A dark flickering room fluctuated with the dimming and moving of candles, the only light in the darkness of the cabin. The slow stretching of a lanky figure in the dark cast a shadow on the wall, almost contorting and bending unnaturally, as if a creature was taking the form of flesh from something else. Perhaps was it merely the moving light playing tricks on the perspective of a skinny naked body, popping and stretching from a long slumber. The subtle groan and exhale reverberating around the area as the figure, now a more stable silhouette of feminine curves in the dark, walked through the room and opened the door. The gap cast a ray of light on the cabin walls, the visible stain of red from violence, sprayed across it and left to soak. The sound of a workshop and bright lighting made Nadja’s face cringe and her eyes clench down to adjust, pupils dilating.

  “Good evening.” Mike said, standing in front of a humming machine in jeans and a dirty work shirt.

  “I was rousted by your noise.” She groaned, half yawning and half growling, brushing the dark red hair from her face and adjusting her black bath robe.

  “I’m still not used to that color.” Mike said, running his fingers across her scalp as she smirked evilly.

  “Well, we can’t have that old one anymore, Michael. Blue, a bit too bold and known at this point. It catches attention.” She hissed.

  “You catch attention. Hair color being irrelevant, anything as exotic as you steps into the room and people notice. But it is poetically more fitting. The Red Queen emerges with the hair to match her bloody tiara.” He reminded.

  “That was long time ago. I never liked that nickname.” she sighed.

  “I never liked you calling me Mister Black or Michael all the time, but that grew on me. It’s what we are. Red and Black. Darkness and blood, chaos and murder.” He calmly said, staring into the plexiglass almost sadly.

  “Don’t act like you don’t have fun with it. How do you manage to make such entertaining little sins sound so…depressing?” she asked with a sigh.

  “Oh you know… Death and I have always had a complicated relationship. Nothing so powerful is ever black and white, simple, easy.”

  “You made it seem easy last night. You’re quite the artist with a knife, for someone obsessed with guns.”

  “Guns kill better. Knives have no range. Bullets tend to make the fun rather short-lived, though. Tanner taught me that. Slow down and enjoy your artwork. Of course, she…only paints a masterpiece on those who truly deserve it.” He said, grabbing her red hair and playfully tugging her close, facing away, one of the knives from the table under her neck. “Like us.” He finished, planting it into the wooden tabletop with a thud and letting her go.

  “Still fighting yourself and the code of morals your made-up God held you to, after all this time?” she chuckled.

  “Old habits die hard. Seems like the habit is one of the 2 things in this room I can’t seem to kill. It’s incredible how something that seems fragile and unreal can be the most difficult thing to cut down and be rid of, hu?” he asked her, both taunting and accusing, returning to his machine as the sound winded to a stop.

  “At least you have your toys to keep you busy. I’ve been rather enjoying Jezebel, now that you finally put my sights on it.” She said, running her hands over a Champagne-rose and carbon-black pistol.

  “Well you should. The caliber, the design, all inspired by you. If you weren’t flattered and enjoying it, then why would I even bother? I was satisfied with my old pistol. I considered the 7mm apex to be perfection until you insisted on using that hotel-craft-project Ruger of yours. Obsessive about your sights, aren't you?”

  “Well, you know, I have my own way of doing things. Recoil may not be a problem for a big strong man like you taking single shots, but for smaller hands firing twice, every little bit of movement separates those shots. You could have just…made one Jezebel. You chose to make yourself a Jezebel in black, chambered in my new…5.7 Morozov. Which I do greatly appreciate.”

  “No point in having 2 different calibers now. It’s efficient and lethal and cuts through armor and flesh, and now that silence isn’t important, it doesn’t much matter what the gun fires. I’d rather have interchangeable pistol ammunition than a little more power and a few fewer rounds. Don’t think I’m admitting it’s better. I had the 7mm Apex perfected for the game. The game just changed, and your stubborn nature made things complicated for me. So I simplified it again.” He said, blocking her way to peak at the thing in the machine. His secret creation.

