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You take stock one last time in your living room, looking over all the gunmetal and wood.

The long-guns go in the two backpack-cases, the revolvers in the Plano one, and the other pistols go in the old camera bag. The range-bag itself has everything else, but all you feel is the lead. Getting out the front door is a struggle between the weight and the awkward length. You groan as you approach the old central staircase; it's not just some manly macho-urge to get it all done in one go, but necessity. The Hilux doesn't have a covered bed, and you don't trust that some street trash wouldn't try to nick the guns from the cab. You do live in Chutseville, after all.

Ordinarily it's not a problem, but you don't ordinarily bring your whole arsenal. You've got a good reason to; your oddball guns garner plenty of attention individually, so bringing them all should attract a lot. You're gathering potential witnesses, so attention is what you need. Letting people try out the weird guns won't hurt either.

That, and part of you worries this may be the last week you'll have with them.

You sigh, setting the last case in the truckbed. You shouldn't think like that. Rebecca had a point yesterday about needing to de-stress. Going into this with a more positive mindset will help you actually enjoy it. You smile as you pull out of the parking lot; you're certainly looking forward to working with the tigress. She's pleasant to be around, and she was plenty eager to learn on Sunday. A gun of her own probably means she's even more so today.

You think idly about some of the other details as you drive to her place, the afternoon sun high in the sky. It sounded like she worked for the State or still does. With how expensive her house seems, it makes sense. But the time off doesn't, and neither does the way she treated you. No high-level State employee you've met acts like the way she did yesterday or the day before that.

The more raw bits come to mind, and you wonder if that has something to do with it. The way she reacted when you touched her, how she got embarrassed after you talked about her breasts, even via euphemism. How she made that tiny noise of surprise when Talia caught the two of you hugging on Sunday, and worried about Talia taking offense to it. That last bit doesn't sound like something a self-righteous State zealot would worry about at all.

You wonder why it is the tigress decided she needs a gun.

As the verdant greens and bright, sparse concrete of the suburbs begin to surround you, you remind yourself not to ask. She didn't want to talk about it on Sunday, and that probably hasn't changed.

Rebecca comes out as you pull up to her place, locking the door as you unlock the truck's. Her red sweater is bright as yesterday, and you're reminded of how hot out it is. The extra short jean-shorts make sense, but the sweater stands out. She smiles as she approaches, tiny pistol case in hand, and you smile back.

"Hi Rebecca!"

"Hi Anon," she says, pausing when she reaches the sidewalk. "Where should I put this?"

"You can just throw it in the --"

You pause, looking back at all your gear in the bed. Right where the titanic tigress has to sit.

"Shoot," you say, hopping out of the cab. "Sorry about that, Reb. I kinda forgot."

She makes a soft sound, watching you heave one of the cases from the truckbed.

"It's okay. Should I just put it in front with you?"

"Sure," you reply. Rebecca slides her pistol case in through the passenger window as you play tetris with the two-rifle soft-case. The Toyota's bench isn't wide enough that you can just lay it down, and you don't want it sticking out the window. There's just enough room to stand it up, though. You go to the bed for the next case and find it empty; the door handle c_hunk_s as Rebecca tries to open the passenger-side, your bulging range bag casually hanging from her other hand.

"Oh, sorry," she says, her ears flattening with embarrassment.

"No problem at all," you say, reaching over and unlocking it for her.

"You're bringing a lot today," she says, stuffing it in for you. "Do you usually bring this much?"

"No, not usually," you reply, helping her maneuver the shotgun case. "But I figure these will turn some heads, get more people to come over."

You pause when the suspension screeches again, Rebecca's weight lowering the truck a few inches. You turn forward as her bust fills the back window -- that thump you heard is probably her hands on the roof, not her breasts on the glass. Not at all.

"T-that and I thought about what you said. About de-stressing."

The tigress' purr mixes with the engine as you start it up. Only way you can tell the difference is the rumble on the back of your seat.

"I'm glad," she says. The car shifts as she settles into place, once again half-hugging the cab.

"Ready."

You nudge the gas and coax the Toyota into motion. The trip yesterday makes you confident it'll hold up, but you're still going to baby it. The truck is older than you, it deserves it.

"How long have you been into guns?" Rebecca asks, looking at you in the side-mirror.

"Six years, I guess. Couldn't get my hands on them until three years ago, but I studied them before that."

"Studied?" she asks.

"Yeah. Studied, researched -- I was interested in them, is the point. Seriously interested, I guess. I --"

You pause. Probably don't want to tell her about dad. Doesn't matter how sweet she is, no high-level State employee needs to know about that.

"I was going for a history degree, and one of my projects ended up being about them. Found myself really interested in how they developed, and now here I am, a bunch of books and guns later."

"Oh, a history degree!" Rebecca says. "Do you work at the museum?"

