Armsmaster led Taylor and Tattletail into an elevator, then up two floors, the digital display above them dinging twice before the doors opened again onto a long, wide corridor with stations on either side. There was an obvious metal detector being manned by a bored looking PRT employee and two guards standing nearby with containment foam launchers and what she suspected was a perfectly usable shotgun.

Armsmaster waved a card to the man behind the metal detector and moved through it without so much as a beep. “Please place any weapons you have in that bin,” Armsmaster instructed as he gestured to a plastic bin off to the side. “Then proceed through the machine.”

Taylor, who had no weapons on her, started to move, then noticed with mounting horror that Tattletail was moving towards the bin. She began to reach into her coat, then paused and looked at Armsmaster. “If we have weapons they’ll be returned, right?” she asked.

The Tinker nodded once. “Yes. They are merely being kept to ensure the safety of PRT personnel. This is part of our standard operating procedures.”

“And if we have Tinkertech it will be given back, right?”

Now Armsmaster looked interested. He leaned forwards a little. “Does your group have a Tinker?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Taylor said. “Crochet’s the only one that makes stuff, and that’s mostly reserved for costumes and clothing and sometimes plushies. No Tinkertech.”

He leaned back. “I see. In any case, yes, your Tinkertech will be returned promptly.”

“And you won’t scan it and look at it too hard and try to pry it apart?” Tattletail asked as if to make really sure.

“We wouldn’t do that, no. It would go against regulations and some Tinkers have been known to employ dangerous anti-tampering measures in their equipment. Unless the Tinkertech you have presents an imminent danger to everyone in the vicinity it will be treated as a normal weapon.”

“Good, good,” Tattletail said. Then she pulled out a blaster pistol from her jacket, a big, bulbous gun that looked like it had been designed in the height of the 50s art-deco era. It was also, Taylor recognized, obviously Kid Win’s gun.

“That,” Armsmaster said, “is not yours.”

“Yes it is,” Tattletail said.

He stared off to the side and then scowled. “You might believe it is yours, but it is not.”

Tattletail huffed and crossed her arms. “It is mine. I obtained it fair and square.”

“Oh no,” Taylor whispered.

Armsmaster stood taller. “That belongs to Kid Win and, by association, to the Protectorate.”

“It belongs to me,” Tattletail said.

“A cursory inspection would prove otherwise.”

“You just said you wouldn’t do that. And anyway, it’s obviously mine. Kid Win’s laser pistol things don’t have glitter on them.” She reached into the bin and pulled out the gun by the barrel and waved it around, her free hand pointing at all the sparkly bits on it. “And this one has a unicorn sticker on the handle.”

The Protectorate Tinker made a noise, then shut his mouth with a clack and worked his jaw. “Theft is a crime,” he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child, which to be fair, he sort of was.

“Crimes are only crimes if you get caught and the crime can be proved in a court of law. Unicorn stickers, ergo not theft, ergo not a crime,” Tattletail said with the same slow pace. She grinned up at Armsmaster, her tail wagging behind her with self-satisfied glee.

“Nonetheless, that is property of the Protectorate East North East,” Armsmaster said with mounting anger.

“You wanna take it from me?” Tattletail asked. Her grin grew sharper. “Fine, then come and take it. I won’t even resist.” She hugged the gun close to her chest, then bit into a knuckle until her eyes filled with tears.

“What are you doing?” Armsmaster asked.

Then a group of tourists rounded the corner, two dozen people with cameras who were taking in the ever dull-grey corridor of the base and flashing pictures at every poster and plaque on the walls as if they were art pieces. The whole group gasped as they saw Taylor and Tattletail.

“Y-you wanna take my toy?” Tattletail blubbered. The first tear came sliding down her cheek.

“What? It’s not yours!” Armsmaster said. Then he noticed the cameras pointed his way. “What are you doing here? This area should be secured.”

The tour guide started to sweat. “We’re on schedule. It’s supposed to be cleared here. We’ll move things along. Come on everyone, this is important Protectorate work, we shouldn’t interrupt.”

“You, you big meanie!” Tattletail yelled. “You’re just taking my things because you’re a big doo-doo head.”

“I’m not. It’s not yours,” Armsmaster said as he turned back to her.

“Yes it is! You’re not Armsmaster, you’re... Buttmaster! ‘Cause you’re a big butt.” Tattletail’s entire face was screwed up in a mix of anger and sadness, her ears were drooping down and her tail was dragging on the ground behind her.

There was muffled giggling from the tourists, most of whom were ignoring the demands to move along from the guide in favour of filming the confrontation. Stil, with some pushing and shoving they got moving.

The moment the last of them turned around the corner Tattletail stood taller and wiped her face clean with a palm. Her tail began to wag again. “Try taking my gun now, Buttmaster.”

Taylor sighed, yoinked the gun out of her hands and passed it to Armsmaster. “I’m terribly sorry, but we accidentally found this weapon and have no idea how or where we found it. Could you dispose of it for us, please?” she asked as she held the pistol out between them.

“Big Sis! I earned that gun fair and square,” Tattletail screeched.

Taylor shook her head and as soon as Armsmaster had taken the gun she turned towards Tattletail. “We have a ‘no weapons in the house’ rule for a reason,” she said. Tattletail looked up to her, eyes filled with unshed tears. “And wipe that look off your face, missy, no one will believe you now.”

“You’re no fun,” she grumbled as she looked away. “Fine. Can we keep moving now? If I can’t get to keep my gun at least we should move things along to get home faster.”

Taylor sighed, but she couldn’t help but agree. It was best to get things done before all of her bridges were burned. “Let’s just meet the director.”