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"Yeah, alright. I will. Thanks."

You hang up and set the phone down with a sigh. If your kitchen table wasn't such a mess, you'd almost feel like a white-collar worker.

You cross out another name on your notebook and write 'Will do video or audio but is out of town' next to it. A proper white-collar desk jockey would probably have this all in a database. But after spending the previous afternoon scouring the internet for a courtship specialist and even a hint of related case law, you need a break from the screen. Scrolling through your contact list was as much as you'd allow.

All the courtship specialists you found were way outside your price range, but fortunately a few had FAQ sections and links to their case history. Spending 30 bucks to read their full reports seemed worth it with the alternative being assignment. Their successes hinged on character witnesses being able to back up the defendants' stories. Physical evidence was less useful, which is fine by you -- Talia would probably smack you if you suggested a promise ring.

So now you're focused on finding people that know about your relationship and know enough about you to make it pass. Your short list is evidence of how keeping the relationship quiet has backfired. Not having solidified a story with the wolf only makes things more difficult. From what you read in the reports, the defendants had good reasons to remain in courtship rather than tying the knot or splitting. Distance, uncertain jobs, or even histories of past abuse with other partners making people hesitant.

You and Talia have never bothered to flesh it out more than "we're not ready for it yet."

A few ideas have made it to your notes, but they're all half-developed. Saying that you're not ready for the financial burden of living together wouldn't work, with all the funding the State reserves just for that. Neither of you are in school anymore and there's not enough distance between you to matter. It needs to be something else -- and not too much else works.

You feel yourself falling into the desperate scratchings when your phone rings. It's not a call-back from one of your contacts like you expected, the number unrecognized. You only hesitate slightly before picking up.

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is this Mr. Anon Anonerson?" a professional male voice responds.

"Yes. Who is this?"

There's a pause as they clear their throat -- the slight rumble is your only hint that they're an anthro.

"My name is Steven Lyons, I'll be your defense attorney for the trial. I wanted to call and touch base with you about your case."

Some tension leaves you. You didn't realize you were even holding it in.

"A-alright, cool," you say. "I've been trying to figure out what I can do on my own, some guidance would be nice... You're not a courtship specialist, by any chance, are you?"

"Unfortunately no. It's hard to have a specialty when you're a public defender," he says. "But I do have a broad range of experience. I'm brushing up on courtship law now -- would you mind telling me what happened?"

"Sure. It was just two days ago..."

Recounting what happened is more relieving than you'd thought it'd be. The lawyer doesn't act like a therapist, his occasional questions only being for clarity, but it's still nice to have a professional ear. He moves on to your past when you're finished with Sunday's events -- both your past with weapons and with Talia. He seems understanding when you tell him that the wolf is focusing on the weapons charges with her contacts. His interest, unsurprisingly, is your relationship with her.

"We've been together for right around two years, but we knew each other before that," you say. "We've both taken things slowly I guess. She's independent, and I don't mind it."

Lyons hums in agreement on the other side of the phone, but there's a gravelly discontent to his tone.

"I see. Are there other reasons that the two of you have held off on a civil union?"

"I... yes, but it's a bit complicated," you say. "Things to do with family, work, and timing." It's the excuse you've used to pass in the past. "When we first started dating, I was still in college, and she was still getting her feet under her. With what I said before, well, it's our routine. We've come to like it. And she's toyed with going to school herself, so..."

Lyons repeats his disquieted sound.

"I understand, Anon. But if we want a good case we'll need some more solid points. As I'm sure you know, courtships are heavily scrutinized. The State doesn't want people sitting in them to avoid Assignment."

You sigh. "Do I ever know that... Patricia probably wouldn't be filing this case if she wasn't so obsessively convinced it was the case. Do you think we could get it dropped on something like that? How she's been hound-dogging us?"

"It's possible," Lyons says with a soft hum of curiosity. "We can certainly explore it. How long has she been doing this?"

"Not quite the whole time me and Talia have been dating, but pretty close. Maybe... call it a year and a half?"

The lawyer grunts. "That's a good enough timeframe. We'll need evidence and witnesses for sure, but if you and Talia can make a good enough statement, it may be enough. Do you have time for a meeting tomorrow? The three of us can discuss that and our other strategies more in person."

"Yeah, sure. Library didn't like that I have a case hanging over my head so they cut my hours for the week -- what time?"