"I've worked there before," you say, "but just for research. A paid internship, basically. The field is a little... small."

"Oh," is all she says. You can see her expression fall a little, her whiskers drooping in the wind. But she still smiles.

"So is all that research how could fix the little gun from Sunday?"

"Well, I still have tinkering to do, but yeah."

You find yourself turning the Kolibri over in your head, trying to figure out what caused it to malfunction.

"It was incomplete when I got it -- basically all the ones on the market are -- but it was mainly the internals. Little parts that don't require special machines, just a lot of patience. The tolerances on it are incredibly tight. The guy that designed it was a watchmaker, so it makes sense. That could be what's causing the problem, but I'm sure I --"

Then it clicks.

"Yeah, that could be it!"

"What?" the tigress asks.

"It's got to be the ammo!" you say. "When I made those parts, I triple checked the tolerances and did a function check. Everything worked like it should in a normal firing cycle. But when I added actual live ammo, that's when it malfunctioned! The ammo I used Sunday was stuff I'd made from empty casings, since there was barely any original stuff left. That and it's over 100 years old, so the reliability is questionable."

Rebecca's head tilts in the side mirror. Her smile is still there, but you can tell she's not getting everything you're nerding about.

"Anyway, the point is the ammo I made is what made it slamfire. I think. There's less data on the ammo than the parts, so I could've overloaded the cartridges, which in turn could rattle the internals out of alignment, and make the striker not recatch."

She nods, closing her eyes as she smiles.

"You can tell me to shut up if I go on about stuff for too long, by the way," you say.

"No! No, it's okay," she laughs, her tail flicking behind her. "I don't mind. It's nice to see someone talk about what they're passionate about."

You chuckle a little. Her closed-eye smile is warm in the mirror.

"Sure. Thanks, Rebecca," you say. "I haven't had the chance to really think through it. I've actually got some things I can try with it on the range, now."

"Good! I'm glad!"

You again feel her purr through your seat, though you can't hear it.

"What about you?" you ask, "What sort of stuff are you into?"

"Oh!" she says, blinking. "Well... I enjoy gardening. I've got a lot of plants in the back yard."

"Ahh. So like flowers and stuff?"

"A few," she says, "but mostly produce. Vegetables and herbs, things like that. A lot of work now that it's warm out!"

"That's cool. Bet it saves on food bills."

"Yes it does," the tigress chuckles. "In more ways than you'd think, too. I've been getting so much I've started going to the farmer's market."

"Really? That much?"

"Uh-huh," she nods. "Actually, I should've sent you home with some yesterday, for all the help you gave me."

"No, no, that's alright," you say, waving her off. "You don't have to do that!"

"Well, I want to," she says, drumming her fingers on your door.

"Really, Rebecca, it's alright. You don't have to -- I just wanted to help out."

"And I appreciate that," she says, "and I'm going to give you something to show it."

You sigh, sinking into the seat with defeat.

"Okay," you say. "I suppose it'll give me a chance to go over taking apart the gun with you."

The tigress' ears pop up, and you see her whiskers stiffen in the breeze.

"Just to clean it," you say. "You should clean your gun every time you take it out shooting. It should be easy, too -- it's a common enough gun that you could probably find videos and steps online, but... you know."

You look her in the eyes.

"I want to make sure you're happy with it. That you're confident in doing it on your own."

She stares at you a second before her arm comes in through the window, hugging you to the seat tighter than your seatbelt.

"Thanks, Anon."

You hum in acknowledgment; you manage to stroke her sweater-covered arm twice before she pulls back with a stifled sound.

The ride to the range is quiet after that. There's no air of awkwardness like yesterday, much to your relief. Rebecca asks you to wait when you're at a middle-of-nowhere intersection, and shifts onto her back. You don't blame her. It's a nice day out, and the countryside is beautiful. The fields are full of life, corn and grains waving in the wind while greens and alfalfa turn the gentle hills a vibrant green. The bits of forest between are lush with vegetation, the trees just spaced enough for bushes and grasses to grow beneath them.

The pop of gunfire greets you far before the range itself does. The Hilux has more traction on the gravel road and parking lot than usual -- having a few extra pounds of tiger in the back helps. You can feel the whole truck lift when Rebecca gets out, the suspension sighing in relief; you remind yourself to check it for wear later. By the time you unbuckle and reach over in the cab for a bag to take, there's nothing there.

"Ready to go?" Rebecca asks, standing there with everything.

"Sure."

The tigress lets you lead the way to the counter, where a familiar she-wolf lounges. Talia nods at you, then stares at your towering gear toter.

"You bringing everything?" she asks.

"Yep."

"Hi Talia!" Rebecca chirps with a wave.

"Hi Rebecca," the she-wolf says, forcing a smile. The customer-service face fades when she turns back to you.

"Made those calls," she says. "You want the news now or later?"

