Archivist v. Armorer

The Armorer's a thick sort of man. He wears a blackened leather smock, a track suit, a burly goatee. He meets the Archivist and they strike up a conversation.

What happened to your glasses?

Ah, says the Archivist, I broke them.

The Armorer doesn't smile. He scratches his neck. I used to work in mall security, he says. Then I got interested in different sorts of armor. Now I'm an armorer. I make and repair armor. Only bring it up because you never know who might need armor smithed, so I ask everybody.

Sorry, I don't have any armor.

Want to buy some?

Ah. No, sorry.

There's no harm in asking. Don't ask, you never know.

True. So. You must find your job rewarding.

Not really. There's less demand for Medieval armor than you'd think.

Oh?

But my wife is a nurse, so we're doing okay.

Good.

Yeah, she gets overtime.

But you like your work?

Sure. I wouldn't do anything else, even if my wife complains about it. The noise. Because my shop is in the den.

The Archivist smiles. He looks down at the rosewood table, which he's made into a makeshift desk.

What are you doing?

I'm - well, I'm drew up a scheme. It's a bit morose, actually, but not necessarily; just a game I play.

The Armorer walks over to the table and looks at notations on the back of a grocery list.

See, I've taken a tally of the bodies along the fence over there - the Archivist points across the field to the arrangement of corpses, crows hopping between the bodies - and I'm trying to put them in original order. By time of death.

The Armorer nods. Can I see how you did it? he asks.

Absolutely, absolutely, sure. Let's go look. But we should take the pistols, too.

The Armorer agrees. They choose their pistols, tuck them under their belts, and walk to the line of bodies by the fence. The crows fly off. They both go over the Archivist's list. He shows the Armorer the Archer, just dead but already stiff.

Did you kill her? he asks.

Ask me later, says the Archivist. He sneezes.

Who was she?

I don't know. Wild-eyed. Almost shot me with an arrow. An archer.

This sparks some connection.

Hm, says the Archivist, tapping a small golf pencil against his lip. Archer. I'm a rare book archivist at the university library. And you're -

An armorer, says the Armoror.

Well, says the Archivist. What about that? Alphabetical. But none of these recent dead look like they worked in arbitrage...

The Armorer coughs. He adjusts his pistol. The Archivist nods, placing the paper and pencil in his jacket pocket.

We should get to business, he says. The Armorer nods. He walks to the field of battle, the Archivist following close behind. They take their places, fifteen paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.