"We'll see. I still need to contact Ms. Grilliz," Lyons says, "but I prefer the morning. I'll let you know through email what time we decide. I've already sent you one with my contact information and address."

"Okay, cool," you say. "I've been trying to stay off the computer this morning. Spent all last night on it trying to -- figure out what to do, you know?"

You can feel the lawyer nodding through the phone as you laugh shakily.

"Yes. Yes, I understand, Mr. Anonerson. We'll figure this out."

His words bring you some solace.

"O-okay. Thank you," you say. "Is there anything I can do? For tomorrow, for the trial itself?"

"Right now, contact is key," he says. "Make sure you're checking your messages and email. Beyond that, think of witnesses that can back up your claims. For courtship, for the gun, for Ms. Birch's malfeasance. General character witnesses would be good."

You nod as you scratch down notes. The people you've been calling have been for the courtship, but this opens up more options.

"We'll have time tomorrow to develop our strategy more. I imagine we'll come up with more people for you to contact and more for you to do in the process," he says. "You don't have to contact them all today, just think of some names. People are more responsive when you can tell them who your lawyer is and how you're arguing your case."

"Right, right. So, don't continue cold-calling down this list I made."

"Right," Lyons chuckles; that's the first hint of humor you've heard from him. It dissipates quickly when he adds "Don't burn yourself out early."

"I'll try," you sigh. "Thank you, Mr. Lyons. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," he says.

A weight lifts off you when the phone beeps. It's not everything that's been building since Sunday, but it's a part, at least. You slouch back in your chair and stare up at the ceiling. All that manic searching last night might've been for something after all. It put you on the right track. A chuckle escapes when you pull yourself back up in the seat; maybe you should go into law.

Visions of such a hellish existence flash through your mind and make you shudder. You're not sure what you'll do after all this is over. Probably best not to worry too much about it until it is over. But for now, it sounds like you should cool your heels. The list you made this morning covers most of the people you could think of. Honestly, there's only a handful that would be able to say something about your gun habit or Pat's bitchiness that wouldn't also know about your relationship with Talia.

That just leaves character witnesses. You get up and go over to the couch, snagging the Tokarev along the way. It's odd how easily the thing twirls in your hand. It's heavy and unwieldy, but for some reason it spins as well as a revolver. You ponder it idly while potential character witnesses hang in your mind.

There was no solid legal definition that you could find in your searching the night before. The term was deceivingly obvious; someone that could vouch for the content of your character. It was a holdover from way before the establishment of the state. Different courts and different sectors tended to have their own take on it now, but WCS usually accepted long-standing relationships. How to prove them would be less difficult than proving things with Talia -- though not by much.

Relax. Lyons said not to burn yourself out.

The Tokarev's glinting gunmetal reminds you of Aki as it spins. Pistols are rarely still in her hands. The cheetah tends to twirl them no matter their size, only stopping when they snap on target or return to their holster. It's funny -- you don't think you've seen her use a proper revolver. Maybe next time you'll offer her the Webley to return the favor.

You catch the Tokarev with a sigh. You would go to the range to cool off, but Pat being there last time spooked you. You don't need a public defender to tell you contact with the plaintiff before trial is a bad thing. That, and you're not sure you could stop yourself from searching for more witnesses. Yesterday was good enough; you got one already. And she seemed eager to help.

The cheetah's text comes to mind -- you weren't planning on taking her up on the offer to hang out so early. You hope she's not at the range as you bring up her contact page. The phone rings a few times before the cheetah picks up

"What's up, slowpoke?" Aki says. You can't help but smile.

"Not much. You free today? Finally heard from my DA, and he's ordering me to slow down and relax."

The cheetah snorts. "And you thought I'd be the best at doing that?"

"Well, you did offer," you say, "and you seem pretty chill -- when you're not rushing through things."

She laughs, but there's a distinct pause.

"Yeah, sure. I'm free," she says. "You want to go to the range?"

"Nah, trying to save on ammo. It's a lot harder when you don't have anything in common calibers."

"Just as well, I guess. I still have cleaning to do on some of mine."

Your concentration on her tone is broken.

"Well, I like doing that, actually," you say. "It's relaxing -- you think I could help?"

"Depends..." she hums. "Will you melt if you touch 'em? Remember, they're new and scary."

