Editing The Colt

== Anchoro ==

The design is older than antibiotics. It was the epoch of an age; the template that all successors would draw from and be compared to. Despite 102 years of improvements, refinements and replacements, the original is still manufactured, carried and used – some attribute it to quality, others to foolish nostalgia.  But as antiquated and unrefined as it was... it still worked.
     
That's where I'd start – at the beginning.
     
It arrived in a plain shipping box one Friday morning, along with the shop manual and some supplemental reading. I carried it to my room and stuffed it under my bed, and for two weeks I studied patiently, digesting each page before accepting the next. When I finally tore away the brown paper and revealed the pistol, gleaming in its grease coating, I felt nothing special – it was a finely-crafted tool, but nothing more; the internal workings surprisingly, even elegantly simple. The real challenge would be learning to use it.
     
Fabiola and the Head Maid frequently left the property to attend to this or that. While they were out, I was in the single-lane range that spanned the length of the basement. Soon the malfunctions multifarious sent me back to my studies; trying to determine why ammunition and parts in perfect repair would fail to operate.
     
I took the pistol completely apart for the first time, every nut and screw, carefully measuring each piece and comparing it with the dimensions listed in the shop manual. I bent over my workbench, scowling at the neatly laid-out components.
     
Every part was in perfect order. It was something in the process; the actual movement of machinery that was bedeviling me. I returned to my research, trying to flush out the ghost in the gun.
     
What I learned astounded me. The parts might be simple, but the actual cycle of loading and firing - the moving, eating, breathing mechanization of the action – was a delicate balance of carefully-opposing forces. And they were easy to upset. The ammunition's shape and power, the strength of the springs, even the design of that laughably tiny bit of metal, the magazine follower – it all had a purpose in that process. Change one thing and you risked the entire ensemble; the invisible interplay of force that flashed in your hand for a fraction of a second with each trigger pull. Even holding the weapon too loosely could interrupt those careful symmetries.
     
That was the real genius of the engineer – controlling and balancing those ethereal forces through such elegantly simple parts. It was in everything I couldn't see in the design diagrams; an invisible world extrapolated from the lines and clean numbers.
     
I was utterly fascinated.
     
Over the next few weeks all manner of brown paper packages arrived at the door, the doorbell ringing even as the 'discreet delivery service' my family favored for such matters cruised away in their unremarkable mud-colored sedans. Recoil springs, new magazines, guide-rod systems, different ammunition – I hastened to try them all, recording the results, racing from the workbench to the range and back; baffled by unexpected results, overjoyed by confirmed experiments.
     
I'd read everything about the old pistol on the internet, then read everything over again to filter the bullshit through my experience. I learned how many modern “features” were just idiotproofing, or plain pointless.
     
I realized, then, why the ancient design was still manufactured, carried and used. Why it still worked. The users understood it, through and through.
    
In the end, there are no silver bullets.


----


I'd hoped Fabiola didn't know – but if (or inevitably, when) she did, I trusted her to respect the message I sent by keeping my studies private. The point of my intensive effort over the past weeks, including ordering my own weapon – when I had a combat expert in my employ with her own private arsenal – couldn't have been lost on her.
     
This is something I had to do alone.
     
Thus I wasn't entirely surprised when Fabiola cornered me one morning in the living room. I'd been reading the morning paper with intense disinterest and had just been flipping to the daily comics (for what little good they were) when she entered. She wore a small, knowing smile and bore a little brown box in both hands.
     
“Good morning, young master,” she said, the smile warming her voice as she bowed slightly. “May I beg a moment?”
     
“O-of course, Fabiola,” I replied, keeping the newspaper up long enough to cover my swallow. The box was far too small to contain my pistol, but for a moment it'd looked terribly similar. I tossed the newsprint onto the coffee table casually and tried to look innocent. “What's up?”
     
She approached with her usual stately grace, the little box in her hands seeming to glide closer with nary a jostle. “I understand you've developed an interest in firearms.”
     
