**The Sound of Metal and Valor**

Prompt: Gunsmith cats fanfiction while working on a rifle for a customer in the shop rally starts singing to herself the song sabaton’s winged hussars

The sun filtered through the dusty windows of Rally's storefront, casting flickering patterns over the shelves laden with parts and firearms. Among them, she expertly arranged, polished, and readied the tools that mirrored her fervor. As the go-to gunsmith in Chicago’s underground, she relished the work, but she loved the artistry that accompanied it even more. Rally had just received an order for a precision rifle—a task that both thrilled and challenged her. Clients came to her not only to acquire weapons but to get a piece of craftsmanship that breathed with history and purpose. This order, in particular, was special. Rally felt a thrill at the thought of crafting something that could withstand the test of both time and tumult. She donned her trusty blue apron, the fabric stained with memories of past projects, and turned to the workbench. The parts lay scattered; a pristine barrel, a sturdy stock, and several sections of metal that needed careful welding and shaping. Rally inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent of oil and sweat ground her into focus. As she began sorting the pieces, her mind wandered to the rhythms of life outside the shop—the echoes of the bustling city, the distant wail of sirens, and the muffled chatter of her compatriots in the arms trade. Satisfying clanks and the cold touch of steel stirred something deep within; inspired, she began humming under her breath. Slowly, the strains of a familiar song rose to her lips—a piece by Sabaton called “Winged Hussars.” A smile crept across her face as she remembered the lyrics, a tale of bravery and gallantry. “Against the odds, they ride, unseen,” she murmured, the words weaving magic around her. Hands deftly working, Rally found herself lost in the rhythm of the melody, the story igniting her imagination as she thought of the hussars charging in valiant arcs against the night, just as she would wield her craftsmanship against the bleakness of life on the fringes. Rally swayed briefly, letting the music push her hands into action. The sound of a hammer against metal reverberated through the shop. She worked with the fervor of a hussar charging into battle. Slicing, curving, shaping—she was resurrecting the rough sketches in her mind into tangible creation. In those moments, her workshop transformed from a mere shop into an armory of valor. As she continued to shape the rifle's parts, images swirled in her mind—fur-clad soldiers, courage behind each plume, their wings extending toward the horizon. Memory flickered to her own experiences, encounters that seemed equally brave and reckless. Working in the underbelly of Chicago, where tensions ran high and allegiances shifted like the wind, she couldn’t help but draw parallels between herself and those historical warriors. “Win the day, their names will live! The tales of battles where they were brave!” she sang as she melted a few metal parts together. Each sound, each note resonated with the energy pouring into her work. It made mundane tasks feel monumental, each rifle representing a story waiting to be told. As she moved through various stages of the build, Rally smirked, picturing her customer's face when he would take his first shot. The anticipation crackled in the air, thick with purpose. After all, every gun she crafted was meant for someone’s hands, each a promise to deliver power and respect. Lost in song, she moved to a piece she had recently completed, her pride reflected in the gleaming metal. “To be a winged hussar, you must dare to fly, to chase the impossible, and never ask why.” As she twirled, dancing on the tips of her feet, she bumped hard against the workbench and almost toppled a row of bolts. “Whoops!” she laughed, shaking her head like a dervish. The song had transformed her surroundings; even the grime seemed to twinkle with purpose, and the routine tasks now sparkled with her creative energy. Before long, an hour slipped away, lost in her rhythm and labor. But just as she hit a pinnacle moment with the barrel alignment, the bell above the door chimed cheerfully. Rally turned around, startled back into reality. From the shadows emerged her partner in arms, Cat. A whirlwind of charisma and charm, Cat was the voice of reason to Rally’s exuberance, their contrast a perfect balance to the chaos of their lives. “Don’t mind me, Rally,” Cat called, wiping at a smudge on her leather jacket. “I just came to see what kind of magic you’ve conjured up today.” Rally grinned, catching the opportunity for a little banter. “I was just summoning the hussars with some heartfelt craftsmanship. Want to try your hand at a heroic ballad?” “Maybe after I take a look at that beauty.” Cat gestured toward the rifle. “What are you working on?” “A custom rifle for the discerning clientele,” Rally replied, puffing out her chest. “Much like the legendary warriors of history, I imbue my work with majesty and might!” Cat raised an eyebrow but couldn’t hide her smile. She leaned over the bench and scrutinized the work. “If it can keep up with the drama around here, I’d say you’ve succeeded. But you might want to tune the trigger pull a bit to give it that hussar sharpness!” Rally laughed. “As if anything can be sharper than razor-sharp wits, my friend!” “Touché.” Cat’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “And maybe you can help me channel my inner hussar too?” “Always,” Rally replied, determination returning to her voice as her hands resumed their work on the rifle. They were a team forged from their own battles—chasing dreams, making a legacy out of metal and songs, fighting against the currents of life, one careful note and crafted piece at a time. As the melody still echoed in her mind, Rally couldn’t help but think that they were, indeed, the modern hussars, riding into the storm of chaos armed with creativity, perseverance, and an unyielding bond—forever ready to sing their song against the odds.