"Later," you say, "I was going to walk Rebecca through her new Tridentia."

"I wondered," Talia says. "6 is open last I checked."

"Alright -- it should only take like half an hour or so. You're fine with that, right Reb?"

"Sure," the tigress nods. She's stooped over slightly, just shy of the shack's ceiling. You notice her tail is curled up around her leg, like she's trying to be smaller.

"Well, good luck," Talia says. "Better get there quick. It usually gets busy around now, people getting off of work and all."

"Oh, yeah," Rebecca says with a soft noise of concern, shuffling out from under the shack's roof.

"Part of why we came here now, actually," you say to the she-wolf. "If anyone we know happens by, tell them I'm down there, alright? Hoping to drum up a few witnesses for Sunday."

Talia gives you a grunt and a nod. Rebecca lets you lead again, sticking close. You walk along the worn two-track that runs behind the shooting shelters, not wanting to disturb anyone. You snoop a little, making eye contact with the few people that notice you and wave, but that's about it. The first two bays are full of older, mainly human club members, ones you don't know the names of but know by sight. Talia can send them your way later. Shooting the shit -- and shooting shit -- with them could be fruitful, but you've got a promise to keep. The rapid fire rattling around bay 3 tells you Aki is there before you even get to it. The mess of gear on the table confirms it. The cheetah is standing out in front of the bench by a few yards, fiddling with a rifle.

"Hey, Aki," you call out. She turns and gives you a smug smile.

"Hey, slowpoke. Watch this!"

Aki turns back to the range and raises her gun -- a little high, you think. The reason becomes clear when you hear a distinct bloop. The cheetah lowers her M4, smiling as the chalk grenade explodes on a target 100 yards out.

"Where the hell did you get an actual underbarrel launcher?" you ask as she saunters over to the bench, popping the spend 40mm shell out one-handed.

"Surplus," she says simply. She nods over at Rebecca. "Who's this?"

"Aki, Rebecca; Rebecca, Aki," you say. "We met Sunday when I walked her through things for the first time. Now she's got her own gun, so we're gonna test it out."

"Congrats," the cheetah says, giving Reb a smile. It's a little muted when she turns to you, though.

"Talia told me about what happened on Sunday," she says. "I'm sorry, man. I told her I'd be happy to pitch in whenever you two get a lawyer."

"Thanks, Aki," you say. "It means a lot. If you want to try any of my stuff, we'll be over in bay 6. I brought it all today"

"Nah, that's alright. Wouldn't want to chew through your ammo," she says. "I've got enough toys to play with right now, anyway."

She pops a mag in and slaps the bolt release, her smug grin returning.

"Nice to meet you, Rebecca," she says, turning briefly to the tigress. "If you want to try something a little more modern, hit me up."

"Sure! Thank you," the tigress replies. Aki gives the two of you a nod before turning back downrange, walking towards the little shooting course she's got set up. Rebecca's eyes linger on all the matte black and gunmetal on the bench as you continue to Bay 6.

"Shouldn't she have her stuff... locked up? Or have someone watching it?" Rebecca asks.

"Yeah," you say, "but folks are pretty respectful here. You don't really have to worry about it. Plus, it's Aki. She's got superpowers."

"Oh?" Rebecca asks with a chuckle.

"Yeah, she's like a dragon. Knows the instant someone touches any of her gun stuff."

The tigress laughs some more, the sound soft and light. It's at odds with her build, same as her voice. It distracts you enough that you don't smell the inhabitants of bay 4 until it's too late. The hyenas hold their fire, sniffing the air and slowly turning your way. Your heart sinks when the three of them see you. Even the smallest one looks taller than you, and the biggest -- Roxxi, maybe? -- is on par with Rebecca. Both in height and curves.

Rebecca's laughter stops when theirs starts; they've again blocked the two-track with their shitboxes, meaning you'll have to go through the shooting shelter.

"Hey there humie," Roxxi says, cocking her hips. "You change your mind 'bout havin' a good time?"

"No," you sigh, "I'm doing the same thing as Sunday, I just want to --"

"She don't look same as Sunday," the medium one says, pointing to Rebecca.

"And I thought you said you were with the wolf?" the shortest adds. She leans on a post, filling the last bit of space you could possibly slip through.

"I am. I'm helping out a new shooter here. So please, just let us through."

The three of them look you and Rebecca over, those shit-eating grins still plastered on their faces. They're undressing you with their eyes, little yips of laughter coming every now and then. You don't dare look back at the tigress. If you do, they'd pounce.

"'Guess we could try another deal," Roxxi says, leaning down. Her breasts strain against the spandex of her top, threatening to fall out. She snickers, reaching for your hair.

"But it'd only be for --"

"Back off!"

