Xhosa grunted, "'Not the most normal looking bunch.' We're more normal than some of the things I've seen 'round this place." She shifted the heavy hip holster aside and pushed a hand into the pocket of her pants, fishing out an empty mag to continue the meticulous cleaning and reloading of her many weapons. "Why are you always cleaning those things? I haven't seen you actually fire even one of them since we've been here." Goran asked, currently hanging upside down from a support beam in the ceiling, reading. "A clean gun is a properly functioning gun. The Council must've played with them before they boxed 'em up, half of them are filled with carbon dust. Don't need a misfire up here." Her largest lay completely disassembled in front of her, down to the tiniest part. In less than a minute it was back together, loaded and ready.

A pair of bright orange eyes peered over - or in this case, under - the edge of the book, one eyebrow raised. "You know you can't lug every single one of those with you around the station, right?" "Why not? No one's stopped me lately." Xhosa replied, now putting together her two smallest. The parts were much smaller and fiddly than the larger rifle now leaning against the table, so she donned a set of glasses that magnified her eyes comically as she assembled them. "Don't you think it's a little threatening to the citizens to see you all decked out for battle?"