I felt the blood drain from my face – I knew how Fabiola and the Head Maid felt about me being exposed to 'their world,' as they'd called it on the rare occasions it'd been discussed – but I didn't break eye contact. I trust Fabiola with my life; she wouldn't broach the topic now without cause. I nodded weakly. “A little.”
     
She gave me that wondrous little smile, the one that reflected mischievously in her piercing green eyes – she was amused. “I'm not upset, Master Lovelace – the art and science of firearms is a worthy pastime enjoyed by many sportsmen.” She took another graceful step forward and laid the little box on the coffee table before me, making her motion into a sort of smooth, elegant bow. In the bright rays of the morning sun the little wooden brown-and-black container looked serious and somber. I glanced at Fabiola for explanation.
     
“Something suited for a beginner,” she said with a small smile.
     
I leaned over, apprehensive – but excited. Fabiola had found out (how much, I dare not guess) but she wasn't displeased – she was even offering me training, in her indirect way. Considering how fast the Head Maid had binned the tranquilizer pistol, this was a sign of trust not to be discounted lightly. I reached out apprehensively – what would it be? A .22 training pistol, for learning technique? A Makarov, for simplicity? What did my maids think me ready for? How had the judged me and my private studies? Carefully, I lifted the lid.
     
I stared at the little oiled pistol within for a long, steady moment, my mind numbly processing the revelation. Then I let the lid fall closed with a crisp little clack!
     
Fabiola was patiently watching me with an inscrutable expression.
     
That's when I started to laugh.
     
Just a wicked little snigger at first as it dawned on me, then another, and like that the floodgates burst and the laughter rolled out of me as I slowly slid off the sofa, helpless. Every time I thought they were subsiding, some new facet of the weapon chimed in my memory and sent me into new paroxysms of helpless mirth. I clutched a hand to my face in a useless attempt to stem the tears as my lungs burned, the merciless damned laughter continuing its rampage. I'd finally regained control, reigned it into a quick, pained wheezing when I glanced up and saw Fabiola – cool, placid, professional Fabiola – staring at me in stunned, open-mouthed shock, and I was off again, sliding completely off the sofa, legs kicking weakly underneath the coffee table.
     
Later – a long time later, it feels like – Fabiola was leaning over me, a hand against my forehead, checking for fever. “Young master? Young master!? Are you feeling well?”
     
I wiped my tear-stained face with my sleeve clumsily, a few straggling giggles escaping as I did. “Oh, Fabiola... very... very nice...”
     
She looked at me with the frank alarm of someone tending a mental case. “Master Lovelace...?”
     
I nodded at the table. “That. That gun. Oh.” I shook my head as I shakily pushed myself back on the sofa. I felt weak, but light, like something had come and gutted me out. I plucked the gun from the box and laid it in my palm.
     
'I know what this is,” I said, looking down at the little H&K P7.
     
“... yes?” Fabiola replied cautiously, as close to nonplussed as I'd ever seen her.
     
“This is a gun meant for a desk drawer,” I stated.
     
Fabiola blinked. “Excuse me?”
     
“This,” I said, tapping the lever on the front of the grip. “A clumsy cocking system designed for morons terrified of carrying with a loaded chamber, just in case multiple redundant safeties magically fail. And this,” I tapped the underside of the barrel,  “a unique gas delayed blowback system that not only doubles the cleaning required but makes easy replacement of worn barrels impossible, making it uniquely awful as police service pistols. And best of all, it burns your finger after putting two magazines through it.”
     
I paused for breath here, still winded from my attack, and let it out with a miserable sigh. “Perfect for a moron who shot himself three times in the leg, in other words.” I dropped the little gun back in its box and flipped the lid closed.
     
Fabiola slowly settled onto the sofa beside me. I felt her hand take mine, delicate and warm. “Garcia,” she said softly.
     
I started with surprise. I couldn't remember the last time she'd called me by my first name.
     
