[He watches her carefully file the metal shaving down, handing her the pipe brush when she finishes, then inspects the barrel for any more blemishes. Deeming it worthy, he nods at her to assemble the gun once more.

Her question brings back a wave of memories he thought had been buried long ago. The first weapon he'd held. The first Slam he'd been in. The first life he'd taken. She could have meant any number of those times, but oddly he wasn't put off the subject, feeling more open to talk about himself than he ever had before.]

How old I was when I learned what, exactly? It's kinda hard for me to say since I don't really know how old I am in the first place, but my best guess is I was about, oh, say around six or seven the first time I held a weapon, and the first time I killed someone. Same time, actually.