Rebecca's rumble makes you jump; it takes you a second to realize it's her. Roxxi pulls away, all the attention now on the tigress. Her ears are flat, her hands off to the sides, her tail bushy and lashing. The fact she's been trying to shrink herself down becomes very apparent, because she's not doing it now. The yeens' lips curl as they size up the tigress anew. The smallest yeen attempts to say something but gets cut off by Rebecca's green glare, her growl making the tin roof shake.

God, you wish you the Tokarev was in your pants instead of the pistol bag right now.

Roxxi lets out a snarl, but grabs her two sisters and pulls them off to the side.

"Fine, bitch," she says. "Go on. He don't put out, anyway."

Rebecca doesn't move for a moment, then grabs your shoulder. She stays staring at the yeens while she pulls you tight to her, putting herself between you and them. Even so, you feel them stare. Only when you're past the side-berm do the yeens go back to shooting, and only then does Rebecca let you go. She sighs as she does, shuddering slightly; she wasn't just holding her breath. Her eyes are closed when you turn to her, her fur just starting to come back down.

"Thanks, Rebecca."

She flinches, but relaxes when she sees you're not reaching out to touch her.

"O-of course," she says, giving herself a quick shake. "I slipped by them on Sunday. They didn't give me any trouble then, but I guess I'm not... what they're looking for."

You manage to chuckle slightly, and you see her relax. Bay five is thankfully empty, as is six. You help Rebecca lay the gear out, readying your Tokarev while she sets up her 30XL. You keep an eye on her, silently checking her work. You've done training like this before, handling new shooters. Most of the time it's with Talia, for protection. Just in case. But you don't think you have to worry about that with Rebecca.

The tigress listens diligently as you go over the controls with her. When you're finished, she tells you she went through the manual last night. She's sweet about it, though, apologizing and saying she didn't want to cut you off. You have her load up mags while you staple a few different targets to the stands. After going over the fundamentals, you start her off with some slow-shooting at 10 yards.

"It's looking a little high," you say after the first group. "What's your sight-picture look like?"

"Sight picture?"

"How your sights look. Here, come up to the target with me."

You sketch a diagram of iron sights, reminding yourself not to get too into the weeds.

"Do your sights look like that when you aim?" you ask. Rebecca squints, then nods.

"I have the front one between the back ones," she says. "That's how it should be, right?"

"Yeah...where are you putting them? Right on the target, or under it?"

"Right on the target."

"Alright," you say, standing up. "Let's go back and try again -- that thing's probably zeroed for a little further out. Try putting your sights right below the bullseye."

Rebecca nods, loading in another magazine. Her shots pull much closer to center; it takes a few groups, but soon she's getting everything within the first couple rings.

"Okay, I think we're ready for the next step," you say.

"Going back further?" she asks. Her eyes widen a little when you shake your head, and nod over to the next target.

"Distance is good, but figuring out what you have to work on is better," you say, shifting over to the diagnostic target. The tigress looks a little lost, staring at the different labeled sections.

"Just shoot at the center, like you were before."

She nods, and fires off another group. You go up and investigate, finding most are in the 'Jerking Trigger' section. You translate that to English for her, and go through her trigger pull with her until she can identify the wall. Rebecca's ears flatten when she tries again; her shots are closer to center, but still in that section.

"Don't get caught up on it," you tell her, "it takes years to get it right. Here, watch."

You put a few Tokarev rounds on target, the holes about half the size of hers. They end up off to the right.

"See? Still gotta work on how much trigger finger I use," you say. Her expression brightens a little, making you smile. You have her move on to the last target, one meant for rifle sight-in. The fact you're using pistols doesn't matter. It has six bullseyes for her to shred, and that's what you care about.

"Hey Reb?" you say as she's loading mags. "You can load those up all the way now."

She looks to you for direction when she's done, the Tridentia ready in her hands. You simply gesture to the target, and say "It's all yours."

You stand off to the side and simply watch her go. She's a bit closed off, still hunched over with her arms ramrod straight. Her tail flicks lightly between shots, her pace slow and steady.

She looks pretty cute when she concentrates.

You give her advice between mags, more or less reminders of what the two of you covered before. Her stance and groups improve as you watch, her shots getting faster as her tail continues to flick.

"So, how do you feel Reb?" you ask when she's finished, all her brass now spent. She lets out a small sigh as she stares downrange, now 15 yards from the target. It's a happy sigh.

"Good," she says, turning to you with a smile. "Thanks, Anon."

She slides her pistol into her holster and reaches for you, but stops half way, cringing slightly with a soft sound.

"You good?"

"Yes!" she says, "yes, I'm -- I'm sorry."

She deflates a little, her head hanging low. You reach for her but stop halfway as well. You sigh and go over to the target stands, pulling the targets off.

"Here," you say, holding them out to her. "If you want them. Sentimental value, and all that."