“That's simply a matter of training and practice, Master. Anyone can do that. But not everyone has the clarity of mind to analyze a situation and make an accurate call in the midst of chaos, like you did. I meant what I said that night – you exceeded my expectations.” She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and I returned it – but I didn't meet her eyes. “And you have obviously been... diligent in your studies,” she said with a trace of admiration. “I was expecting a comment about bullets backwards in the magazine, to be honest.” The smile was evident in her voice.
     
Internet, I realized. She'd cottoned to my browsing – and nothing more.
     
Just weeks ago her praise would made me duck my head to hide blushing cheeks – but now it rang hollow in my breast. I slipped my hand out of Fabiola's thin glove and walked to the fireplace. Above the mantlepiece hung the most prized heirlooms of my family; the weapons that our ancestors carried from the battlefields of Espania, across the unforgiving Atlantic to the shores of the dangerous New World. The weapons they'd used to carve out our future and fortune.
    
I reached up, standing on tiptoe, and with my fingertips lifted my favorite out of its rack; the gleaming blade I'd admired since I was old enough to walk. The spada da fante, infantryman's sword; a graceful, slender blade protected by a beautifully wrought basket hilt. The maker's mark upon the ricasso proved it a legendary Toledo blade, capable of bending in a half-circle and ringing off a steel hemlet without harm. It was sealed in a thin film of plastic, allowing for display without degradation, but the nicks and scratches of past battles were still visible on the long, bright blade. It was a magnificent museum piece, worth a king's ransom alone.
     
I'd never touched it before now.
     
I stepped into the middle of the room and gripped the hilt, flourishing the sword. It was everything I'd imagined and better - aggressively forward balanced; seeming to throw itself into every swing and thrust. I took it through the guards, the lunge, the parry, the riposte; my footwork flawless, my form splendid. I finished with a salute, thumping the hilt to my sternum and bowing slightly to Fabiola, who was standing again, watching me impassively.
     
“Your father taught you well,” she says quietly.
     
I turned the blade around in my hand, admiring it wistfully. “He told me that in old Spain, knowing how to handle a blade was like learning to drive, today,” I said quietly, remembering the excitement of our sparring matches in the Venezuelan sun, my enthrallment as Father shared a story afterward, never the same one twice. “It was an essential skill. Part of growing up. Part of what defined a man.”
     
Fabiola clasped her hands before her demurely, her gaze falling to the floor. “Master... is this about Iori?”
     
The name hit my stomach like sour milk, and the memory it conjured wasn't much better. Iori. I'd listened to her songs nonstop, plastered my computer desktop with her photos, even watched those inane 'interviews' to see what she was like offstage, naturally, as her own person.... and meeting her in person still blew me away. The life in her eyes, the warmth of her smile, the potency of her presence – I'd been stunned speechless. That wore off by next morning, when our conversation flowed naturally, but Iori hadn't: her genuine giggles of delight flooding me (and my cheeks) with warm pleasure.
     
Then Matsuda showed up, and it was over. The truth set in like an incubating disease; her texts tapered off, her words grew cooler... and then she bawled out her forbidden love across some ridiculous theme cafe where everything's named after death (how apropos.) I remembered how cold that'd felt, sinking heavy into my gut as I turned off the computer monitor and stared at the blank screen.
     
The nightmares were mundane trauma before then; but after Iori judged me, so did the dreams. The empty, tortured eyes of the enslaved women stared at me as they began their slaughter; the screams and soul-piercing shrieks of the victims beseeched me as the cold blades pierced them. And above them all, the booming, mad voice of Kilgore. The architect. The murderer.
     
The man I'd implored my maids to spare.
     
Fabiola had noticed, of course, when I'd withdrawn from life, staying up late and waking early, cloistered in my room and keeping my own counsel.
     
She hadn't noticed when my melancholy turned monastic.  
     
She hadn't noticed the Colt.
     
I shook my head once. “No,” I said quietly. “This isn't about- about Iori choosing Chiaki.” I took a deep breath and locked my gaze with Fabiola's, forbidden words on my tongue. “This is about Father. About the Incident. About why we moved to Japan in the first place.”
     