You roll your eyes with a groan. Clearly, she's managing whatever stress she was relieving yesterday.

"Probably not. Depends on the cleaners you're using," you say. "You're not dunking 'em in brake cleaner, are you?"

"CLP all the way dude!"

"Oh well, at least it's a spray," you sigh. "You want me to bring some extra supplies?"

"Nah, I got plenty. Snakes, rags, the whole nine yards," she says. "I'll send you my address."

"Alright, thanks. See you in a bit Aki."

"Yeah, see you then."

...

The address you pull up to is a far cry from what you're used to.

Aki's place isn't too far from your own, but it's a hell of a lot nicer than Chutesville. Most places over the river are. The Hilux feels out of place on the pristine, winding streets, all the road slabs new and smooth. Nice cars sit next to tall curbs untouched by hard bumps. The trees along the terrace are still young.

The clinical feel isn't surprising with the view. You can see flashes of space in the gaps between buildings, the river marking a clear divide between residential and downtown. The significance of the location doesn't dawn on you until you pull to a stop outside her house. The little starter home is hilltop and waterfront.

You figured Aki had some disposable income with all the gear she's got, but even a small place like this must cost a fortune to rent -- say nothing of own.

You wonder if the missing driveway was how she swung it; the black sedan from the range is parked on the street nearby. Hopefully that means there's no parking enforcement. The contrast between the cheetah's place and the others nearby becomes clear as you head up the front walk. Where other properties have perfectly manicured lawns dotted with flowerbeds or obtusely avant-garde decorations, Aki's grass is plain. Unkempt bushes sit at the base of the house, and the edges of the walk have clumps of grass growing over them.

Hopefully there's no HOA, either.

The doorbell makes a pleasant, bright chime when you push it -- the cheetah is surprisingly slow to arrive. The door flies open quick when she does. It's odd to see her in casual clothes and her hair undone. The lounge shorts and loose graphic shirt are a stark contrast to her range gear.

"Oh hey, the cleaning service!" Aki muses, leaning on the frame. "Didn't I call you half an hour ago?"

"Sorry I had to get mentally prepared," you reply, faking a shudder. "With how gritty the G3 felt yesterday, I figured it'd be a dirty job..."

The cheetah laughs. You realize she's stooped slightly in the doorway -- she's shorter for an anthro, so her size doesn't often occur to you.

"Oh, but doesn't that make it sweeter for you?" she asks, stepping away.

"Maybe," you say. You decide to leave it at that and follow her inside. Her spotted tail leads you out of the small breezeway and into a nice living room. The TV is huge, the angled couch looks soft, and the table is covered in guns. In fact, everything is. You pause for a second to take it all in; the walls are almost bare save for shelves and displays for weapons and various militaria, and old boxes from ammo are piled haphazardly on the floor off to the sides. Practically the only things that don't look like they reek of cosmoline are the media player and the Chinese takeout boxes -- and you're not so sure about the latter.

"What? C'mon, don't be shy," Aki says, flopping down in a clear spot on the couch. "You were invited to the dragon's lair... I won't bite if you touch the hoard."

"Damn bitch, you live like this?"

"Never heard of a spotted dragon before..." you manage. Your gaze is still sliding around the room from piece to piece. Some are in cases or on pads while others lay on the table like centerpieces, magazines and half-opened boxes of rounds like coasters. You recognize most of them from the years you've seen the cheetah at the range -- all this time you figured she'd sold or traded at least some away. She smirks as you take a few steps into the room.

"This is all out because we're cleaning them, right?" you ask; the look she gives you in return is all the answer you need.

"After about the third safe I said 'fuck it," Aki chuckles. She picks up a Jericho from the side table and starts spinning it after a press-check. "This neighborhood is nice. I keep my blinds closed when I'm not home, and there are doorbell cameras all over. I'm not too worried about it."

"I-I guess, but what about them?"

"What about what?"

"Them!" you blurt, gesturing to the armory that's exploded all over. "The guns you're leaving everywhere! They'll -- they'll pick up lint and dust, a-and moisture!"

Aki throws her head back in a laugh and lets the Jericho slip onto a cushion. She wipes a tear away when she looks back at you.

"Then there'll be more for you to zen with," she says as the chuckles die out. "That's why you're here, right? To relax?"

You take a deep breath before letting it out slow. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."

