>>6297991
"I am going to be running into bullets you made no matter what I do." You lean forward, twisting the gun in his hand, and he has to stretch to avoid pulling the trigger before he wants to. "That's a little... frustrating."

Stepping back, removing his finger from the trigger and wrenching the gun to a more comfortable position for himself, the man in black chuckles. "Heh, tell you what. When you get the memo, call in sick. How about that? Saves your hide."

There's no specific moment from training that you recall as you come up with a response. You just say it. "I could save myself, and let everyone else I know get shot. Or I could tell some of my friends, and get the higher ups looking at us suspiciously because we all avoided it. Any good reason I don't just tell the whole building?"

Durant is pissed. The girls he had with him are running off, others eating around are warily continuing their meals, and he is standing there having his wrist twisted mentally and physically with a gun in his hand, struggling to pretend like he is the one in control here.

You twist him harder. "How about you tell me how many guns you've made. You never come back down here again. I won't tell them it was you. And you get to leave Helsinki alive."

"You were that little girl clinging onto Kiki like a lost puppy months ago? Heh. You've been beaten into shape."

You put the tip of your greatsword on the ground and hold it upright, the golden glow of who's inside eagerly waiting in its hangar, pulsing with impatience. "That wasn't an answer, pig dog."

The crooked gunman glances between your gaze and the sword's glowing compartment. There was a level of confusion, a furrowed brow of calculating risk.

He tries pulling the gun away from your chin, and you finally permit him. Finally, he opens up.

"Met a couple people in a bar who asked if I could repair some ancient guns they found. And I mean ancient. Talkin' 1900s. They had four of them. A submachine gun called a "Suomi," and three Mosin Nagant bolt action rifles. Corroded to all hell, except for some internals. Apparently the Suomi and rifle belonged to some old war hero. There was no chance in hell of restoring them, no schematics. But I knew enough about guns to make some guesses. In the interest of firearm history, I salvaged what I could and cast over the rest of the war hero's Suomi, and I'm working on his rifle." He scoffs with a shit-eating smirk. "I just think it'll look great in a museum."

Right.

A museum.