diademlogs | closed → tba.

[ It's Nash's first time in Nan's gun range; it surprises her with now pristine it is, how clean and well-equipped. A tidy arrangement of guns are displayed behind a locked wall of mesh wire and a desk for sign-out. The actual shooting galleries are long and thin, the paper targets on automated conveyors with minimal rusting. The sign on the door clearly indicates a two-person minimum at all times.

(Not that Nash's version of the room's occupants means much. A man curls up on the floor in one of the galleries, sobbing frantically, pointing something cylindrical and blurry toward his temple.)

At the desk, Frank has taken her gun apart piece by piece and laid it all out across a spread dishtowel. She peers curiously down at the spread of parts. ]

You're not going to make me put that together blindfolded, are you?

Not blindfolded.

( That's the only leeway she gets — the answer is both deadpan and serious. If she's gonna own a gun, she's gonna know the parts, and she's gonna know how to take care of it. He's already done a demonstration on how to clean the thing, now comes the process of reassembling. )

Pay attention. I'm gonna show you this once first, then it's your turn.

( Piece by piece he holds the part up, names it, and then slots it into position. One after the next, patient and slow, until before him sits a completely reassembled gun — that he then takes apart and lays out in front of here again, nodding at her.

Now you. )

[ And she does pay attention. A close watch, if not an unblinking one; she studies how he handles the various pieces, the sounds they make when he tucks them next to one another. From parts to whole, he makes it look seamless.

Her expectation is that she'll have forgotten it all by the time she goes to pick up the first piece.
That he'll have to guide her through it a couple of times.

(She did promise him she'd embarrass herself for fun and zero profit, after all.)

Instead, it— it makes sense. There's really no other way to describe it, the way her hands move as if it's a child's rudimentary puzzle with fat, distinct pieces. With a short hum of abbreviated consideration, everything starts to come together with a series of satisfying little clicks. The housing access is held at the correct axis, the key and keyway slotting together without resistance, gun barrel, face plate. The last step is the clip — unloaded, and then loaded, snapping into place. It's laid back down in front of him to inspect, her finger having never gone anywhere near the curve of the trigger. ]

( He's expecting the same thing she is. That it'll take a few rounds, that he'll have to point her through it one piece after another. It's not the easiest thing in the world for somebody that's never really handled a gun before, and yet--

It comes together smooth and easy the first time, seamless, with no stumbles and no poor form. No gun safety party fouls. Nothing.

It's perfect.

He stares at her, brow knitting faintly. )

Yeah... just like that...You sure you've never done this before?

Absolutely sure.

[ Hands braced against the edge of the counter, she looks down at the assembled gun with mild curiosity. His surprise reminds her she ought to be surprised, even as she tries to ignore his stare. ]

I probably fucked it up internally somewhere. Probably won't even fire.

[ Not that she's racing to test it. ]

It'll fire.

( Declared with absolute confidence. He watched her assemble that shit with his own two eyes — she did it perfectly, not a pinion out of place.

Time to see just how far this instinct for firearms extends. He loads the clip. Checks it over, then slides it carefully over to her. )

Safety's on. Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. As far as you're concerned, every gun's always loaded, and anything you point it at better be something you're actually willing to put a bullet in.

( Not that he's worried about Nash in particular fucking around and accidentally shooting someone, but it's practically an obligatory speech when it comes to gun safety. The recipient doesn't matter, the message must always be conveyed. )

Now, come on. I wanna see how you line up a target.

[ Her fingers curl a little into the counter, punctuating the brief pause that holds court before she reaches out and takes it again. Frank's little warning does the trick — not that she ever approached the gun with anything less than utter gravity before — and she feels her stomach twisting nervously.

Hasn't she seen this before? That one teenager who lingered outside the campus pub back in her BU days, black ichor weeping from a bullet hole in their throat, their voice nothing more than a desperate, clawing, wet wheeze.

The man slouched in the gallery, the four-second loop of him pointing a muzzle to his head as he weeps. A soundless white flash, his finger tightening on a trigger that isn't there—
And then it begins again.

Her shoulders fall slightly, and then tuck back up. The pistol remains where he left it. ]

I dunno. Maybe... this was a bad idea.

Edited 2025-11-19 01:04 (UTC)

If you're gonna carry the thing, you need to know how to use it.

( Otherwise, what's the point? The only thing more dangerous than a gun is a gun in the hands of somebody that doesn't know how to handle a firearm — but it's dangerous for everybody, not just the person she's pointing it at.

While it comes out stern at first, after a second there's a subtle softening in him. Shoulders, eyes, all of it easing and gentling for her. The next bit comes out just a touch quieter. )

Look, if we're both lucky, you're never gonna have to use this on anything other than that piece of paper there. ( He nods vaguely at the torso-shaped outline at the end of the alley. ) There's nothing bad about knowing how to keep yourself safe, alright. That doesn't make you me.