"Cool." The cheetah rolls over the back of the couch with a practiced grace. She shoots you another smug grin when she bounces upright. "I'll let you find a spot while I go get the supplies."

She walks off before you can respond, leaving you in the mess. Another look around makes you sigh; you get the feeling there's no proper organization to any of it. Clearing a spot at the table still feels intrusive and wrong -- it's one of the few things keeping you from sneaking a few of the off-brand wine-gum candies from the bag she has sitting out. At least, that's what you assume they are. The package isn't familiar. You push it aside to make sure you've got plenty of room on the table, since it looks like there's a lot of longarms laying around. The ones you have to move get leaned against the wall. Aki returns right as you've decided where to start.

"Getting acquainted?" she asks.

"Something like that," you reply. To her credit, the cleaning supplies she sets down seem nice. There's plenty of the basics like patches and rags, and her brush set looks appropriately large for the vast range of guns she has. You've never seen CLP in the massive size she sets down -- it looks more like a can of spraypaint.

"Do you always do your cleaning in big batches?" you ask. She's quiet for a moment while you arrange the various tools and solutions to your liking.

"Not always," she says. "I try to make it a weekly occurrence."

"Well, I guess that makes sense. Daily cleanings when you go to the range every day would be overkill," you muse. "Where the hell did you get all these, anyway?"

"Lots of places," she says, inspecting a magazine from the table before clearing it away. "Auctions, estate sales, stores -- you know."

You snort. "No, I really don't."

Aki hovers over your shoulder when you pick up the Beretta you had your eye on. You ignore her and focus on the function check; you've never worked with this specific model but the controls are familiar. The stiffness to the slide and hammer aren't surprising when you wipe your finger on the barrel and it comes back black with carbon. The cheetah clearly has run this one a lot since it was last cleaned.

She whistles low when you field strip it on the first try.

"So you do know modern firearms," she hums.

"Locking-block systems haven't changed much," you reply. "Most systems haven't in general. Just different calibers and controls."

"Hmm."

"The Tridenta 20 series are practically the same as this thing. I've seen people cut holes in old mags to get them to fit," you say. "But that kinda makes sense. Tridentia is just Beretta with state compliance so they're less family-owned. Why wouldn't they use the stuff they know works?"

Aki humms, brushing aside a few of the magazines and boxes to lean down next to you.

"You have any Tridentias, Aki?"

Her response is a clipped 'nah.' There's a strange tension to it as she settles in on her forearms. She notices your gaze and takes a quick breath.

"So... should I put on smooth jazz or something?" she asks. Her ears pull back when you give her a look of amused disbelief. "W-what?" she stutters, "you said this relaxes you!"

"No, Aki," you chuckle, "you don't have to put on music."

"So what, you sit there and listen to the parts like some kinda serial killer?"

You bow the guide rod along the recoil spring with a shit-eating grin; she shudders and slugs you gently.

"Fuck off," she chuckles.

"Really, though, how did you get all these?" you say, turning your attention back to the disassembled pistol. "This can't be cheap."

"I-I mean, yeah, it's not. But you can save here and there. Pick good deals."

Aki is intently examining a box of 9 mil when you raise your head for an incredulous look. The ammo you can see alone is at least a thousand dollars, the guns many times more than that. She catches your eye and rattles the box. "Savings in bulk, you know?" she says.

"Yeah, but still... you could fill a tub with all this brass and still have some left over," you say. "How do you have the cash for all this? Aren't you still in college?"

Aki stiffens. Her blue eyes narrow and dart over your shoulder as if there's an IRS agent right behind you.

"Y-yeah. I wouldn't worry about it," she says, a slight tremor to her voice. She sets the box down and meets your eyes again. "How's the, uh -- trial going?"

The imaginary IRS agent behind you grows dreadful as they morph into Patricia. The tremor that runs through you is noticeable, even while you're taking a brush to the barrel.

"D-don't know," you say. "Barely started yet. Gonna meet with the DA tomorrow to try and figure it out."

"You need me to come there?"

"Nah, nah, I --"

That weight comes back. You stop vigorously scrubbing the inner channels of the pistol slide. You're still pressing into it, feeling the crevices of the metal indenting on your skin through the oil rag. It takes a moment or two for you to force yourself to breathe again, then to speak. "I don't want to talk about it."