The sword lanced forward in the textbook thrust I'd practiced since age six, the tip hovering ten inches from Fabiola's nose. “I have the training. I have the practice.” My voice dropped to a cold, flat whisper. “How long would I last in a swordfight with you, Fabiola?”
     
Her brilliant emerald eyes bored into mine down that stretch of cold steel, the truth hovering in air between us.
     
“It's just... mechanics,” I continued. “And you need them, but that's not where the difference is made. I know that much.” I took a deep breath to steady myself before those flat emerald eyes. “Don't teach me how to shoot, Fabiola. Teach me how to fight.”

== The First Lesson ==

We set about clearing the dining room.
     
Or rather, Fabiola did, carting away chairs three at a time while I awkwardly dragged one towards a corner. She whisked the centerpiece decorations into the china cabinet with fussy care – then planted both hands on the long table and grunted slightly, shoving it clear across the polished wooden floor with sheer brawn. Then she walked around opening drapes as I labored with my single, stupidly-heavy high-backed chair, but the sullen gray light seeping through the overcast was hardly worth the effort.
     
With the damn thing finally stowed, I picked up the battered black case I'd brought down from the attic and dropped it on the table, now pushed up against the wall. I popped the latches, slipped my fingers under the edge of the lid – and paused.
     
It was my first time opening it myself. Father had always done that – part of our weekly ritual. I rubbed my thumbs over the battered, dusty plastic for a few seconds, thoughtful.
     
Then I flung open the lid. Within lay the old practice swords – almost as long and heavy as the actual weapon resting over the mantle the next room over. With the dull, dented metal in sight, the rest flowed with force of habit. I shucked my jacket and began unbuttoning my shirt.
     
“... Master?”
     
“Mm?” I queried, already wiggling one arm out of the sleeve.
     
“Why are you undressing?”
     
I froze halfway through shucking my shirt. “... well, we're going to spar, right? You need freedom of movement...”
     
“I understand the jacket,” she said, “but the shirt?”
     
“T-thats how I always did it with dad!” I objected. “I mean, do you really wanna fence in a dress!?”
     
Fabiola looked down at the hem of her maid outfit, then turned those piercing emerald orbs back on me. “Does the young Master wish me to undress?”
     
I sputtered and retreated a step. “N-no! No, no, nonono just I mean you want to mo- I mean you should – anybody should – freedom of movement is essential because you've got to move fast and tripping bad!”
     
Fabiola pursed her lips thoughtfully and tugged a pleat of her dress out as she studied it. “Mmm. So I should put on something more comfortable?”
     
“Wwwwha-”
     
“Or just less restricting fabric-”
     
“HERE,” I declared, snatching up a practice sword and shoving it sidelong at her as I stared down, face burning. She plucked it from my grasp gently, and I took my own, sidling to the middle of the floor so I didn't have to look at her as my cheeks cooled.
     
“I've never fenced before,” Fabiola says politely, “so I'm afraid you'll have to explain the rules to me.”
     
“Uh,” I said, testing my voice before trusting it. “Just don't poke my eyes out, please. That's it. Dad never liked fencing, even classical style. This is just... sword-sparring, I guess.”
     
“Very well,” Fabiola replied. “I know enough of that.” She slid one foot towards me and rested the tip of her weapon on the floor; poised and waiting.
     
I tried to swallow, but found I didn't have any spit left to do it. At least my blade didn't waver as I adopted a conventional middle guard; hilt at my waist, point aimed at Fabiola's shoulder. “Okay,” I said unsteadily. “... go?”
     
She ''moved,'' her body snapping forward into a full-tilt charge so fast I scarcely followed it, her sword clenched level by her side like a spear. There was no stance to analyze, no distance to measure – no way to anticipate how or where her attack would come -
     
- so I lunged, driving straight at her breast with a desperate strength, muscle-memory serving me well as I tried to ward off the beast -
     
- she swept her blade up and across her body, swatting my attack aside with ease before rolling the motion into a shoulder-check that sent me reeling. Before I could recover, her hand came back across and slammed her hilt into my jaw, sending me spinning to the floor. The room spun for a moment and stabilized with her sword-tip resting against my neck.
     
