#adroit

Nabi blinked, letting out an exhale through pursed lips. She took another inhale and released it again for good measure, but still her hand shook slightly.

“It ain’t too heavy fer ya, yeah?” Shael tilted her head, looking over the Xaela. “It be a small model, I made sure the barrel was light titanium, sturdy but not heavy on the wrist.” She squinted. “And some wobblin’ be alright. Or ya just scared?”

“I’m not scared.” Nabi replied quickly enough, moistening her lips nervously. But if she wasn’t afraid to shoot the rifle, then why did her hand shake?

This wasn’t the first time Shael had given her a gun. The first pistol Nabi ever held was a gift from the Highlander, back when Nabi was still working at the stall in the Rakuza district. It was for self defense, Shael said, after she had robbed the herbal stall. Ironic, and yet soon after, the gun came into good use.

If Nabi hadn’t had it, she would have been completely helpless when Anchor was fighting against the mothra.

Still. The weapon felt wholly foreign in her grip. But I don’t want to be helpless, to rely on everyone else to save me. This trip to Eorzea was her idea and they were about to set off to places where there could be dangerous creatures. She wasn’t going to put her friends in jeopardy because she didn’t know how to defend herself. So when Shael suggested a shooting lesson, Nabi agreed. A new line of determination furrowed her brow and the Xaela narrowed her eyes again.

“Alright, let’s try again,” Shael said patiently when the Nabi raised the musketoon. “Line up the target with yer eyes." She paused when she glanced over at her pupil. “Keep both eyes open. Ya got two, it be nonsense usin’ only one tae aim. Unless ya got a scope, but we ain’t doin’ that yet.”

Nabi opened the other eye she had closed, and squinted under the afternoon sun. The clouds above casted a drifting shadow over the rock set on a boulder, but at least it wasn’t some wild animal Shael had suggested earlier. Nabi took a deep breath in, and then released half of it back out, as the Highlander had instructed earlier. But when she was focusing on breathing, her target wavered. How did Shael do this all at once?

She squeezed the trigger, and the gun jerked upwards with the momentum of the shot.

The rock never moved.

“Ya sure ya actually hit somethin’ when ya went antenna huntin’ with Saltborn?” Shael teased with an amused smirk.

“I did!” Nabi pouted, although her pride was quick to deflate. “It had big wings, so… it was hard to miss, I suppose.” Her shoulders slumping with a sigh, she gave Shael a glance. “So much to remember all at once. How do you make it look so easy?”

Shael snorted, adjusting her hat and her shades propped on top. “I practiced. A lot. And had a patient teacher. Better than I’m ever gonna be.” There was a wistful smile that flitted across the woman’s lips, before she shook her head. “Nothin’ is easy at the start. But after awhile, ya do it without actually thinkin’ on it.”

As if to prove a point, in a blink of an eye, Shael drew her gun, fired and spun the pistol in her hand, sliding it back into its holster before the rock that was sent flying even touched the ground.

“Just like learnin’ how tae walk." The Highlander shrugged, then winked at her. “Ya fall at the start, but ya just keep at it.” She placed her hands on her hips and turned back to the Xaela. “Now. Again.”

Nabi pursed her lips to one side, straightening. She doubted it was that easy, and she was sure that Shael's skills in shooting were one of the best. But that meant that she had the best teacher. Which only had to bode well!

Nabi raised the musketoon again, both eyes squinting at the next rock lined up on the boulder. She tried to keep all of Shael’s lessons in mind as she focused on the target. Keep the aiming brief. Some wobbling is going to happen. Grasp the wrist of the stock firmly. Squeezing the trigger should be smooth. Don’t jerk up too fast-- why was her heart beating faster?

“Breathe, Nabs. Ya need tae breathe.”

When the mustached Midlander opened his first shop, a home goods and improvement store in a forgotten, often overlooked location in Limsa Lominsa, no one had ever bothered to ask how he'd managed to save up the money. Likely they thought he’d tell them if they asked and that the answer would be excruciatingly dull.

He was as good with his hands as with his mind. He was a reasonably skilled carpenter  and goldsmith and he made quality items for his store with no shortage of pride. He made lights, toys, chairs, tables, all manner of things for the customers he suspected he might not ever have. He also diplomatically haggled prices with other vendors, attended auctions, and had an eye for value when he went to antique stores. His modest little shop had fantastic prices, fantastic goods, and a fantastic owner--- and would rarely be seen by anyone but criminals and marks.

Which was exactly what he hoped for.

The store itself was a front for laundering money. His clientele consisted almsot entirely of criminals and would-be criminals, who would ask for items to be "found", thieves who would "find" the items, and wealthy victims of theft who Sibert would occasionally collect "finder's fees" from whenever some "no good, rotten thief" brought him stolen goods and he happened to know where they had originally come from (sometimes having been the one to request it be stolen in the first place). He had a great reputation for being a bland little man who was very diligent about returning "lost" items when he could and always working closely and politely with authorities on the rare occasions that they would become involved.

He was unremarkable in demeanor, but that was exactly what people who needed items obtained not-entirely-legally were looking for. And they found it in him. And they were willing to pay for it.

And people who scared of dealing with thieves directly, whether for fear of being robbed themselves or just having that direct line of communication open there for Yellowjackets to look into, were willing to pay a lot for it.

Clients appreciated him because he was mindful of them; he was discrete and careful not to give away too much personal information about them to the thieves. Thieves appreciated him because he seemed to genuinely care about their safety and knew what sort of jobs would be of interest (monetarily and skills wise) and he paid fair prices. 

People he sold their own items back to for a small fee appreciated him because it allowed them to circumvent the whole tedious Yellowjacket business that came with, say, reporting a crime that took place in locations where other maybe-not-so-legal activities took place or other not-so-legally-obtained items were located.

And that had been enough for him for many years.  It'd been enough for him to simply smile when his brothers spoke of their good fortune and to pretend he had somehow turned a modest but unremarkable profit from his home goods businesses. 

It had been enough that he'd been able to buy a modest but unremarkable house while knowing he could afford a much bigger and grander one if he wanted.

It had been enough that he'd funneled some money towards making sure the kids on the street had somewhere safe to go, somewhere to sleep, food to eat, and clothes to wear when they were in need.

It had all been enough.

Until he met the most beautiful and most intelligent woman in the entire world. Until she walked through the meager doorway of his meager shop to ask him for help redecorating her extraordinary house and a lamp he had just turned on burned out because even it knew its light was nothing compared to the radiance she gave off.

Then nothing was enough until he could see her again.

And again.

And again.

And, alas, that? That's how mistakes were made. That's how a clever man was undone. Predictable really. It's how so many clever men before him were undone as well. Bad news for him.

Worse news for any thieves working for him.