[ Maybe I won't carry it, then—

Except she knows that isn't an option anymore. The city bears more and more teeth every day that passes, and he won't always be around. He has his own life, and she's not exactly racing to share every second of her own with him.

After a moment, knuckles leaning into the counter, she nods. Resists digging her fingers into the back of her neck. ]

Okay. What do I do?

( He walks her through it. Easy as breathing, slow and steady, step by step — finger beside the trigger. Check the safety. Hand positioning. Aim down the sights. Stance adjustment — barely-there touches, feather-light, indicating which way she should rotate and how she should angle her shoulders, her elbows. Never hands-on enough to come anywhere near boundaries, let alone cross them. There, good job.

Breathe.
Squeeze the trigger.

She'll have six rounds to unload into the person-shaped outline in the paper at the end of the row. )

[ Her body settles into his guidance like a pistol's clip snapping into place. It just makes sense, and she doesn't flag. Her elbows don't relax, even if the weight of the pistol should be heavy against her wrist.

The six month-old urge to twitch away from his touch, well—

That isn't there anymore either. Nash ignores that for now.

The first time she squeezes the trigger, there's a slow inhale, a light exhale, but she doesn't stew in cautious uncertainty. She pushes herself through the moment, ignoring the way her stomach continues to clench, ignoring that all she wants to do is put the gun down and leave this situation. That's not reason, that's emotion; that's stubbornly clinging to who she was back home, not who she needs to be to survive this city long enough to find her cedar trail. The bullet bursts to life out of the chamber and it isn't as loud as she thought it would be, but the heat of it is surprising.

The first round hits the target in the shoulder. The second one, the neck.

The remaining four burn through what would be the heart, following the same trajectory with such an uncanny evenness that the last two stop breaking the paper, instead disappearing into the little holes already created by their predecessors.

Then, nothing but an impotent little click. The pistol is empty.

Blinking, Nash leans back. A casual twitch of her wrist, the gun dangles harmlessly from her pointer finger. She kind of wants to hurl it away from her, but she knows that isn't safe.

In truth, she has no idea what to make of... any of that.

But she doesn't feel good about it. ]

We done here?

( And lo there standeth he, agog. Face screwed up into disbelief and bewilderment, head tipped askance, eyes locked on the target paper for one long, long moment.

Slowly: )

Yeah... we're done here.

( Here's the thing: civilians don't shoot like that. Not unless they're the doomsday prepping good old boy type, and that ain't her. This is a girl with express discomfort at even the thought of holding a gun. She doesn't shoot like that. Not those last few shots.

He does.

The thought clocks into place and his mouth closes, jaw flexing idly, a gentle frown on his lips.

That's a complicated concept. It's good, save for the multitude of ways it's bad. Taking something from her is one thing. Putting splinters of himself in her, on the other hand? That's... He can't say he loves the idea. It's like throwing poison down a clean well. It's like tainting a flower. Yeah, maybe it'll save her life one day, and it's hard to argue against that, but at what cost? What else can he expect to bleed over?

He presses the recall button on the target. Tears down the paper and replaces it. Goes about the methodical process of resetting the lane for the next person. Wordless, contemplative. )

[ Nash had put lunch into the fridge before descending into the Republican nightmare that is the gun range; she focuses her attention on plating and reheating, divvying out steamed broccoli and chicken and rice using the plastic plates in the cupboards and stuffing a tenner into Nan's little jar.

"Is that you, Nora?" ]

Yes, Nan!

[ "Well, hurry up and buy something, little girl!"

And then she turns the TV up to an obnoxious volume.

By the time Frank re-emerges, Nash is sliding a plate under his chin — and then, before she forgets, reaching into her bag and tossing down a pale yellow, greeting card-sized envelope near his hands. (The contents of it will be revealed next tag.) ]

( Somewhere in the distance behind her, Frank's eyes roll up to the ceiling as he listens to the exchange between Nash and Nan. If he can say nothing else about the old bat, he can at least say he admires her consistency. This same exchange has happened damn near three times a week for the last four months. Same old same, nothing ever really changes. Truth be told, maybe he's a little fond of it by now.

It's expected.

The card is not.

It gets a long stare before he slowly picks it up, a furrow in his brow. )

What's this?

( Asked even as he's opening it — a card, he knows that much, obviously, but it's fully slipped his mind what time of year it is. Even if it hadn't, he wouldn't in a million years guess she could possibly know. )

[ Around a mouthful of food — ]

His and hers spa day passes. Figured you could take Furiosa.

[ She's fucking with him on that particular beat. She knows they would both hate that.

Inside the envelope is a hand painted card of an alligator in sunglasses lounging in a swamp, with a squirrel sitting upright — in rather bossy fashion — on his back. The happy birthday on the front is done in clear gold calligraphy. Inside is written... nothing. She's written nothing on the inside, as befitting an entirely unsentimental person. As the whole thing is handcrafted, there is a little go fuck yourself ♥ where a corporate card company logo would generally be.

