Assembly in Progress

The soft hiss of the forge's pilot flame filled the workshop like a slow exhale. It was a sound Donte was learning to find comforting—steady, low, ever-present. Morning light slanted through the thick glass windows of Markus's shop, casting long lines across the tables piled high with scrap metal, half-dismantled rifles, and chipped blueprints scrawled over with handwritten notes.

Markus stood at one end of the workbench, rolling up the sleeves of his oil-stained coat, a faint aroma of steel dust and solder clinging to him. "Today," he said, voice gruff but calm, "you're not training to shoot. You're not running laps or climbing old scaffold towers. You're building. Bare bones. No tricks. No enhancements."

Donte nodded, stepping up to the opposite end of the bench. "What am I building?"

"A pistol. Standard model. Old, reliable, nothing fancy."

Markus reached down and laid out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. With practiced precision, he unrolled it to reveal the component parts—steel frame, barrel, trigger assembly, grip plates, hammer, recoil spring, and tiny washers no thicker than a fingernail.

"You'll assemble every piece yourself. From scratch. I'll walk you through it the first time, but only once."

Donte studied the pieces. They looked simple. Unassuming. Yet something about them made his fingers itch. He could already imagine the parts fitting together—how the hammer would lock back, how the recoil spring would need perfect tension to chamber the next round without jamming.

"You know how to handle these?" Markus asked, already watching him carefully.

"I think so," Donte said. "I don't remember learning it… but it feels familiar."

Markus gave a grunt of approval. "Good. Familiar means your hands remember what your mind's still catching up to."

He slid a set of tools across the bench. "Start with the receiver. Don't force it. You force metal, it fights back."

Donte picked up the lower frame, its surface rough but balanced. He hesitated for half a breath, then began—aligning the recoil spring housing, inserting the hammer pin, carefully tightening the screws with even, calculated pressure. He worked slowly, brow furrowed, the world around him narrowing until all that existed were the parts, the tools, and the quiet rhythm of construction.

Markus didn't hover, but his presence loomed just behind, watching. Occasionally, he grunted or corrected Donte with a single word: "Looser." "Clockwise." "Clean it first."

By midday, Donte had reassembled the hammer and trigger group three times—once improperly, once backwards, and finally with all components aligned and flush. The click of the hammer locking into place echoed through the workshop like a heartbeat.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Markus looked over his shoulder. "Better. Not perfect. But better."

Donte wiped sweat from his brow and glanced down at his hands—grease-streaked, blistered on the thumb. A badge of progress.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on the slide assembly. Donte cursed under his breath as the recoil spring popped free for the third time and skittered across the bench. Markus retrieved it without comment, setting it back down in front of him.

"You'll have to make these things from scratch someday," Markus said. "No kits. No schematics. Just you, raw materials, and your instincts. This is the foundation. Treat it like one."

Donte nodded, jaw set.

By late afternoon, the pistol was complete. A sleek, simple sidearm—no embellishments, no special etchings, just clean lines and precise craftsmanship. Donte turned it over in his hands, thumb tracing the edge of the grip.

"Dry fire it," Markus said.

Donte aimed it toward the reinforced back wall, squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked forward, smooth and clean.

A quiet satisfaction bloomed in his chest. Not pride. Not yet. But something close.

Markus finally broke his silence with a short nod. "Not bad for a first build. Functional. Balanced. Little rough on the grip plate—too tight on the anchor screw—but it'll shoot."

He paused, then stepped forward and placed a hand on Donte's shoulder.

"You're not just someone who uses weapons," Markus said, his voice lower. "You're someone who makes them. And there's a difference."

Donte looked down at the pistol again. The weight of it. The reality of it. "It doesn't feel like enough yet."

Markus smiled faintly. "It's not. But it will be."

He turned, walking toward the storage lockers. "Clean up. Lock it away for tonight. Tomorrow, we start training for recoil compensation and sightline adjustment. And soon after that—your first live-fire test."

Donte set the pistol down gently and reached for a cloth, carefully wiping away the grease and residue. Each pass of the rag across the metal was deliberate. Respectful.

He wasn't building for show. He was building for survival. For clarity. For control.

As the sun dipped low behind the rusted skyline, shadows crept across the workshop floor. Donte packed the pistol into a storage case and placed it on the shelf marked with his name in careful handwriting.

He paused, then looked toward the far wall where other prototypes—failed or unfinished—sat in various stages of assembly. There was something poetic about it. The discarded beginnings. The attempts. The promise of what could be.

Donte stepped back and rubbed his sore knuckles, quiet pride settling in his chest.

One piece at a time.

Some assembly, after all, was always required.