#tw firearms fireguns guns weapons

[ofherbalisms]

closed event starter to @nighttcalls location: far corner of the bloater

   THE AMBIANCE OF the party has held on strong for much longer than Reuven would typically endure, but his disappearance earlier in the night had served to rejuvenate. Eventually, the man had gravitated back into the venue, and carried a beer with him more as a prop than anything he had intentions of consuming. He'd chosen long ago to prefer a sobriety—after Avigal had passed, he'd worried about his drinking, and knew that as his childrens' only living parent he could not take the risk of drowning his sorrows in bottle. He'd need to be strong first, to show them how to be strong too. Now, after trying to forget that she was even standing within proximity for several hours, Reuven was feeling the resurrection of that mantra, if only to remember how Hera had become a point of strength for his children to anchor to as well. After spending so many years intertwined, emotionally, spiritually, and then��in some ways—physically, with Hera, he sometimes wondered how it was even possible for him to be so sick with nerves to even speak to the woman. Given their last encounter with one another, he'd assumed she had left their party of two for good reason—he'd had plenty of time to conclude that he had been unjustifiably awful in that final argument, no matter the reasons for his ire she had never deserved it. He'd had plenty of time to shame himself for it too, to hate himself for driving her away into what he assumed was her likely death. For seven years he believed she was dead, only for her to show up at his doorstep, a new, survivor of a woman.

   Reuven hadn't known if she hated him for what he'd said. If she wanted him dead. If she even recognized it was him—after all, they both had aged ten years. He sported a thickened, long beard now that he never had before. He was leaner, and more worn, and hardly spoke. It had taken him too long to even say hello that first time after she'd showed up at the gates, and ever since could not muster more than a conversation about herbs or ammo with her. It were as if they were in purgatorio together, and neither would look at the other, and he certainly wasn't sure if she even wanted him breathing the same air. So the decision to walk over now was purely out of wanting to hear her voice again. It had been so long, since he heard the inflection of joy in it, since he'd heard her laugh. He ached to see her smile again, but didn't know how to prompt it, so instead Reuven cleared his throat as he approached, and then stood silent beside her for a long moment before speaking. "Is anyone in the armory? Need to work on my rifle." He remembered the day he'd taught her how to shoot his rifle. Now here she was, the community's armorist. Reuven wished he could tell her he was proud of her, for everything, for surviving without him. Tell her how impressed he was, but that he always knew she could do it. Comment on how she could give him a run for his money now. But he doesn't. Instead, he palms at his beard, and suddenly decides he does need a sip of that beer. "It can wait, if nobody's there."

[ofherbalisms]

     𝑪𝑳𝑶𝑻𝑯 𝑴𝑬𝑻 𝑷𝑶𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑯, polish met metal, and Reuven listened quietly to Vanity's vent. The man stood at a small work bench a few feet away, finally smoothing some affection into his carbine after tinkering with it for an hour. Having been in the Navy, and then growing a lifeline attachment to this hunk of metal after the end of the world, Reuven was highly particular about who he allowed to even touch his gun. He, of course, thought the woman was capable and well-studied and deserved the opportunity, but perhaps he was not the best person to ask for this very reason. Too quickly did his internal debate return to his own love affair with his M4A1. Would he have allowed her to tinker with it as he had just done? There was a moment of silence between her question and Reuven's answer, as he ruminated over that silent question posed to himself.

     The answer was no. But why? "Vanity," he sighed, as if about to go on some fatherly spiel about being disappointed by life and how sometimes missing an opportunity was important to opening up another. But he saved her the belittling. Palm met coarse, dark beard and smoothed it down in thought, before he spoke very carefully, so not to hurt her feelings. "I think you would be perfect for the position. I just think that... maybe you should get a little more experience beforehand. There's a lot of troubleshooting to be done with obscure firearms, that you might not learn about until you get some more dirt on your hands." Did that come out gentle? His dark gaze searched her face, lips pursing slightly, as he awaited her reaction. Then, he quickly followed: "But—that's just my opinion. I mean, I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong and you're ready now." A pause. "Why do you want to be gunsmith? What about it speaks to you more than the armory?" he questioned; perhaps a skillful deflection, as he dragged fingers through his hair in self-soothing, and then dabbed cloth into polish again.

"I feel like everyone is being too dramatic about it. Like, it's not like I don't know that it's an important job." Vanity wasn't sure why she cared so much about it, either. So what if she wasn't in charge of the armory? She had never been the hard-working type. Perhaps having turnt thirty only a couple weeks ago made her reflect on 'having a purpose', and all that philosophical bullshit. "And the missing ammo incident, no one was ever able to trace that back to me, so I don't get why people keep blaming me for that one."

She turnt towards the other person, trying to figure out if what she was on the wrong. "I'm asking you honestly: Don't you think I would be capable enough to do it?"