“Whhrglf,” I whimpered quietly. Fabiola stepped back, giving me room to rise on my own. She didn't apologize for her forceful blow, and I didn't expect her too – right now, ''she'' was the Master, and we both knew it. I staggered upright and settled into stance again, this time opting for a higher guard – she was too close to charge this time, and two heads taller than me to boot.
     
Fabiola danced closer, her dress swirling as her blade came whistling down at me. I caught it on my ricasso just in time, the sheer force of her blow almost making me buckle. I pressed forward to maintain opposition, hoping to control her steel, but she simply pressed forward, her greater strength making my shoes squeak on the hardwood as I slid back as the table had. I tried to twist, to move, to deflect, but to no avail – my back slammed into the wall with painful force, my blade pressed flat across my chest. She simply slid her own upwards till it pressed against my throat, held it there long enough to illustrate the point, and withdrew.
     
I peeled myself off the wall, my entire body shivering with adrenal hysteria. She'd agreed to teach me, she was teaching me, [spoiler]to fight?[/spoiler]
     
I had to trust her, this was Fabiola, ''Fabiola'' for chrissakes -
     
[spoiler]did she actually say 'to fight'[/spoiler]
     
Even if she was gazing at me like an ant begging for a squashing, letting that sword dangle with casual disdain, this was still my maid, my friend, - [spoiler]oh she's teaching you all right, she's taking you to school[/spoiler]
     
It was all over my face no matter how much I wished otherwise, and Fabiola didn't feign ignorance of it; tightening up her stance into something a little more serious. “Better?”
     
I glared at her, but held my tongue as I returned to my guard. This was just a test, I reasoned. Just a test.
     
She simply stepped into range this time and began attacking more conventionally; thrusts, cuts, feints and jabs. Properly rattled by now, I stayed on the back foot, deflecting her attacks with frantic energy, finally remembering to circle lest she drive me into a corner again. I kept waiting for the real attack to develop, the crazy, crushing charge, but it never came. My breathing grew ragged as she continued to harry me around the room, and with a start I realized she'd never been in danger – she had a longer reach, and she'd never came within mine, not once, during this latest bout.
     
I lunged immediately, all my training, technique and practice balanced behind the thrust. The most remarkable attack in Western martial arts, Father had said; able to reach out with blinding speed and touch those that thought themselves safe. And yet Fabiola intercepted, her white glove flashing as she parried with a mere wrist-flick and a half side-step, almost to fast to follow. Her blade came sliding up mine a heartbeat later, forcing me to twist my arm around, raising hilt and dropping point to halt her steel – leaving my left side completely open. I stepped in, trying to twist my stance into a hanging guard – too slow.
     
The palm-strike slammed into my chest so hard I heard my sternum creak as I was flung back, barely keeping my feet. Fabiola didn't bother to press her advantage as I gasped for breath against aching ribs. She simply loomed over me, just out of reach, expression blank and eyes cold.
     
“We can stop, if you want,” she said – a little too stiffly, trying to keep the pity out of her voice.
     
It ''was'' Fabiola, after all – and she was doing as the Head Maid had done before, before Roanapur, when she'd “arm-wrestle” me in the garden, and I'd “win.” As Caxton had done, handing me his gun - and Chiaki, with hers.
     
Humoring the child.
     
Even with the training, and the technique, and the practice – I was just too damned weak. If Fabiola could simply overpower me, what the hell would I do against mercenaries? Or Magical Girls? Or ''anything''? But Fabiola, ever elegant, would never say such out loud. She'd just let me reach the inevitable conclusion myself, and in the meantime – she'd humor me.
     
I'd know the world belonged to the strong since forever – anyone born rich in South America learns that quick – but when the boot finally fell, I was too busy surviving to get angry about it. I wish I could say it caught up with me then; a wrath righteous and pure – but instead of injustice, it was her pity that drew blood; protecting my illusion of dignity by playing along.  
     
God forgive me, for in that moment I truly hated her.
     
