As luck would have it, she met another nerdy boy in the technically-Chemistry-department machine shop.

"Hey, I've seen you in Ancient Mediterranean Civ, right? Can you let me back into the shop, I'm in the middle of making a sword."

"Without permission to use the shop? What major are you even?"

"History. Come on, it's not like they actually use this shop to capacity, not like the Engineering one. I'll help you make your own sword!"

"...Okay, I admit, I do want a sword. What are you even going to do with yours, though?"

"Swordfight, duh! Me and one of the nerd frats and some grad students and, until last semester, a Chem junior, read medieval fighting manuals and fight with reconstructed armor and deadened blades, historical style. Way better than boffing or fencing."

"You, mister, are speaking my language. Okay, let's go make a sword."

And so they did. And she dropped two of the dojos and replaced them with the Historical European Martial Arts club, both fighting and making equipment. It was way more satisfying than her actual classwork, and frankly better than the more formalized fights in the dojo. (She wasn't going to drop those entirely, though. They had pretty girls who beat her up and didn't want to switch.)

With the metalworking grounding her, she found that chemistry and materials science were more interesting as well. Even when the frat went in on the tools for a safe and mostly-modern forge in their backyard and the Chem machine shop wasn't needed, it was still much more interesting than it had been initially.

(She made a lot of male friends and a surprising number of them were into her, but while it did turn out she was interested in men as well as women, her type in men wasn't as broad as 'can beat me up'. And also shockingly few of them could, in fact, beat her up. The nerds were not pasty but they mostly hadn't been in shape before they took up swordfighting, and fifteen years of significantly more exercise was a substantial advantage.)

She did, though, want to do engineering rather than lab chemistry. And so she talked to some professors and staff and made plans to get a Master's in it.

Berkeley was lovely, and the vicinity of San Francisco was an excellent place to meet women who would beat her up and then go to bed with her, but she didn't want to stay. Five years in the same place already felt like too long.

Her hobby gave her a suggestion again. The manuals they read were almost all coming from copies made at a place called Higgins Armory. Worcester, Massachusetts. Right next door to a pretty decent engineering school, WPI. And actually the state schools there had a lot of solid Chem Eng programs.

So she went down to Stanford and Cal Poly and the couple schools in LA, but she also booked a flight to Boston.

The various UMasses were unsurprising and unremarkable. Amherst was alright for a small towñ but still a small town; Lowell was the most depressing city she'd ever seen.

She had higher hopes for Worcester - second city of the state, right?

Yeah, no. Everyone seemed to hide on campus, because it was such a confusing and exhausted city. Worcester Polytech seemed good, she had good conversations with professors, but the city was... well, she could probably expect a long dry spell. If not outright being closeted.

Higgins was great, though. She got to join in with the originals - the Higgins Sword Guild and Doctor Pugliese himself. And deliver in-person thanks from the club at Cal - they wanted to send a gift but couldn't get a sword in her luggage or think of anything else appropriate.

The last stop before she flew home was UMass Boston. And, because it would be silly to not look, MIT. Did she have a chance getting in? Maybe not. But it was legendary.

And for the first time at any school on either trip, she found another historical swordfighting club. Mostly undergraduates, of course, but still...

And Cambridge was an excellent town. Boston was pretty alright - muted, reserved, though not ashamed - but Cambridge was the best part, a little slice of Berkeley in Boston.

(She even had a one night stand with someone from the local club. Who told her she'd better get in to Tech and come back because Anita was delightful and she was not in the habit of letting delightful things slip between her fingers. It was very sweet, though when Anita had no longer recently been beaten up it was more possessive than she liked.)

"Professor," she said to her advisor halfway through her junior year, "I want to get into a strong Chem Eng Master's program. Somewhere it's not an afterthought. My heart's not set on MIT but it would be nice to have a respectable chance. What should I do?"

"Hmm, your course selection is solid," he said slowly, "But having a publication that caters to common engineering tasks would help. Usually that's applying well-understood techniques to a new problem."