  “I like to complicate things. Simple is boring. Why do you hide this little project from me? You do not trust me?” she asked.

  “Christ no, I don’t trust you. I’m not stupid.” He huffed with a grin. “I like the reveal. This one is proving to be problematic and frustrating, and a magician never reveals his secrets. I thought you liked the mystery and the drama of me working my magic. Sometimes magic tricks take a few attempts to get right.”

  “Da, but when I am paying for the attempts, I want to know what goes on behind the curtains. I want to know you are not just…killing time.” She accused with a lip bite. He glared back like he was challenging her, tightening his grip on the CNC machine’s sliding door.

  “The trick will be ready when it’s ready. For someone so fond of tricks, you’re less patient when it’s not your idea. You want a dead president, you’ll get a dead president, and that’s my word. When you get it, depends on things neither of us can control, and if you want it done, let me work MY way. We do things your way all the time, the little hunts, the treats, the master plan itself…leave the weapons to the fucking gunsmith, little girl.” He said aggressively. The little spark of anger in his eyes causing a smile on hers, like it was exactly her intentions, as if she just wanted to say hi to Mister Black and only knocking a little harder seems to get him to answer.

  “Enjoy your toys and your tricks, Michael. I know you’re capable of satisfying my needs…so don’t disappoint me on this. I’ll know if it was intentional. This is one game I will not encourage you to toy with me on and instigate. I want a dead president for my birthday. You know what happened when someone betrayed me for my birthday gift. I don’t trust you, either. The moment you fully trust your pet, they bite the hand that buys their machines. You’re not the only one with teeth.” She snarled.

  Tanner stood with her arms crossed in a dusty garage, with the faint sound of rap-metal playing in the background. She stared at the workbench as Alexander nervously waited for her response.

  “Well…it’s… huge.” She said, trying to stay honest without being offensive.

  “I’m flattered, but I’ve heard that before.” He nervously grinned.

  “Yea, mkay. So first of all I would know better of all people, and secondly, in this case, bigger is not necessarily better.” She sighed, staring at the gun.

  “Shit. Not the time for jesting, I guess. Apologies m’lady. It’s all I could acquire. A work in progress, if you will.” he said

  “No, no. I’m not disappointed or mad. Stop trying so hard to ass-kiss and look pitiful. Holy hell, what is this like 3 feet long? How is this a compact rifle?” she said, picking up the rifle.

  “29 inches, actually. Please, darling, do not compare me to him. I am a bladesmith not a gunsmith. You have waltzed into my studio of wondrous sharp and shiny things, none of which throw bullets, and ask me to craft a weapon fitting of the great Michael Finn. Your expectations should be tempered by now. Some of us lack the ability to pray to the god of war and pull forth from our asses a rifle of gold. Mere mortals, like me, must purchase and modify them. Some of the parts have not arrived yet. It will be trimmed and sleek, my love.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “So you…probably haven’t figured out how to make the bullets for my 7mm handg-sorry, SORRY. I don’t really understand how difficult this stuff is. I’m not demanding, I’m just asking.” Tanner stammered as Alexander scratched his chin in frustration.

  “Imagine, if you will, that I were to miraculously pull a rabbit from my hat and present it to you and rather than gasp and blush you merely said…why not an alpaca?” Alexander sighed playfully.

  “That hard, hu?” She sighed back, looking awkward.

  “My laptop is full of scrubbed searches and incognito wordplay, dancing about the question we all want to know: hhhhWat…the fuck are these rounds made of.”

  “Magnesium.” She shrugged.