Rebecca's expression brightens a little, and she gives you that cute closed-eye smile as she takes them. You look back at the shooting shelter, spotting a few folks lounging around the benches. They wave back when you wave to them; probably came over at Talia's request.

"Hey Reb?" you say, "Could you help me set up a few more targets? I've got a lot of guns back there to go through, and it looks like a lot of people, too."

"Sure!" she says. She again carries the gear, following you out to the 100 yard stands.

"So, what's the plan?" she asks when you arrive. You staple some hi-vis bullseyes up as you respond.

"Go back there and talk, I guess. It looked like the folks we saw on the way in, so I imagine they'll want to talk about the pieces I've brought."

You tug at the target a little, making sure it's secure before standing back.

"I'll try and steer the conversation towards the trial, try and get their contact info in my little range book."

"Range book?" the tigress asks as you begin heading back.

"Yeah, my range notebook," you say. "You don't need to worry about one. I keep it in my bag in case I need to write something out -- helps to take notes when you've got a bunch of finicky old guns like mine."

Rebecca hums in acknowledgment. She stays quiet as you set the targets up at 50; you clear your throat on the way to the ones at 25 yards.

"If you have to go, just let me know. Don't want to keep you if you've got something going on."

She makes a sort of cooing noise.

"I appreciate that, Anon, but don't worry. I've got time."

You can feel her watching while you staple up the last few targets, choosing her words.

"We can stay as long as you need. I want you to actually enjoy some of your time here, and not just spend it all working with me."

"Hey now..." you say reflexively, looking up at her. She's smiling, but you reassure her anyway.

"Working with you was fun. You might be a terrible student, all ornery and arrogant," you say, making her giggle, "but it feels good to watch you improve."

Her eyes widen a little at the last bit, though her smile doesn't falter. You find yourself lost in her expression, her green eyes warm as sunshine. Her whiskers shine in it, cutting across the stripes framing her face, the orange and black mesmerizing. She blinks slowly; you think you hear her beginning to purr.

"A-anyway," you say, forcing yourself to look away, "let's not keep the people waiting, huh?"

"S-sure," she responds.

The aging crowd greets you in the gruff sort of way their generation does, and you respond in kind. You introduce Rebecca as your friend and student, fresh from her first outing with her own gun. She gives them all a tiny wave and a soft "hello", pulling that cute closed-eye smile again. The small crowd greets her back, offering some congratulations and tips you already told her before turning their attention back to you.

"The wolf-girl at the front gate told us you had a favor ta ask, Anonerson," one says. "Somethin' about a court case?"

"Yeah," you sigh. "I can't get into details about it, but if you wouldn't mind being a character witness, it'd really help out."

"You can't give us any details?" an old woman asks.

"Well..."

"Come on," a skinny man says, "give us somethin'! We gotta know what we're meant ta judge you about, right?"

"Alright, fair enough," you say, raising your hands in defeat. You stroke your chin a little, choosing your words. "It... it has to do with my attitude towards firearms. About conservation."

A dozen heads nod, sounds of acknowledgment filling the little booth.

"She also said you'd be shooting off those funny guns of yours, the wolf-girl did," someone says. "And that maybe we'd get to, too?"

"Well, I don't know..." you chuckle. "How about I give you all a little demonstration first?"

The group gives a rowdy cheer, and Rebecca smiles. They all crowd in close as you set up the ZH-29, Rebecca looking over their heads. You go through the weird bits of the rifle with it's trigger bolt-release and offset sights, not going too deep into the historical part. You take a few shots to prove it still works, even if the bolt locks sideways; there's a few whistles and some laughter when someone checks your work with binoculars, your shots close to the bullseye out at 100 yards.

Your two takers from the crowd don't do quite as well, though they both keep everything on paper at 50. You demo the rest of your collection in a similar way, keeping things brief. More people take you up on trying the 1901 and the Webley, probably because they're the more recognizable guns in your collection. They're also easier ones to get ammo for, so you're more than happy to let them all have a go. Rebecca stands off to the side, watching quietly. When the crowd has had their fill and say they're gonna get going, you bring up the trial again.

"If you could, I would really appreciate your support as a character witness for this Sunday," you say. "I've got a little notebook right here if you want to leave your name and info."

A chorus of "of course"s and "good luck"s follow, along with a lot of back-patting and hand shaking as they say their goodbyes. When you look at the notebook after they've all cleared out, there's a whole page full of names and numbers.

"Now all I need is a lawyer..." you mutter to yourself. You can feel Rebecca come close, looking over your shoulder.

"Did it go well?" she asks.

"I think so," you say, shutting the book. "Still waiting on my DA to be assigned. These names aren't worth a whole lot without someone to coordinate everything."

"I'm sure it'll work out," the tiger says; her tone makes you believe it, a little. She pets your hair, and you stiffen slightly. Her paw is massive and warm, her touch gentle. It's only a second or two before she pulls back with a quiet cat noise, her tail flicking wildly.

