Chapter 86: Relics Out of Time
Under the warm yellow light, Mira slid an old picture book back onto its shelf. Her gaze swept across a row of locked glass display cases against the wall, freezing her in her tracks. Her mouth twitched.
Good grief. She had finally discovered what a true American antique shop looked like.
These cases held no ordinary junk. They were lined entirely with pristine, standard-issue World War II firearms arranged neatly on velvet. The gunmetal was polished to a mirror finish, the wood grain stood out sharply, and not a single speck of rust marred the collection.
The top shelf displayed two classic M1 Garand rifles next to a shortened M2 Carbine. The middle shelf held an M3 Grease Gun, a BAR automatic rifle, and a Browning M1919A4 medium machine gun minus its tripod. The bottom layer was packed with the U.S. military's century-old staple.
Dozens of M1911 .45 caliber pistols sat nestled inside repurposed .50 BMG ammo boxes. Each bore a different production year, with some still carrying faint scratches from the battlefield.
Anyone unaware might think they had stumbled into a private wartime arsenal. Even museum collections rarely looked this complete or well-maintained.
"Color me impressed," Mira murmured. She walked over to the glass and tapped on the case, gesturing to the man behind the counter. "Hey boss, mind taking this one out for me?"
She pointed to an M1911 manufactured by Colt in 1943. The frame showed faint signs of wear but remained impeccably maintained. It had clearly seen combat before being carefully preserved for decades.
The owner looked up, set aside his polishing cloth, and ambled over with a smile.
"You've got a good eye, kid. This was the sidearm of a sergeant from the Big Red One during the Normandy landings. It's the real deal, not one of those flashy modern replicas."
The weapon felt heavy in her hand, carrying the cold texture of metal mixed with the smooth warmth of aged wood. The moment Mira grasped the gun, her fingers found their familiar positions. Her movements were fluid and confident.
Keeping her index finger outside the trigger guard, she smoothly pressed the magazine release. The empty mag slid out with a crisp click and dropped right into her palm. She racked the slide back with her left hand and locked it into place.
Tilting the weapon slightly, she inspected the empty chamber and the polished rifling. Confirming it was clear of ammo and rust, she released the slide. She squeezed the trigger, letting the hammer fall with a satisfying snap.
The firing mechanism was completely intact. The action was incredibly smooth.
The owner's eyes lit up. He shot Mira a thumbs up.
"You're a natural, kid. I can tell you know your way around a firearm just by watching your form."
"I've clocked a lot of hours in shooters, but this is my first time handling a real one." Mira smirked, weighing the M1911 in her hand. She couldn't hide her genuine fondness for the vintage piece.
In her past life, she only ever saw these World War II antiques sitting behind museum glass. Holding a military-issue M1911 that actually survived the beaches of Normandy brought a rush of nostalgia no video game could ever replicate.
"You can't learn muscle memory like that from a screen." The old man chuckled, leaning over the counter with a wink. "Since you know your stuff, I won't beat around the bush. I'll give you a fair price on that piece."
He leaned in closer. "But if you want something with a bit more kick, I've got good stuff in the back. Completely off the ATF's radar, brand new in the box. Toss in a little extra cash, and I can set you up with plenty of ammo."
His meaning was crystal clear. This wasn't just a legal antique collection. He was running an unregistered black market armory right out of the storeroom.
Mira raised an eyebrow. She slid the magazine back into place.
"Can you even sell these things legally?"
"As long as you have a license and do the paperwork, sure." The owner gave a sly grin. "But for the right price, I could fetch you a Vietnam-era M16. Or a factory-fresh, unassembled M4 with all the rounds you can carry."
Before Mira could answer, Purifier hooked her chin over Mira's shoulder and grabbed her arm.
"Boss, why are you bothering with this junk?" Purifier whined. "The caliber is tiny, the muzzle velocity is sub-sonic, and it couldn't even dent our chassis. It's literally a toy."
She wasn't wrong. Even without their energy shields, a Siren's base chassis could shrug off .50 caliber machine gun fire. Getting shot with a vintage .45 wouldn't even scuff their paint.
"Scan data confirms the maximum kinetic energy of this weapon peaks at 477 joules," Compiler added from the sidelines. A stream of data reflected in her pale gold eyes. "Armor penetration against mass-produced Siren units is zero percent. It is incapable of causing structural damage or physical scratches to either of us."
"You two lack an appreciation for nostalgia," Mira deadpanned, swatting both of them on the head. She set the M1911 back on the counter.
"I'll take it, boss," Mira said. "Got a partner range nearby? I can't buy a gun without test-firing it first."
Walking the streets strapped with a vintage firearm was asking for trouble. Even with lax gun laws, a high schooler carrying an M1911 would draw the NYPD or S.H.I.E.L.D. within ten minutes. She was on vacation and didn't need the headache.
"Lucky for you, I've got a private indoor range out back." The old man flashed a shrewd grin and pointed to a rear door. "Top-notch soundproofing. It's strictly for regulars and friends. Buy the gun, and I'll cut the range fee in half and sell you ammo at cost. 9mm, .45, 5.56, you name it."
"Fair enough." Mira pulled a bank card from her jacket and tossed it onto the glass.
"I'll take the 1911 and five hundred rounds of .45 ammo. Put me down for two hours on the range. Just swipe it."
Her bank account had plenty of padding. She could buy the entire display case without blinking, let alone a single vintage pistol.
The owner's eyes lit up at the plastic. He grabbed a card reader, muttering happily to himself. Just as his fingers brushed the card, the brass bell above the entrance chimed.
The heavy wooden door swung open. Afternoon sunlight spilled across the floorboards, casting a tall, broad-shouldered shadow into the shop.
Mira turned around. Her movements locked up entirely.
You have got to be kidding me, she vented internally. I run into this guy while browsing a random antique shop in Brooklyn?
The man at the door wore a dark blue bomber jacket over a plain white tee and khakis. He had neat blonde hair, azure blue eyes, and a sharply chiseled jawline.
He stood as straight as a pine tree, carrying the grounded aura of a career soldier balanced by an inherently gentle demeanor. Despite the modern clothes, he carried a heavy, anachronistic weight. He looked completely out of place in the twenty-first century.
It was none other than Steve Rogers. Captain America.
The legendary veteran gave the shop owner a polite nod. His gaze swept over the three girls lingering by the display case before locking onto the M1911 on the counter. A flash of quiet vigilance crossed his blue eyes, followed by a hint of surprise.
Target confirmed. Steve Rogers, codename Captain America, Compiler's voice chimed flatly inside Mira's mind. Perfect subject of the Super Soldier Serum. Physical parameters have reached peak human limits. Currently affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D. as a senior consultant.
No weapons detected. No abnormal energy signatures. No clear hostility. Alert level: Low.
Mira stayed completely silent. Her hand lingered near the M1911 on the counter, locking eyes with Steve across the room.
The shop went dead quiet. Only the faint sound of Brooklyn traffic and the rhythmic ticking of a vintage clock on the wall filled the silence.
Good grief, Mira groaned internally.
She had just picked up a World War II antique to screw around at the gun range. Now she was staring down the living symbol of the entire war.
Talk about walking right into the line of fire.
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