  “Which I have acquired and blackened my table with, trying to melt and shape. Magnesium alone does not explode, it just burns...violently. I have gone to great lengths to suspiciously present these aluminum rounds to several men with more reloading expertise them myself, and they have asked questions I did not have answers to, and we have haggled over a lot of money and this is what it has achieved…” he said flicking open a wooden box of brass rounds loosely strewn inside. “They jam. They jam every shot and this here is my magic reloading wand, an oak dowel I must use to hammer out the brass casing when the gun jams…after every shot. What Mystical Mike has created cannot be recreated, and nothing I can get, made in brass, will function. And the reloading experts don’t seem to find any blame in their bullet making, reminding me that I asked for a straight case and straight cases require a special coating to reload or cycle properly. When I ask them if they can simply make a casing that is consumed on ignition and leaves no casing to eject or jam, they look at me as if I asked them to pull an alpaca from a hat. My ideas and patience are all gone, so I have given up and failed you. A gift of something to replace that fucking magical thing your former boyfriend has created that I simply cannot do.” He said, trying to sound whimsical and fun through his lightly gnashed teeth and frustrated sweating. “Notice the butterfly knife I made you, in the case as well. Folded Swedish stainless and A2 tool steel, acid etched and very distracting.” He added for effect, and to distract.

  “Alex… I’m sorry. I’m not trying to get you to be like Mike. Mike was a very unique creature, but at the cost of being a monstrous creature. I’d rather have you and whatever gun that is, than Monstrous Mike and his magic tricks. I would ideally like to keep enjoying the gun, not the gunsmith. He abandoned me and was corrupted by evil, and you never did. I love that you tried so hard to impress me. You didn’t have to.” She said giving him a hug.

  “Yes I did. Truth be told I am a very insecure and jealous man, and you dated a legend before me. That sets the bar very high. All I want is to make you happy and keep you safely armed, and I cannot even do that.” He said, flicking a brass wildcat round across the room.

  “Yes you have. I’m a stabby bitch. You’ve made me a lot of beautiful stabby things. And you listen to me. That’s important. See, you got me a Sig rifle. It’s got a… I guess folding stock…just kinda scrunches down a few inches instead of like origami-folding into the gun.”

  “Imagine my shock when I took it apart to find that an essential spring tube for the gun’s functioning was in the stock and cannot be sawed down.”

  “I wasn’t aware when I asked for the Origami Transformer shit that they don’t sell those, and it’s a strictly Mike invention. Still could be compact if the barrel is cut down!” she said. “What caliber is this?” she asked.

  “I was afraid you’d ask. It’s a 556. Standard Ar15 caliber. I asked for an MPX in an armor piercing caliber, and they all laughed at me and said 9mm was the only option. I asked what Sig brand rifle WOULD go through armor, and they suggested this. I scoured the internet deals for our budget and found a gently used Sig M400. So…it, is…massive. I am terrified to saw the barrel down and discover that somehow I have now ruined it.” he huffed.

  “And I assume the can of black paint is because of the…what are we calling that color choice… Matte black and factory Dijon mustard?”

  “More of an…incorrectly aged olive. You hate it.” he sighed.

  “Alex, it’s fine. I love it. I love the gun, the potential and the effort. I do hate the color, but I don’t know if spray-painting it will screw it up, so I’ll get used to it. Maybe if we paint the plastic stuff Dijon Olive it will match, and kinda vibe. I know you’re not a gunsmith, you just assembled illegal parts on a budget. I didn’t start dating you as a replacement Mike, or a personal arsenal. I started dating you because you were there for me, and listened, and we have a lot in common. We’re both criminals who like knives and have a moral code. That’s very rare to find, and I value that about you. Listen to me. I’m over Mike. You’ve seen the news. He’s not the man I thought he was. That man is gone. Random killings, calling himself Mister Black, making propaganda videos in a mask and quoting weird biblical shit about revelation and promoting crowd Terrorism. He’s stirred up copycat killers, every crazy couple now spray-paints a black and red X on every crime scene like they’re Bonnie and Clyde or something. I feel bad about the cult jokes now, because we’re just a bunch of assholes trying to make a difference, and we can’t put a dent in the chaos being caused by a real cult now.”

  “Yes, you truly did dodge the proverbial bullet of his toxic insanity and fell safely into the arms of my…cheerful insanity. Loving insanity?” he squinted as she gave him a little peck on the lips.

  “You’d have to be crazy to handle me, I’m just glad you’re not god-complex crazy, and you still got the mad scientist vibes I apparently have a thing for.” She smiled as Rowan limped down the steps to grab a bottled water from the fridge.