There's some tiny rumble from the back of Aki's throat before she says "Sorry." She's looking off to the side, her tail flicking behind her.

"Shouldn't've brought it up," she muses. "You're here to relax."

You awkwardly drop your gaze and work on the pistol. An odd combination of shame, embarrassment, and regret mixes around in your stomach. You and the cheetah have bickered playfully at the range plenty, but it dawns on you now that this is the first time the two of you have done anything serious together beyond the dusty parking lot.

"Sorry if I dug a little too deep, too," you say slowly. "I won't ask about it if you don't want me to."

The cheetah grunts quietly -- or maybe it was a whine? -- then looks back at you.

"Thanks," she sighs, a momentary shudder to her voice. "But what -- do you want to talk about anything?" Her ears shift position, still flat on her skull. "H-have to entertain your guests and all that."

"Getting to finger-fuck your hoard is plenty entertaining," you reply. There's a quiet snort as you finger a cleaning patch around the chamber with a squeaking sound.

"Maybe I should just put on soul music, then..." Aki says.

"And I haven't even gotten to the lubrication part yet..."

The cheetah lets out a chuckle-filled groan. "Jesus, Anon..."

The moment passes, and soon the gentle sound of metal on cloth is the only sound in the room. You run rag through the barrel a few times before Aki clears her throat.

"So, uh, am I good to just leave you be, then?" she asks, shifting in her seat. "Can I get you anything, or put something on the speakers?"

The look on the cheetah's face is strange to you. Her ears twitch a little and you swear she's holding her breath. You cast a glance across the room, looking at the load of work ahead.

"...Well, you could help me clean some of the pieces in your hoard," you say. "It's going to take me a while to get through them all by myself."

Aki relaxes -- but her ears still flatten as she crosses her arms. "You don't have to do all of 'em, Anon."

You laugh. "Like hell I don't. Look at this," you say, holding up the now-blackened oil rag. "If the others are half this dirty, they might conk out on you the next time you're trying to race Roland's tommy!"

The cheetah crosses her arms and blows a raspberry. "I wouldn't have to worry with all the shitty steelcase he tries to put through it."

She smiles as you get back to work on the Beretta. The TV turns on with a soft whine, followed by the media player's chirpy beep. The plastic sounds of DVD cases draw your attention as Aki runs a claw over them, bent over near the couch. You quickly turn away from the stretched shorts and try to figure out where the hell you're going to put this Beretta. It didn't come from a case, and leaving it out with a fresh coat of oil is just going to attract dust. The media player musically accepts whatever the cheetah ended up picking while you search the boxes near the table.

Some old anime is playing on the TV when you finally find an unoccupied softcase. In doing so, you get a better look at the cat's collection; originals and reprints of manuals and magazines are amongst the bullets, accessories, and the other type of gun magazines. Her tastes are less modern and tacticool than you thought. The TMP you pick out is proof enough of that. Aki's already sitting down when you return to the table, tearing down the Jericho.

"Just let me know if you need help with any of the newfangled guns, old man."

"I'm only three years older than you, Aki..."

"The guns you have make it feel like 30. Or probably 60."

You snort. "Most of the shit here is from the 80s and 90s -- including whatever you put on the TV."

"I just wanted you to feel at home, you know?" she says, not looking up from her silvery handgun, her expression completely passive. "The sounds and sights of your youth should help you relax."

"Oh, fuck off," you say. "I'm not the weeb here, and I'm not the one with a DVD player."

There's a momentary flicker across her face, and you think you've scored a point. But then the cheetah looks up at you and smirks.

"Don't try and tell me you don't have a goddamn betamax or something, Anon."

"...W-well, I --"

"Hah! Knew it!" Aki laughs. She brushes vigorously at the inside of the slide with her rag and continues to grin.

You let her have the little win. The sounds and colors of the old cell-shaded program are a little distracting, but you're able to tune it out -- it being a sub rather than a dub helps. You find yourself more interested in the cheetah and her collection. The research you've done on prices is iffy on anything older than the 1960s and 70s, but you know there's not much of a supply. Getting so many probably wouldn't be easy -- if Aki didn't have them laying out like piles of junkmail, the place could practically be a museum.