"S-sorry!" she says, clutching her hands to her chest, "I -- I didn't mean -- I just --"

"It's okay, Rebecca," you say. You reach, but she sucks in a breath and shrinks away, tensing. "...You can pat my head, or pet it, or whatever. It's fine."

"W-what about Talia?" she asks, still tensed. You almost ask "what about her," when you realize what she means. You and the she-wolf are 'in courtship' after all. You sit there verbally stumbling for a few moments, coming up with the right words.

"I think you meant it in a... friendly way," you finally say. "I'm fine with that. I'm fine with my friends doing stuff like that. We're friends, right Rebecca?"

She closes her eyes and nods with a long exhale, letting her hands drop back down to her stomach.

"Yes," she says. "We're... we're friends. I'm glad we're friends."

The two of you stand there in silence, both wringing your hands. You get lost in her expression for a second before reminding yourself why you're here. You're here to make sure the trial goes well, not to woo her. The tiger wanted help, and giving it to her means her testimony will be solid and favorable.

Hopefully.

"Anyway, you want to do anything else? All my guns are still out if you want to give one a try."

Rebecca offers you a smile, though her ears droop.

"I would, Anon, but they're all too small."

"Hey, you managed to make the Tokarev work," you say, pointing to the soviet garbage-slab. "I'm sure we can make something work. You carried them all in here, it's only fair that you try one if you want."

The tigress looks over the bench a moment, squeezing her hands. Then she turns back to you with a nod. You survey your collection, trying to think of which gun is the easiest to use with your thick winter gloves. The long barrel of the 1901 Winchester glints in the sunlight, poking out from the overhang of the shelter.

"Okay, I got it," you say. The rolling-block action echoes throughout the bay as you open the lever and load up the tube. You keep the lever open when you hand the weapon off to Rebecca, and it looks like a BB gun in her hands. She doesn't ogle it, though, looking down at you for direction.

"That's a lever-gun," you say, "when you close the lever, it puts a shell in the chamber and makes the trigger live. After you shoot, you rack the lever to go again."

You reach up and tap the extended lever for effect.

"Normally, you'd put your hands inside the little space here, but what you can do is grip along the outside. You might only be able to get a finger or two on it really well, but that's okay, as long as your trigger finger is where it's supposed to be."

"Not on it until I'm ready to shoot," the tigress says with a nod. You smile, nodding back at the serious, striped woman.

"Exactly."

You watch as she shoulders the shotgun. She's chicken-winging it, but there's not really much she can do about it. The bolt rattles as she pulls the lever home. The tigress lets out a small grunt of annoyance as she works to get her fingers in place, but she makes it work eventually. Her shoulder hardly moves when she pulls the trigger, and it's not just due to her stance.

"A bit high," you say, watching Rebecca rack the lever. "Try getting your face lower on it."

The tigress tries, then shifts her thumb with another grunt, letting her cheek actually press into the wood. She fumbles less with her finger this time, another shot ringing out. She stays firm, though you can't help but notice the jiggle in her shorts and sweater.

"How was that?" she asks. You look out at the target, clenching your hands and trying to force down any blush.

"Better," you say, "give it another go. Should have two left."

Rebecca's last two shots are nice and tight, the slugs sending up big sprays of sand. she lowers the gun slowly and smoothly after she's empty, looking down at you with a smile.

"That was fun," she says, "not perfect, but fun!"

"I'm glad," you say, smiling back. "Anything else you want to try?"

She makes a soft sound, looking over the bench one last time before shaking her head.

"No, I think I'm ready to go if you are."

"Alright. Let's start packing up, then. Got a lot of guns to put away."

The tigress nods with a slight chuckle. You have her put away the boxes of ammo and spent brass while you check to make sure all the guns are clear and safe. She finishes fairly quickly, and you start showing her how to check the guns, making sure to keep your nerding-out to a minimum. You're about halfway down the line when the tigress lets out a soft 'Oh!'

"Anon, what about the tiny one?" she asks, "you said something about testing the ammo."

"That's right," you say, snapping your fingers, "thanks for reminding me, Reb."

She gives you a smile and another soft cat sound, watching you go over to the Kolibri's little case. She leans in close as you pop it open, watching over your shoulder. You try to ignore the warmth coming off her as you pull out the magazine and go through the tiny cartridges. The original rounds are wrapped in an ancient piece of cloth; you've only got three to work with. You let out a sigh, and gingerly load two. You'd like to test more, but the last one is getting taken apart for study when you're home. As you click in the tiny magazine, a thought occurs.

"Hey Rebecca?" you ask, feeling her pull away when you turn. "You have your phone on you? It might help to record this. You know, for evidence."

"Sure," she nods. The tigress goes off to the side, crouching to get a better angle. "Okay, it's going."

