Progress At Last

<Authors note: The more I write on this branch, the more I'm starting to think I'm just going to write this as a kinky slice of life instead of an explicitly pornographic erotica. Just a heads up, most people probably won't be interested.>

Jack's question made sense to Brenda the moment they met eyes in the food court. She had a brief moment where she hoped it wasn't him, that she wouldn't have to deal with a kid crush for the next half hour, and that this was just a chance meeting, but as he started walking towards her, she knew her fate was sealed.

"It is you." Jack declared with an awkward delight as he settled into the chair opposite her.

She flashed him a weak smile. "Yup, it's me."

"Oh! you got braces." His face contorts in an odd expression, and he hesitantly follows up, saying, "You didn't look like you needed them yesterday."

"Yeah, they suck."

"I think they look good on you." He retorts with a puppy dog grin.

Brenda pauses, and sighs. "Thanks, but can we talk about the repair I need done?"

His eyes lose focus before dialing back in. "Oh, yeah. Sure thing. Let's see the gun."

"How did you know about the gun?"

"Oh, Uh. Mr.Glasser, the guy you talked to, called me about it." He gives her an unconvincing smile, but she chooses not to press him.

"So you know what my problem is? Or at least the first part?"

"Sure." He hesitates. "Can I see it?"

Hesitantly, Brenda produced the plastic gun, which Jack plucked from her grip swiftly, and irreverently. She scowls, as he turns it a over a dozen different times, then beams a smile. "I think I can help. You need it unscrewed first right? You don't have the custom bit?"

Brenda nods, and a moment later the pair of them are marching back to the repair shop owned by "Mr.Glasser"

Brenda sucks on her teeth as she walks, and keeps running her tongue along her braces in irritation, but reaches the shop before long. Mr.Glasser is hunched on a tall chair, staring at an analog contraption that's impossible to identify, opened, and gutted as it is. Despite herself, Brenda sets her jaw and stands upright as Jack leads her past Mr.Glasser and into the back room. She doesn't catch the smirk and the wink the old man shoots Jack as he closes the door behind them.

The room is small, barely wider than a hallway, and looks like it might have once been organized, but had long since succumb to chaos. One wall was haphazardly stacked multiple rows deep with all manner of old technology. She saw cassette players that seemed to hold cassettes of odd sizes. There were oscilloscopes, and other devices with small analog green screens, as well as a dozen ham radios of different sizes and shapes. The wall they had entered through was hidden behind a jungle of wires Brenda couldn't identify. It reminded her of a dystopian scifi version of the trendy flora walls contemporary businesses liked to grow indoors. To her right was an avalanche of boxes she found uninteresting, but in front of her were three long desks lit by a bar of fluorescent lights, and many more circular lights on flexible arms. In an odd way, the tools that overflowed on the desk reminded her of an artists workspace, but instead of brushes and paints, it was soldering irons, heat shrinks, wires, nuts, bolts, screw drivers, bits and more organized just well enough to seem deliberate.

"So you've got the driver head here in your toolbox that'll fit?" Brenda asked. She had put her hands on her hips as if to push back the oppressing darkness of the foreign space.

Jacks cheeks are red, and a smile is on his face as he flips the gun upside down, and starts to lock it in a vice on a desk. "Probably not. It looked like a custom fitting."

"Then how come you know..." She's interrupted as a sharp whine breaks out, and she see's Jack taking the spinning head of a dremel to the gun. It grinds as the head meets the gun.

"Hey! Stop! I don't want to break it you jackass!" She starts smacking him on the back and arms, which don't even seem to distract him.

A moment later, the mechanical whine stops, and Jack looks back to her. "I know. I didn't, see?" He gestures to the gun. " It's a flat head screw now." He laughs with far more amusement than seems due.

Sure enough, as Brenda peaks around him to the gun, the peculiar head has been cut into with a gash just deep enough for a regular flathead screwdriver. Yes, some of the plastic has been cut too, but that seems a very small price to pay for access to the magic inside. Her wrath is deflated, and she watches pensively as he unscrews the bolt, then places the gun on the desk. He pushes, and presses, and tugs around the gun before the two halves finally shift offset from one another. Now free of whatever internal clasp still held them together, he opens the plastic shell of the gun.