The cheetah seems perfectly focused across from you, despite the Japanese shouting and sound effects. She's cleaning her pistol with the exact fluidity you'd expect. A subtle bob of her head and jaw is the only cue that she's even aware of the program in the background, like she's got it memorized. She only looks up when you've finished with TMP; almost forgetting to function-test the full auto mode that results in a wordless smirk. It fades when you bring the gun back in a small softcase after hunting around for another piece to clean. She raises an eyebrow as you set the case next to the table, the Tec-9 you found laying on the coffee table going in your workspace.

"I have to keep track of the ones we've been through," you say, popping out the hinge pin. Aki huffs and sets the Jericho aside. She raises an eyebrow at you as she leans over and pulls up a modernized AK from the ground.

"Gonna make me clean my room?" she asks, rocking the mag out.

"We're already cleaning your guns. May as well."

The cheetah pauses, watching you unwind the rear cap from the receiver tube. She picks up the Jericho and slips it into her waistband; the recoil buffer almost flies out the end of the Tec-9.

"You just --"

"It'll be fine," Aki says, waving you off, "these are those concealed carry shorts. There's a little pocket for it and the waistband's plenty tight." She leisurely opens up the AK while you stare.

"Aki, you just oiled it. And now you shove it in your fur?"

"I told you, there's a pocket," she says. The cheetah glances up at you with a wry look. "Besides, you think I'm going commando under here?"

Images of scantily clad felines dance about your head for a second. "You're telling me the washer gets all of it out?" you manage.

"Most of it, yeah," she snickers. "My fur's a lot thinner than Talia's, so it's a lot easier to--"

Her tail thumps heavily against the wall. Aki fumbles with the gas piston as her ears flatten and she looks down. The faded anime character on her shirt bounces a bit as she hisses and her chest heaves.

"S-sorry," she says, getting a firm grip on the part. "Shouldn't go there."

"It's alright," you say. She's probably more perturbed by it than you are. You're jiggling with the pistol's safety handle to take the bolt out when you consider why. Aki buys your relationship with Talia, even if you don't.

Bodes well for her testimony, at least.

"Why'd you pick this thing up?" you ask when the Tec-9 is laid out in pieces, shifting the topic somewhere else. "Who knows how long that plastic is going to last."

"Hey, I might not clean everything all the time, but I still take care of them," Aki says. There's some bite to her words. "That's a later model anyway. It doesn't have the same cracking problems."

"Yeah, but it's plastic. It's gonna get brittle with age."

"That's what people like you are for, isn't it?" she sighs, unfurling a bore snake to run through the AK. "Trust me, Anon, I know not to daily it. I got it because it's a Tec-9. It was in all the old stuff I watched when I was in high school -- it's a classic."

"And I'm the ancient one..."

"Yeah, you are," Aki says, edging on a chuckle. She glances across at you while she sprays another shot of cleaner in the chamber. "I don't use black powder."

"It's still 3 times as old as you."

"Better than it being 5, slowpoke."

You watch Aki carefully fish the weight down the barrel. Her hands are steady now, and her ears are pulled back with concentration, not anxiety. Her blue eye sparkle with focus beneath her messy bangs. The racing stripes draw you to them. You look down at the cylindrical bolt you're rolling around in your rag-covered hands -- the last thing you need is her catching you staring. The pistol goes back together in a minute or two. You set it in the finished pile and pick out the M16 with the underbarrel M203. Aki looks up when she hears the tube open, then snorts.

"You think I keep it loaded?"

You pop out the rifle's magazine and rack the bolt a few times in response. There's no brass, much to your relief. "Tell me about this one," you say, setting the gun on the table. "Why'd you get it?"

The cheetah glances up, giving you a smirk before going back to the AK. "You going to ask about all of them?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Well, I have a lot of guns," she says.

You pop off the rifle's heat shield and return her smile.

"Just means we have plenty of time."

...

The pile of guns grew gradually as the TV continued to play. Aki's collection was much more retro than you expected -- or at least, than you would've expected before talking with her more. The cheetah had an extensive action library from the turn of the century that inspired most of her picks. You recognize most of the big titles she mentions, but the more niche ones are beyond you. There was still the occasional modern race gun tricked out with the latest doodads, and more than a few of her old pieces had decidedly modern accessories, but the old solidly outweighed the new.