"Huh," she said, and was quiet for a good ten seconds. "Would some comparative metallurgy work? Take some metal samples with similar structural properties but different methods of manufacture and apply the usual tools of analysis to search for differences?"

"...Yes," he said, surprised, "That would be pretty much ideal. You have something in mind?"

"The swordfighting club has two different methods of making swords. In the machine shop, or traditionally. They seem mostly interchangeable, but only mostly. Make a few more and do some destructive testing and we might learn something new, too."

"That... does seem like a good choice. See if you can find anyone who has direct use for the data and ask them for specifications on what they'd find most useful; that should also appeal to engineering programs."

"I can think of some historians - one I just met during my school visits in Massachusetts is something of an authority."

"Then I think this will go very well for you."

It did.

Enough for MIT to approve.

And so a little shy of two years later she was packing her life up, giving her furniture to her now-ex-girlfriend (long distance is just asking for Jodies to show up somehow), and moving to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Bossy Hookup didn't have space in her house (maybe for the best), nor did anyone she talked to from her new department or the HEMA club. They did point her toward a group house that was often good for people who were "extroverted, self-sufficient, and fine with a little collectivism", and so she moved into a sprawling former fraternity with forty years of accumulated idiosyncrasies (one of the earliest of which was the 'allowing women' and therefore, after longer than you would have expected, the 'former').

So she settled into a new routine - less dojo, more schoolwork, though she still kept time for swords and unarmed fighting two nights a week each. (She tried several; MMA seemed like an interesting idea but the school for it didn't impress her in practice.)

A couple weeks after the undergrads arrive, she swings by a club fair to do some basic sword instruction. And check out the fencers, the boffers, hear a little about what 'hacks' are new...

And, unexpectedly, about the pistol target shooting squad. Who apparently are often the best in the country.

"You ever give lessons? I know my way around a range but I've never put much focus into it."

"Oh, yeah, our first meeting after the fair is always focused on new people," he says, looking at her posture and how much she's moving. She's standing very deliberately. "I'm going to guess you'd be pretty good at it. Martial arts background?"

"Tons. Mostly historical swordfighting, recently. Why?"

"The trick to target shooting well is moving precisely, keeping yourself very still, and having precise awareness and control of your breathing. At a glance, you have the first two pretty well, which usually comes from martial arts, or sometimes seriously competitive golf."

"Checks out, I spent as much time in the dojo as the classroom at Cal. Well, if you include our HEMA studio as a dojo, I discovered them partway through."

"That's the swordfighting? I keep meaning to try it, but I never have time. When does it meet, here? We're in the basement of West 31, open practice is Tuesday nights and the other evenings are team practice."

"Monday, Wednesday, and Friday six to ten, Zesiger building... I think that's West 35? I'm still not totally oriented."

"Sounds right. Give it a month. And then start learning the underground routes, they kill the Californians. See you Tuesday?"

"If not Monday!"

She did not see him Monday, but she got in some excellent fights. And then, on Tuesday night, she walked into the basement of DuPont and found someone from the pistol team manning the door - normally there were dues to use the range but they were covering them for tonight.

Looking around, it was obvious who was on the team and who was new - especially since most of the newbies weren't too familiar with shooting ranges. Ten team, eight new - three women total including Anita.

While they waited for anyone else to show up, some of the team were using the side of the range further from the entrance - there was a rail and plexiglass separating the bench the newbies sat on from the range lanes themselves but they were taking no chances.

The other two women seem to be trading off, gesturing in ways that are recognizable as being critiques of each other's form. A short Chinese woman and a slightly-taller blonde, both thin.

Looking at their targets, they seem very good.

There's a safety lecture, which Anita and one of the guys demonstrate they already know but still sit through calmly because you don't mess around with this.