When he opens the card, a few things will fall out. Two small, rectangular passes in sturdy card stock — dinner, drinks, and axe throwing all included for two, to be redeemed at any time between now and March of the following year.

The second is one of her many sketches, but she's made the effort to tidy up and solidify the line art into something a bit more professional. Frank and Furiosa, caught in a quiet, intimate little moment; a pose, an instant, she'd had the chance to fix into her memory one movie night. Heads tucked together. No one else in the world.

Swallowing, she'll explain. ]

I went through your wallet one day. I wasn't looking for cash, I thought you might have a— [ Actually - ] Never mind. But I saw your ID from back home, Pete.

[ She's not even going to ask about that little bit of weirdness. By this point, she's run out of ways to be surprised. ]

Edited 2025-12-06 03:17 (UTC)

( I thought you might have a—; for the briefest moment, he arches an eyebrow. Then, promptly decides he isn't going to ask, does not want to hear the answer, and is completely content to let that go forever, thank you, the end.

Maybe he ought to look at least a little affronted that she went through his wallet, but... yeah, no, he doesn't give a shit. Won't pretend to. More than anything, he's too busy being deeply amused by the contradictory, charming nature of the card that he takes his time studying. )

It's sort of a witness protection thing. I worked with the DHS on something, back home. Pissed off a lot of powerful people, so... I got to be Pete.

( Which is a long, long story made very, very short, but he feels compelled to offer up some kind of explanation. Just so she knows. Just so it's clear she's got the real name, and Pete's the bullshit one.

But anyway — he holds the card up pointedly. )

Did you hand-make this?

[ Correctly or not, she's assuming some sort of indignation that she didn't also drop eight joolies on a card after buying the axe-throwing date night passes. Her response is defensive, but playfully so. ]

Obviously. I'm not going to buy a card when I can draw my own. I'm not made of money.

( Don't be so defensive, Nash. He's just asking because- )

This is the most god damn adorable thing I've ever seen.

( It's a nice split mix of appreciation and teasing, like he's giving her shit for doing something cute. He'll take a hand-made card over store-bought any day. Especially one with as much personality as this one. Almost appreciates it more than the gift itself, although those passes get held up, too, in a pointed but unspoken thank you, this is great. No question whether or not he likes the gift, with that little smile playing around his mouth. )

[ Fork in one hand, she introduces him to her middle finger, but it's half-hearted. Not even standing fully at attention before she curls it back down, suspending the quote-unquote hostilities. Despite her sarcastic posturing, she's glad Frank likes it. She hadn't told anyone about his birthday; hadn't seemed right to invade his privacy like that. It might not even be his, but a concoction of Pete, fake man.

Whatever it is, at least they can have this little moment. ]

So, one more year until forty, right?

[ Her lips press together as she fights off a grin. ]

You know you have to throw a rager when you hit forty. I'm not letting you get out of this.

Yeah, you do that. Meanwhile, I'll be sure to book a trip to Acreage right about this time next year.

( Once upon a time, he might've said Fiji — but this shithole of a planet doesn't exactly have a Fiji equivalent, does it? Not that he's ever heard of.

Hard not to take this moment as an unpleasant reminder of where they'll both still be in a year's time. The permanence of this place. )

When's yours, anyway? Gotta make sure I pick up some hot glue and construction paper.

A while ago.

[ A shrug, as she tries to hurry that particular bit of conversation behind. ]

You know, a destination fortieth birthday party in Acreage could be fun.

[ Idly said, and chased by a bit of food. ]

I promise I won't invite Nan, even though I'm pretty sure she'd show up with three male strippers for you.

[ In the background, there's a huh? What'd you say, Nora? ]

Uh-huh, nice try.

( So, so deeply unimpressed — not just by the thought of a destination Acreage stripper party with his ninety year old maybe-arsonist thrice-widowed boss, but by the evasive techniques on display here. )

If mine's out there, yours gets to be out there too. Spill it, I want a date.

( From behind the curtain, a pair of beady, insectoid, bespectacled eyes pop out to peer at them, demanding, "What's the fuss?" )

Edited 2025-12-26 18:11 (UTC)

[ Bless you, Nan, for rescuing her from having to admit she's going to have birthdays, grow older, and eventually die in this horrible city. Nash smiles over at her; as amicably as ever, even though it's only ever been met with old lady sass and a haughty sniff of judgment. ]

Nothing. I was just heading out. Want some lunch, Nan?

[ The old bat absolutely descends on the half-eaten plate like a toddler being given their own slice of cake.

As she chatters on, happily informing Frank about her stories, Nash gathers her stuff and beats a polite exit. Frank gets a companionable shoulder bump and a half-mouthed bye; Nan get a full, fulsome farewell ("bye, Nan!") from the door.

Frank continues to not know when Nashua was born. ]

closed → tba.

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