All of them were as dirty as you'd come to expect. The cheetah took the shit you gave her with a smug grin and proceeded to tease you about liking it that way. The hours and weapons flew by without you noticing, the air filled with the sounds of the TV and the occasional jab. Conversations ebbed and flowed with the firearms that crossed the table. The ones you recognized, you asked for her inspiration; ones you didn't, you asked for help. The cheetah was happy to answer both.

And you were too.

You sigh, and wash your hands. It's strange looking out the bathroom window to a sunset-stained sky. Only a few more guns, and the whole room will be clean. The guns will be, anyway. Those are what you care about. The various ammo boxes and surplus from the past seven major conflicts or so are beyond you. You're just happy you convinced the cheetah to order more soft cases.

As you open the door, you find out that might not be the only thing she's ordered. Aki's voice drifts down the hallway just above the music.

"...Cool. Thanks!"

The door slams, and you nearly bump into the cheetah returning to her living room. Balanced in one hand is a pair of pizza boxes, one of which is open.

"'Sup slowpoke," she says, grabbing a slice and dangling it down into her mouth. "Got pizza."

"I... see that," you say. You follow her as she casually sashays back into the living room with all the guns you just cleaned. "You're not planning on eating that while we finish up, are you?"

"Nah," she says through a mouthful of melted cheese. She directs your attention to the work table before trying to clear off the one by the couch.

Your zen station sits empty. The cleaning equipment is gone, as is the 10/22 you were about to tear down. It's along the wall with the handful of other carbines.

"I cleaned the rest, Anon," Aki says, her tail swishing as she carefully switches out the DVD in the player with her non-greasy paw. The Jericho glints in her waistband when she turns around with a smile. "Even filed 'em away like you wanted." She spills onto the couch with a sigh as a stylized menu for a different show takes up the screen.

"Just have to wait for the cases," she muses, munching on her slice of pepperoni.

A glance around the room confirms her words. None of the guns are sitting out on the carpet, crammed between boxes, or lay on top of each other -- at least not in this room. As you discovered during your bathroom trip, the OD green growths of surplus gear and gunmetal seem to extend further into the house. But what matters is that the ones here are in a better place.

Aki's eyes flutter open when you lift the lid of one of the pizza boxes and take out a slice. "Excuse me?" she asks with an exaggerated bob of her neck, watching you sit next to her. "When did I offer you any, skinnie?"

You take a big bite, unbothered; it's good. You can tell it's Luigi's from the thin pocket of sauce between the toppings and fluffy crust. The cheese hangs on tight when you pull the slice away and turn to the cheetah with a deadpan expression.

"Payment," you say through the mouthful of pepperoni.

"I thought you were doing this for free," she snorts, crossing her free arm. "'Finger-fucking your shit is good enough' and all that."

"Pizza's good too."

Aki chuckles. You feel the cushion shift against your back as she sinks into the couch next to you. "Yeah --" she sighs, snipping the cheese off her slice with a quick snap of her jaws -- "Pizza's pretty good."

You're filled with contentment. Cleaned guns, a cleared mind, and a four-star pie.

Not too bad.

"Hey, Aki?" you say when you've finished your slice; she looks over with crust hanging out of her mouth. "Thanks."

"'mow pwobwm," she replies. She clears her throat and grabs another slice. "I should really be thanking you. I don't usually get this behind on cleaning."

You give her a soft hum of acknowledgment. It's weird how the pizza grease feels so similar to the cleaning oil.

"Actually, Anon..."

You stop staring into space and look at her: Aki's ears are slightly flat, her eyes not on you but awkwardly off to the side.

"You think you could come help me with some other stuff?" she asks, managing to bring her gaze back to center. "It'd be easier with a friend."

"Well -- probably," you reply. "What is it?"

"Some research stuff for a paper. You have a resources for that, right?"

"I mean, it depends what it is," you chuckle, "but I work at a library."

She lets out a breathy chuckle. "Yeah. Yeah, that's right. So, do you think you could...?"

"Yeah, probably. Hopefully," you reply. "I've got a meeting with the defense attorney tomorrow morning. I think I'll know more about -- about what's going to happen after that."

The cheetah nods. There's a frown growing on her face as she grabs another slice of pizza.

"I'll try to make it worth your while," she says. Her chest heaves again with a sigh, the couch responding in kind when she sinks back into it. "Now how 'bout we watch something before the ‘za gets cold?"

You manage a small smile.

"How 'bout it."