"Alright," you say, "Going to go through my theory first, for the record."

You clear your throat, look at the camera, and begin.

"This is my 2.7mm Kolibri. When I bought it, it was in need of repair -- I can go over the details later. In short, some internal components were missing, worn, or broken. I made replacements myself using the best measurements and materials I could find. The reason this trial's happening is because when I test-fired it, the gun ran away on me and slamfired."

You take out the magazine, holding it up for the camera.

"After some thought, thanks to my friend Rebecca --" who smiles behind the phone camera -- "I'm thinking it was the ammo that was the problem. I was shooting my own reloads when it malfunctioned, and overloading them could have cause the internals of the gun to jar out of alignment while it was cycling. These, however, are original cartridges."

You slide the tiny magazine in and rack the slide.

"They've got the dimensions and specifications that the Kolibri was intended for. If I'm correct, there should be no malfunctions," you say. Then you turn back to the range, taking aim at the nearest target you set up for your other pocket pistol. You adjust your grip with a sigh, say a silent prayer, and --

"Oh no."

You look up at Rebecca, then follow her gaze past you.

"Mr. Anonerson," Patricia says, strutting up with an evil smile. "Taking everything for one last spin?"

You flick the tiny safety and lower the Kolibri, thoughts rushing through your head. She's right, but maybe this is a chance to prove your innocence. She probably won't bite, but it's worth a shot. Plus, your key witness is standing right there.

"Not exactly, Pat," you say, "I --"

"'Officer Birch,' perp," she growls, putting her hands on her hips. Her ears perk back up when she sees what you're holding.

"Oh, perfect. That's what I was coming here to confiscate."

"Confiscate?" Rebecca asks; the ATF agent looks up at her with a frown, seeming to realize she's there for the first time.

"The machinegun is evidence, Ms. Maldovich. Now back off, like I told you earlier."

"Actually Ms. Birch," you say, getting her to snap back to you, "I was just about to test something. I think I understand why it did that on Sunday."

"Because you wanted it to?" she snorts.

"It was because of the ammo," you say, ignoring her. "I was shooting reloads that I made. I think what happened is I overloaded them, and the extra force rattled something loose. Just enough that the striker wasn't catching."

Patricia's expression doesn't change, her arms staying crossed. One of her ears flicks as she looms over you.

"I don't care, Anon. You're still faking your courtship, and that gun is still a machinegun until I say otherwise. Now hand it over."

"But I can prove it to you right now," you say. "I've got the original ammo loaded already, one in the chamber. Just let me fire, and --"

"You pull that trigger and I'll add 'tampering with evidence' to the list of charges," the shepherdess says. She takes a step towards you, and you feel a hand on your chest.

"Officer Birch, please!"

Rebecca puts herself between you and the ATF agent, keeping her paw on you.

"Give him a chance! He hasn't tampered with anything, I saw him take it out of the box. He couldn't have changed it at all!"

"That's not my concern, Ms. Maldovich," the shepherdess growls. "He admitted himself he modified the gun. Now I advise you to step aside -- you might've submitted yourself as a witness, but you don't need to engage with him any further. You hardly know him."

The tigress stays right where she is.

"I know you're being harsh," she says, her tone edging on a rumble. "He just spent an hour showing his collection to strangers and letting them try his guns. He's a kind young man, and -- and I don't understand why you're choosing to be like this!"

The two of them stare at each other, the range once again silent. Pat's tail is stiff while Rebecca's lashes behind her, brushing up against you every now and then. Both their ears are pulled back, both their stances are tense. Pat's gaze dips, checking the tigress' hands. You don't like how long it lingers on the one on your chest.

"Well," the shepherdess says, voice cool, "maybe that's because I'm not the one he's 'cheating' on Talia with."

It hits you harder than it should. She said the same thing Sunday, but it irritates you more.

"You know that's not true, Pat. Me and Rebecca just met on Sunday. We're just friends, that's it. Right, Rebecc --?"

You look up to see the tigress has frozen, her ears completely flat. Her breaths are short and shallow; when you go to touch her hand, she yanks it away. She backs into one of the posts of the shelter, her pupils small and her hands in a low ready. You're not sure who she's looking at, but her claws gleam in the sun. You jump when Pat snatches the Kolibri from your hand, ignoring your protests as she shoves you aside to put it in the little metal case. You look back to Rebecca, finding her staring blankly downrange.

"Pat, what the fuck did you do?"

You turn back and Talia's there, doing her best to try and loom over the ATF agent despite being the same size.

"I caught your 'boyfriend' in the act," the shepherdess says. Her tone is overly professional as she drops the bagged-up Kolibri into one of her belt pouches. She doesn't flinch when Talia presses in close, wrinkled muzzle inches away from her own.

"What did you do to Rebecca, and why the hell are you touching Anon's things?" Talia asks, growling low.

