Occams Razor

Henry Gondorf whistled to himself in the near empty Hanley House. He sat in his grey folding chair as he organized the depths of his travel case. He found new homes for most of his trade tools. "Note to self; start practicing your tumblers again." He muttered before returning to his tune. He turned his attention the rest of his tools. The weak, free form notes continued until they came together slowly into something he heard on the radio once.

Modern music. Some days it seemed like such a waste. Not the music itself, mind. Songs come in and out of style faster than whatever gets stitched together over in Paris. It is the authors and performers behind the music. People paid good money to idolize a bunch of coin operated mannequins. A generation of circus performers tailored to keep the public stunned by their antics while the rest of the world dragged on.

"Focus..." Henry chided himself. He whistled louder as the tune changed again. A bad habit that. It is easier to focus on the world at large than what is right outside his door. His hands moved over the stripped workings of his side arms with a mechanical deliberateness. He did not see the cylinders or barrels slipping back into place. Slowly his revolver and her sister semi-automatic reconstituted themselves. He barely heard the revolver's hammer fall as his mind caught up with the tune coming from him. The words followed unbidden and unwelcome. ...as I went down to the river to pray, studying about that good old way, and who shall wear that robe and crown

Gondorf threw his revolver down and held his head in his hands.

"You owe me two credits," Amelia says to him after she enters the halfway house, leaning on the door, her arms crossed over her chest. There's a tremor to them, like maybe she wants to strangle someone.

Her greeting doesn't meet any kind of social standard. It certainly doesn't pass for someone that lives in the same house as she does, and it's even worse for the state that Henry appears to be in.

But there's a simmering annoyance in the way she carries herself. Her bite isn't directed at him, he's just the poor soul who happens to be around.

Henry rubbed his face hard before nodding in agreement. He pulled out two credits from what counted as his wallet.

"Never bet on the side of a Private Eye, kid. We make so much hard luck we damn near count as a fix at the race track." Henry said wryly. He set them on the far edge of the bed before returning to his seat. He opened his cavernous bag and began the process of stowing his tools. He secured his bread and butter before opening one of the many dividers. He pushed back his seat to reveal a crate hidden beneath the bed. Henry ease the wooden cover open to reveal the glossy black metal of an old acquaintance.

He shifted loose shells on the bed to make room as he pulled his cleaning kit closer. He nearly began the long process of cleaning and replying grease when he gave Amelia a hard look. Henry turned his attention back to his waiting.

"I know bunking here is a short term thing. Once I got everything settled I'll be on my way. Meantime, this is gonna take a bit to get right. And you look ready to come out swinging. So what'cha say? Feel like venting the spleen a bit to a captive audience?"

She doesn't go for the credits right away, but her eyes track them before focusing back on Henry.

"A shiny ferret stole my fruit," Amelia says testily in explanation. It could almost sound normal, given Whisper Hill. Except, she adds, "Apparently it doesn't understand the concept of sharing." Which is maybe a bit weirder, and more evident that she's probably not talking about a ferret.

She at last goes to grab the credits, uncoiling like a tense wire, and pockets them before moving over to her bed where her backpack resides.

Henry smiled to himself. "So that's what I sound like to folks most days. Explains a lot."

He dampened a bit of cloth with cleaner before affixing it to a small metal rod with a tee handle. Henry hefted barrel to his eye for inspection. A few specks of packing demanded a rigorous cleaning.

"A ferret, huh?" Henry mused for a moment. He sighed when his gut kicked in its two cents. He had a hunch but kept it to himself. "Mind if I ask if the ferret is still kicking around?"

Henry kept it simple. It left him with less of a chance to embarrass himself.

She smirks a bit at his comment. Usually she'd follow it up with a Welcome to Whisper Hill line, complete with jazz hands, but she's not feeling it. She focuses instead on pulling notebooks out of her bedding and shoving them into her backpack haphazardly.

"If it's smart, it's off licking its wounds," she grumbles, then her movements stutter and she frowns. Thoughtfulness crosses into worry, and then back to annoyance. She swings her bag from her bunk and onto a shoulder, facing Henry again. "If it had still been kicking around, I would have slapped it upside his--its furry head by now."

Henry set down the now pristine barrel. Next item on the list was the receiver. It's perfect condition belied the need for the same exaggerated cleaning the barrel called for. He pulled the cloth free for a more hands on effort.

"Now there's the firebrand I know." Said with a smile, " So you and the klepto ferret are at odds and they had the good sense to run for the hills before you caught up to them. I can't tell if their smart or just drawing out the inevitable." Henry thought about it a second more then paused. "Nah, he's hoping you cool off."

Henry noticed the notebooks. Good to know he's not the only one keeping the stationary business afloat.
"So, and feel free to call me what ever you like afterwards, I take it this is far from the everyday local crop." He motions to his bag with his elbow. "If you need help with, lets call it hostile haggling, I got a claw hammer and wrench lurking somewhere inside there. Their yours whenever you need them. Just...be careful going for them. No sudden moves or Betsy here might snatch a finger. Or three."

"Probably a mix of all three," she admits, thinking on it. "Occasionally smart, hiding, and waiting it out." She lets out a breath of air and stares at the ceiling. She'll cool off, eventually. After the dust from everything else has also settled.

"Thanks for the offer. I'll keep that in mind probably for... other situations." Amelia's mad, but not mad enough for certain extremes. "I'll stick with non-metal objects in this case."

She heads back for the door, shouldering it open and leaning in the door frame. "Donno how long you're planning on sleeping here over the winter, but don't worry about taking up space." Not that she's really one to make that decision. She doesn't actually know who's the current proprietor of the halfway house. Eden, maybe? Aurora? Maybe it's just in a limbo state since... Well. "I'll be around some quiet part of the lake most of the winter, save for meals and sleeping, so any equipment overflow won't bother me at least."

"When there is doubt, be the one who ends it." Henry intoned with an air of solemness. A faraway look flashed in his eyes and a stillness settled there. It vanished as his mind reeled to break the moment.

"Old Sargent used to yell that whenever he caught folks standing around. That and 'I claim the eye of any man who eyes me whiskey.' He was...cut from a different cloth you might say."

Henry shrugged. "What I mean is, and I'll try to stop burying the lead, is that as long as someone with standing in the group gave a nod, I think I'm all set for winter. Thanks."

Henry watched Amelia leave before turning back to his tools. He made short work of their rebuilding and stowed them for now.