“Remember that thing I just told you about ‘hell no’?” Jones sighs again, giving up on his gear tinkering and packing them up in a Ziploc bag as he returns his attentions to Cecile, lowering his voice like he’s telling her a secret. “Little thing to keep in mind for airsoft: You are not Rambo, you are not Schwarzenegger, you are not any sort of movie star, it’s not Call of Duty, it’s not Battlefield, and it sure as hell ain’t Vietnam. It’s grown men, acting like boys, thinking they’re ‘real men’, shooting at each other with toy guns. Airsoft is a lot more fun once you realize that.”
“It’s nice to know you’ve got it all figured out; thank you,” she replies, surreptitiously counting how many gears are in the little baggie. Truthfully she went in expecting airsoft club to be like that: college boys acting all macho and living out their little action fantasies for reals, yo. She didn’t, however, expect one of the college boys to flat-out tell her that.
There are nine gears in the little baggie.
Jones drops the bag and his various tools into a backpack and zips it closed. “Ehh, it’s all about how you look at it. If you go in expecting it to be like a video game, it won’t be. Set the bar low, so you’ll still have room to be impressed. I mean, if you are impressed; like, it’s not for everyone, after they play a few matches. There’s probably a reason we don’t get girls here. But hey, I mean, we’re glad you came!”
“You could cover the guns in nail polish and body spray and mount a cell phone to them,” Cecile suggests, not sure herself if she’s being serious or not.
The man just stares at her, not sure if he’s supposed to be offended or not, as he is not, in fact, a girl. “Are you even… allowed, to say that?”
She shrugs. “I think it’s on par with an African-American using the N-word. Maybe you could ask, umm, whoever he is, that guy, over there pwning the noobs.”