"I'm confiscating evidence, Talia," Patricia says. "Just his machinegun. You try and stop me, and you'll get another obstruction of justice charge."

Talia doesn't budge, her growl deepening in tenor. Pat smiles. The she-wolf breaks away with a snarl, but steps aside. The shepherdess' teeth glint as her grin widens.

"Be seeing you Sunday," she says, strutting off. You let Talia stare daggers at her; you're more worried about the tigress. She's still up against the shelter's post, her eyes now closed. Her breaths are more full than before, but she's still tense. Even her tail is static.

"Reb?" you say softly, then a little louder. "Rebecca?"

No response. You reach out for one of her hands, hovering near her stomach.

"Rebecca, she's gone. You're o -- "

She jolts the instant you touch her, making you jump back; the expression on her face is burned into your mind. Her fangs are bared, her eyes narrow and ears flat. Her claws are raised in an impromptu guard, and her stance makes you realize how big she really is.

The hiss is something you won't forget either.

It's only a few seconds before the tigress' eyes widen and her claws retract; it takes a little longer than that for your heart and lungs to start up again. A few more seconds after that, she manages to speak, her words soft and struggling.

"I -- I'm -- s-sorry..."

You nod, and she closes her eyes with a sigh, wilting before you. From the corner of your eye, you see Talia's hand drift away from her belt.

"...You want me to give you a ride?" the she-wolf asks. The tigress opens her eyes, looking at you expectantly. There's a little shimmer to them.

"No, you, Rebecca," Talia says, getting her attention. "Do you want to ride with me?"

The tigress looks back to you, opening her mouth just a little. Then she swallows, and nods.

It's all you thought about as you packed up; it's all you thought about on the drive home. And it's what you're still thinking about now, some three hours later. Even cleaning your equipment isn't helping. You do it anyway, trying to find peace in the oil and gunmetal. Your phone sits on the table beside you, still waiting for a message from Talia. You haven't heard about whatever fruit her calls bore.

Or about Rebecca.

You don't know why the she-wolf volunteered to take the tigress home. Maybe it's an anthro thing, or some form of 'women's intuition.' Either way, you're not sure how to feel. You still can't figure out what it was that Pat did -- or if you did something yourself. You wanted to comfort the tigress, and still do. But you realize that maybe it was best she wasn't stuck in the back of your truck after whatever that was.

You're in the middle of greasing the Webley's hinge pin when your phone goes off; it's a text from Talia.

'Got good news from those calls. Got a guy that specializes in firearms law, he agreed to take care of things for us.'

You wipe off your hands. You've got a lot of questions you want to ask, but you start with the one that makes you the most angry.

'Why didn't you warn us that Pat was coming? Why didn't you stall her?'

You force yourself to wait a little bit when her response comes through. When the Webley is finished, you allow yourself to look.

'I was a bit busy dealing with our DA.'

'We have a DA?' you ask.

'We do now. He said he called you, but you must've been shooting.

We've got a meeting with him tomorrow. Check your email for deets.'

You open your phone's browser and sure enough, there's a new notification. You close it and switch back to your messaging app, staring at Talia's last words. It takes you a while to work up the courage, but you don't hesitate when you finally do write it out.

'What about Rebecca?'

It takes her just as long as you to come up with a response.

'We can talk tomorrow at the meeting.'

You sigh, and put the phone down. Doesn't sound like you'll be getting the best sleep tonight. Even after spending a few more hours meticulously cleaning your gear, you feel the same way. The empty space in your firearms chest taunts you. It's actually a little nice, a bit of a distraction. Then your phone rings again, the contact picture being a default letter in a circle.

You don't need to look to know which 'R' is calling.

"Hello?"

"A-Anon?"

Her voice might be raw, but it's too soft to tell.

"I'm here, Rebecca," you say. Then, after some silence, "...Are you okay?"

"I -- I tried to take apart my gun," she says. "I remembered what you said about it being important, and -- and I tried, but I think I broke it."

You think you hear a sniffle.

"...How?" you ask after a moment. "You made sure it was unloaded, right?"

"I did, but it -- the slide won't move. It doesn't want to go forward or back. Anon, could you please... come over? Help me fix it?"

You hardly breathe, looking over at the clock: it's practically midnight.

"Anon? Please, I -- I promise that -- what happened at the range isn't --"

"It's okay, it's okay," you say. "It's okay, Rebecca. But it's late. I can come over first thing tomorrow morning. Is that alright?"

The tiger is quiet for a few seconds, then sighs "Yes."

"Okay. See you first thing in the morning then. Alright?"

"Alright," she says. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," you reply.

The call ends, and you find yourself staring at the blinking numbers. Not even a minute and a half. You shake your head, and go start a cup of magnolia tea. It's supposed to help with sleep.

You're definitely going to need it now.

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