I locked stares with her cold emerald eyes as I felt out the edges of my emergency remote in my pocket, the raised rubber buttons easily distinguished through the thin fabric of my slacks. “Fabiola,” I breathed roughly, “you're great, but you don't know anything about what I want.”
     
I jabbed my panic button.
     
Heavy steel shutters slammed down over the windows, plunging the room into instant darkness. The metallic cacophony crashed and echoed around the high-ceilinged room for long moments, covering my quick position change. Within two seconds we were alone in a silent darkness.
     
“.... my, my,” Fabiola said softly, and took an experimental step. I sidled sideways; my shoes were soft-soled, and in just a t-shirt and lightweight slacks, I could move nigh silently. Fabiola's hard-heeled Mary Janes and long, flowing maid attire made her motion unmistakably audible.
     
“... not bad, young Master,” she said with a note of approval. She couldn't conceal her position and didn't care to, anyway – she couldn't ''smell'' attackers, like my Head Maid seemed to do, but any fast charge would make noise enough, and her reflexes were insane.
     
“Not bad at all,” she continued, the polished floorboards creaking slightly under her weight. I stalked through the darkness silently, the careful, precise footwork Father had taught me serving well. My heart thundered with heat, pumping slick wet hate through my body; lubricating my slow, oiled advance and pressurizing my skull to bursting with plots. My mind spun through every angle; everything I knew of Fabiola, any way to stack the deck further even as I flowed across the floor like gasoline. I felt like a submarine stalking a destroyer; outgunned and outclassed, my only chance lie in ambush.
     
Somewhere in the darkness, I'd forgotten about learning how to fight.
     
Now, with every fiber of my being, I wanted to ''win.''
     
Twelve crisp, cautious strides in the darkness, I counted – and then I struck. Fabiola's childhood of capoeira combat had gifted her grace and a nigh-supernatural kinesthetic sense; I counted on it as I brought down my blade with all my might.

The tip of her sword connected with the lightswitch a heartbeat before mine met her wrist. The jolt raced up her arm and flared in her eyes as her sword tumbled from numb fingers. I was already following through, twisting my hips into a mighty blow, swinging diagonal from the floor to cover as much space as I could, a kind of mad, flaming panic screaming through my mind – I'd shot my wad and I had to make it count, no retries, no second chances -
     
- and then everything lit up in bright white stars, the room spun very, very fast, and then stopped very, very suddenly. The afterimages of Fabiola's heel coming in at me floated through my mind, and I marveled anew at her perfection – even when flipping back into a spinning-kick, you still couldn't glimpse her panties.
     
Not that I wanted to, of course – I'd just been kicked in the head, is all.
     
Fabiola's Mary Janes trod into view a few moments later. “Young Master!?” She plucked me off the floor and cradled me in her arms, tilting my face up to look at her. “I'm so sorry, Garcia, it was reflex – are you okay?”
     
“Dhid ah-oooh,” I groaned as the ache in my jaw asserted itself. I ground my teeth together for a moment and tried again. “Did I hit.”
     
“What?”
     
“Hit you. Last swing.”
     
The concern faded from Fabiola's face, her pretty green eyes studying me thoughtfully. She pushed me away, gripping my shoulders till I steadied on my feet – and kept on gripping as she locked gazes with me.
     
“Garcia,” she said softly. “Are you sure you want this?”
     
“Want?” I repeated, the word tumbling from my lips like a spent cigarette. I wanted a lot of things. I wanted my old home back. My old life back. I wanted Roberta back, before the Incident. I wanted Father back. His smell, his touch, his sound. I wanted lots of things.
     
What I wanted didn't count for jack shit.
     
I twisted away from Fabiola as my vision blurred, but she just gripped harder and pulled me close, staunching my tears against her apron. I felt the encircling arms of the woman I'd just hated so passionately – the woman who'd protected my very life for years – and the guilt crushed the last of my resistance.
     
You're supposed to feel better, after you cry – purged of all the wickedness. But when Fabiola asked me again, much later, I found it was still there, simmering within me.
     
I wanted to win.

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