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ForeignerInEurope t1_ja9o3h0 wrote

Miya stared down at the absolutely enormous sword gleaming on the dusty wooden countertop in her garage. She wasn't sure how she'd gotten it, exactly, because she didn't exactly set out to get a sword on her way back from dropping her son at his dad's house after another temper tantrum. It was just there when she got out of the car, paper bags full of boxed wine, bread and salty butter tucked under her arms and her hair a frizzy mess from the perpetually open window of her shitty car. Honestly, she was looking forward for solitary quality time with cheap alcohol, white flour, a new Love Island episode and potentially, a sneaky little hangout with her vibrator.

She made sure the bottles weren't going to tip over at her feet before she made her way a bit closer to the metal monstrosity. Was it Ian's? But her son was more into girls, overpriced sneakers and leaving a mess than roleplaying games. He hadn't wanted a sword of any kind since he was five.

She wondered if she should be more worried about the sudden appearance of a giant sword in her little suburban home, but she wasn't. She'd worn out her capacity to capably emote about two fights ago.

"What in the fucking hell are you doing here?" she mumbled, carefully running a suspicious finger over the smooth, cold metal. She had to admit, it was beautiful, as far as uselessly massive weapons went. Perfectly smooth and shiny, with no visible fingerprints or specks of dust, it was nearly as long as her whole body.

"And why the fuck are you touching me without my fucking permission?" a tinny, whiny voice replied, and she practically jumped ten feet in the air, looking around in a panic. Maybe Ian was right and she was, indeed, crazy.

"Over here, grandma," the grating voice almost seemed to roll its eyes, cracking ever so slightly. "The metal thing in your house, yes. Hi."

She blinked. Had she been drinking? Had she hit such rock bottom that she fell asleep, only to imagine the voice of an obnoxious teenager coming out of a piece of metal? "Hi?"

"Well I can't exactly wave at you, can't I? Waving is your job. Last time I heard, people, with arms, carry swords."

She huffed. "I don't know if this is real or not, but if it is, someone has a sick sense of humor to send me Ian's inanimate doppelgänger."

"I don't know any Ians."

She put her hands exasperatedly on her hips. "Well unlike you, talking scrap, he's a real boy. Smells, hormones and all."

"Ouch, really hurt my feelings there with that killer line, lasy. I'm so offended. My non existent heart in my non existent chest is broken."

"You know, when I made that little bastard and shot it out of my body while his dad was stationed in the Middle East, I had a lot of dreams. I thought, maybe he'd be a nice boy, and we'd have nice talks in a nice house-"

"Where is this going?"

"And here I am. Ian hates breathing air in the same room as me, his dad is now openly fucking his colleague who was definitely just his good friend back in the desert, and I'm talking to a sword, potentially hallucinating, about to drink myself asleep."

There was a long silence. She rubbed her face, feeling her shoulders sink. This sword could protect someone out there. Maybe it could be featured in a cool movie with shirtless men who grunt and touch each other homoerotically. Instead, there it was ready to be wielded by her, who hadn't lifted anything heavier than these grocery bags in years.

"Look, buddy, I don't know how you got here. I'm sure you're a nice young- sword... but I am tired, and my arms are noodles, so I couldn't wield you much further than the curb. I think you should leave the way you came, which is an insane thing to tell an object."

"If I knew how I got here, I sure as fuck would be using that information to get the hell back to where I came from, but I'm apparently stuck with you, so deal with it."

"Wait..." her brows furrowed. "You mean you don't know how you got here? Do you even know where you're from?"

She heard a squeaky huff. "Of course I-" the voice cut off. It was quiet again. "Actually, I don't... I don't know."

Something maternal in her heart cramped at that lost, tinny voice. She couldn't imagine appearing suddenly, completely immobile, in a foreign place with a foreign person, completely unable to do anything without their help.

"I'm sorry."

The sword took another minute to reply. "Maybe your sorry ass can figure out a way to get me the fuck out of this hellhole."

And there went that maternal ache straight out the proverbial window. "You're a mouthy little shit, you know that?"

The chuckle it gave made the metal blade vibrate ominously, like a giant guitar string. "Apparently. But you'd be mad too if you got stuck with an incompetent old woman as your wielder."

"I am not old."

"That's what offended you? Really?"

"Shut up." She slid down on the stool near the counter.

They sat there in relatively companionable silence, or at least she thought so - after all, this thing didn't exactly have expressions.

"Have you ever even been in a fight?"

"Of course I've-"

"I see that's a big fat no."

The sword vibrated again. It didn't add anything.

She looked down at the thing. She carefully slid her fingers around the hilt, feeling its impressive weight. She assumed that with some effort and two free hands, she could probably move it inside, at least. Maybe Ian would think it's cool. Maybe he'd take one look at her sitting around talking to a sword and never come back home again.

"You gonna fondle me forever, woman?"

She sighed and gave him a few seconds of silent, disappointed staring. Apparently, it worked on swords just as well as pimply boys, because before long, an unsure, defiant "what" made the sword vibrate in her hand.

"Want to go watch some TV?" she asked.

"I don't know what that is."

"It has moving pictures with sounds. They tell stories. It's in a little square."


She took the time to make sure her car and garage doors were both locked. She was about to pick up the groceries when that tinny voice piped up.

"TV sounds nice, actually."