  “A thing for the crazed…” Rowan muttered. “And yet not a shred of regard for class, sophistication, or dashing looks.” He sighed, acting like the sore loser of that competition.

  “Bruh.” She shrugged. “You eat people. You’re lucky we even tolerate you here.”

  “Says the vicious Murder-Geisha, avenging killer wearing a face covered in blood and white paint.” He said, opening the bottle and pouring it into his glass.

  “It’s fake blood!” she yelled. “It’s red Halloween gel to look intimidating, it’s not actual victim’s blood on my mouth, there’s a line we don’t cross, and eating human flesh is not doing it for me. You creep me out, you do that personal space thing where you get super close and stare, it’s not classy, it’s Hannibal shit, and you know it.”

  “Well, at least Hannibal had charisma and not a top hat full of alpacas.” Rowan snipped, leaving the room as she brooded with annoyance.

  “See? He doesn’t listen. The hat DIDN’T have alpacas. That’s the whole point. God I hate him. Even ignoring the creepy cannibal shit, I really just hate him.” She pouted, looking at her new rifle.

  “He does make one want to…test the new rifle, does he not?” Alexander said, trying not to bite his cigarette in half.

  “Look, I get it. I’m used to custom guns designed for special ops, with silencers and foldy things made to hide under a coat, that weight nothing and don’t kick and shoot tiny magic bullets. I’ll just practice more and get used to the gun I have, and when I run out of ammo for my little 7mm, I’ll just…have to…” she pondered.

  “Say goodbye to the good old classic charm of what you loved, and embrace what contraption of close-enoughness does the job.” Alexander sighed, feeling a lot like the gun. Just the next best thing available in a pinch.

  Rowan headed up the steps to the main living areas of the now religiously converted clubhouse, as Yuri watched TV on the main screen, drinking a cold beer.

  “You look like shit.” Yuri muttered.

  “I do not look like shit, I look fantastic as usual. I just look like I’m in a shit mood, because I am.” He said casually, plopping down and resting his expensive, polished shoes on the coffee table. “I’m upset because I joined this little club for protection and benefits and thus far I’ve spent a lot of money on that ungrateful little brat, and not only do I have very little to show for it aside from a dashing stab wound scar, a cracked shinbone and a few looks of revolt… but while Alex hides in alleyways safely and acts like the guns he gives her didn’t come from MY wallet, I don’t even get sympathy for my injuries sustained from being at her side in the courthouse fiasco. It seems a gentleman’s lifestyle has no value over something as stupid as…well, Alexander Windrek and stabbing devices. It sounds like he’s using one of them right now, in fact.” Rowan jealously brooded to the sound of a table squeaking rhythmically.

  “There is better quality ass out there. Why don’t you find it, or just fight him for spoiled little girl? Like a man.” Yuri asked.

  “I’m not a fighter, I’m already injured, and Alexander may have as much experience with a knife as me, but his victims are usually alive and fighting back and mine tend to be already dead and quite immobile. He may be a joke, but jokes can kill. And of course there are better pieces of ass, some of them in my fridge as we speak, but it’s the principal of being bested by an idiot, and an ignored by someone like her, that both annoys and makes me persist. I don’t like to lose at anything. That’s why I use money and wits to win. It seems neither of those impresses her when he has mindless stabbing and the looks of a drug dealer using a circus as a front for selling meth to clowns. For fuck’s sake, he wears eyeliner. It’s just insulting to be so overlooked.” Rowan pouted.

  “Yes. I relate. I work hard, do my job, do not get noticed and always feel underappreciated.” Yuri sighed. He peered back as Rowan gave him an oddly surprised look. “Different woman, similar problem. What? I have social life.” Yuri corrected as Rowans look of alarm calmed down, and he seemed relieved to be battling just the one adversary.

  “Well, perhaps loyalty and honor are our worst enemies, both of us.” He said, sipping from his water glass as the sound of a creaking work bench with two people moving on it, tightened his grip in frustration. He fumed silently, raising the TV volume to drown out the repetitive squeaking and occasional grunt or moan. "Fucking Heathens."