched thin. It’s unfortunate but I can’t, in good conscience, defend using our limited resources on such tasks.”

“I see.”

A few seconds passed, and Shalom made no movement to leave. No signs of continuing the conversation, either.

So Matilda resumed cleaning. The various spent ammunition boxes were already stacked neatly against the station’s walls—transferring them to a bag took less than a minute. The stray gunpowder residue took a little longer to tidy up. As she called the target sheet forward, her mind wandered back to the comment about precision.

“But,” she began slowly, “as far as I’m aware of, isn’t your Schorl also fairly precise?”

“It is. But it’s a feat assisted by technology rather than by my precision alone. So, in that regard, I find your individual skill fascinating.” Shalom plucked the near-pristine target sheet from its clamps. With her other hand set underneath a dipped chin, she studied the marks carefully. “You fired twenty bullets, yet there are only six holes.” She smiled. “If that isn’t precision, then I’m not sure what is.”

“Thank you.”

This time was easier. Without surprise blindsiding her, Matilda could clearly recognize the genuine smile and compliment. After all, she had grown up around fake smiles and knew by heart of their tells—the kind you learned through exposure, an inevitability of politics—and, presently, Shalom’s lacked any.

Shalom folded the target sheet in half twice then handed it back. “Thank you for the display. I enjoyed it rather a lot.”

“You can come watch anytime. But, for your safety, please wear the protective eyewear next time, or else I’ll have to ask you to evacuate the range.”

“Of course.” A twinkle in her gaze. “I’ll remember that for next week.”

Matilda nodded, watched Shalom depart, and then packed the guns. With guns safely in hand, she made her way out to the range’s front. The wall of protective gear sat on the side.

Was that dust on the far goggles? That vest, too.

She’d have to double-check the rental equipment later.