And then:

"Right, we're going to give you a chance to try this out. First you'll pick up the dummy gun in your lane and we'll tweak your form, then after you try that a bit we'll leave the range, you take a real gun, and you take your shots. Two at a time, opposite ends of the range, staggered so one is getting ready while the other is shooting. Anita and James will be first, since they've handled pistols before. When everyone's done the team will take their turns so we can show off, then we'll do another round."

She's out of practice, which bugs her - she hates being out of practice at anything physical. But she steps up into the lane, picks up the blank with muzzle discipline, handling it carefully in case her safety instincts are lax. Stands, sights along the barrel, takes aim...

"Solid stance," comes the voice from behind her, "But you want to be more open..." a hand prods her hip forward. "It's best to have knees locked, but there's a trick to doing that right, for now you'll do better holding them in your half-crouch. Arms, though..." This time she gripped the arm and pushed around the elbow. "More like this. Stability, not distance. Can you hold that?"

"Yes, ma'am," she replies cheekily.

"Don't give me that, this isn't the army. Hold this stance long enough to get a feel for it, then back up and shake out your muscles and get back into it, see how close you get."

"Hmm." She twitches a little, methodically on each limb, then goes back to the proper stance.

Then, as directed, she backs up, sets down the 'gun', and does a round of stretches.

She looks over at the other side, where it looks like James is getting less tutoring than her. Huh.

She steps back up to the mark and goes back into the stance.

"How's this?"

"Pretty good. Your arms are too extended again, but better... Otherwise, not perfect but close enough for a first try. I think you're good to take your actual shots."

"Arms should be..." she shifts slightly "...like this?"

"Yes, excellent. Okay, looks like James is about to shoot, step out of the lane."

She does, setting the blank down on the shooting bench.

James does alright; a tight cluster, slightly off-center.

"My turn?"

"Let me do the swap." She steps into the lane with an unloaded gun, cylinder open, and sets it down on the bench next to the blank, picking the blank up just afterward.

"Alright, go ahead."

She takes the pistol, aims it downrange, closes the chamber. Takes the stance again.

Shoots.

It's... pretty good. Wider spread than James managed but centered on the bullseye.

She puts down the gun, then walks back out of the lane.

"How did you say it's been since you practiced? That would be fantastic for a beginner."

"Five years, give or take? I never found a good range around Cal Berkeley, so the last time was in my half-year in a police academy."

"Do you want to join? We need a third for the women's team and I bet you can get up to competition quality fast."

"Oh, is that why I got special attention? I was hoping it was just because I'm cute."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that you're cute."

"Clearly you need to gather more intelligence to make a decision. You should come observe me in my natural environment, swordfighting."

"That doesn't sound like it makes you look cute."

"Well, maybe you instead gave me special attention because I'm hot."

"I cannot confirm nor deny you're hot, either."

"Oh no, I have been classified. I will never know why I got special training at the pistol club."

"You'll have to wait until you're seventy and the public has forgotten why it cared. A tragedy."

"Oh, the public cares, does she?"

"I'm not the public, I don't know. You'd have to ask Daipan. Or Tiffany."

"What? Come over here and help me teach the newbies."

"I see the public has other priorities."

She turns to Tiffany. "You're just doing safety training now, right? Want my help?"

"Alright, time to show off, teams. Let's start with Eistir, Tiffany, and Michael. New guys, pick a lane and stand behind. Behind the ones next to it if you want the best view of their technique. Watch their breathing, especially, that's a key trick."

The whole set of targets get slid further back, and they line up in the lanes.

Anita, obviously, watches Eistir.

She stands stiff, all the slack draining from her stances as she narrows her gaze to a point, eyes and ears covered with safety gear. She picks up the weapon, moving it smoothly in front of her, closing the chamber and readying it to fire.

She takes a series of deep breaths, the gun held out in position.

And then slightly faster breaths, and just after the exhale of each, a shot - one two three four five - and it's done.

Even at nearly twice the range the scatter is tiny and there's no visible direction of bias.

"Daaaamn...", Anita says, briefly hoping Eistir could hear and then remembering the earmuffs.

She lets her breath come in again, and sets down the gun before reeling in the target.

The other two on the team both do almost as well, but it looks like this was a good night for Eistir - they measure it and say it nearly matched her personal best.

"Well," she says to the newbies, "Clearly we need some of you to stick around, because one of you's my lucky charm."

"You probably say that to all the girls. Come on, next set of the team line up, same deal."

They do more rounds of shooting for the newcomers, with different people giving advice.

(Tiffany advises Anita, with similar physical motions and contact that feels completely different and doesn't feel like there's even the ghost of attraction involved.)

And then Daipan is getting their Athena accounts to contact them and giving out the team email and telling them what to do if they're interested in trying out, or if they aren't but are interested (every Tuesday), and apologetically noting that there will be a fee for future practices, for the costs of running the range.

"Think you'll try out? You really do seem talented."

"Much as I'd love to be your lucky charm... I don't think so. I enjoy it, I'd enjoy getting good at it, but... Eh. I don't have the words for why."

"Feels bad?"

"No, just... something's missing. I don't feel like I'm actually - exercising? No. Fighting? No, still wrong, it's all a little fake even in my favorites. But I can feel it."

"Bet you could see what I mean if you came and watched tomorrow. And I could give you lessons."

"You just want another chance to take a pass at me."

"Nah, I can do that right here. Make a bet - kiss me, whoever comes up for air first has to go to the other's favorite weapons club tomorrow night."

"You," Eistir says, "Are dangerous. But no bet."

"Well, then you'll just have to catch me somewhere else. Master's but you can find me near course 10 usually. Or building 35 tomorrow night." She winks, and turns to leave.

"...Maybe I will," she says, but doesn't go to follow her.

Anita doesn't see Eistir at HEMA practice, and gets on with drills and fighting, slightly disappointed.

She's good. Improvises a lot more than most people - she always claims it's because she's smaller and needs the edge - but it works for her. Frequently after a bout she and her opponent will go back and step through some of her variations to see whether they're worth trying to make repeatable, but they usually aren't - spur of the moment reads that have counters if things are slightly different.

It's been a couple hours since the swordfighting started. Notably, long enough for the pistol practice to be over for the night.

Guess who's snuck into the folded-up bleachers while Anita was busy doing one of those comparisons?

She has stopped checking, not having noted the time their practices are supposed to take normally.

It's a few minutes before she goes again, in which she is resting, conveniently not somewhere that either made her look toward Eistir as she sat down or somewhere she'd be in Anita's view.

Then she's back on the floor with another opponent - this one's a tall guy, thin but fairly well-muscled. Anita starts out on the offensive, but starts giving ground quickly, but... acrobatically. She's making up the ground by turning around him, controlling the plane of the fight. She's not obviously winning but she isn't obviously losing either.

Oh, she does see what she meant.

He starts slowing down, and she gets inside his guard and lands the first solid hit of the bout. They call it, and they both remove their helmets and grin at each other.

"Well fought, you kept that up well past when I thought you'd be fading"

"Well, I could tell I had the pressure on. I wasn't going to let a little exhaustion keep me from getting a chance to beat you for once!"

"Next time for sure!"

They both go sit down.

Eistir has snuck around and sneaks up from behind her. (She's unarmed.)

"You dance."

"I what?"

"Eistir! ...You think that's what I was missing?"

"I haven't seen you fighting in any other style, but I'd bet on it."

"I sure couldn't dance with a gun. Not unless someone invents the Matrix."

"I'd like to see that. But I think we'd have bigger problems."

"Like seeing me dance, do you?"

"Oh no, I am caught. Yes, it's gorgeous. No insult to anyone else here, they all look good, but..."

"None taken," says the nearest guy resting, "It's been a month and she's had... three guys from the club strike out so far?"

"Four, Ben asked during your last bout on Friday. It would help you boys' odds if more of you could beat me up consistently."

"Oh, is that the entry requirement? Sounds like I'd have to pick my fights carefully..."