(( October 23, 1995 ))
The Ares Predator. The finest of its type. Considered by most to be the best handgun in production. More powerful than most other types, and equally as sleek.
This particular model was special. It glistened by the street lights, making its lines seem perfect in every manner. Cold, accurate and deadly. Its handle was re-designed from the original to fit its owner perfectly. It also contained the necessary electronic pads to interface with the users' Smartgun? Link, allowing an appropriately-equipped user to target anything in his field of vision with a set of crosshairs, which would match up perfectly with the gun's aim.
It was much more expensive to have the device embedded into it, but its owner coughed up the extra nuyen. He had trained for over a decade on that weapon, and he had to have the best of its kind. And when Devon Goral placed that gun in his large hand, he was deadly. Even without the pin-point accuracy of the Smartgun Link embedded in his head, he could still pick off moving targets at long range with a few inches' accuracy.
Devon took a few minutes to study the weapon. Often, before going to bed, the Protector would examine it. Usually, he would remove the clip, check the ammunition inside, then slap the clip back in and shove it under his pillow. He had never used it inside his apartment, though his dreams often put him in that situation.
But this eve, he put the pistol down on the lamp table at the head of the couch on which he slept. With a long, deliberate breath he stood, and walked to the other side of the living room. He knocked over disorderly piles of papers and things as he walked, but didn't flinch as they came crashing down to the floor. His two cats scattered quickly, disappearing into the kitchen. They knew to get out of the way when their master started crashing about.
Devon kneeled down before a small cabinet and tugged on the left door. It stuck fast, not having been opened in months. Finally, with a stronger yank, it flew open and off, the hinge falling to the floor in pieces. The protector paused a moment, then let the door fall to the side unattended.
He reached into the dusty cabinet, and felt around a moment. When his hand finally closed over a small cardboard box, he slowly withdrew it. He looked at it a moment. It was only a couple inches wide, and three or four inches long. The protector pushed on one edge, sliding out the contents.
Inside the box were thirty silver cylinders stuck in a piece of styrofoam. The looked dusty, un-kept. Devon withdrew one cylinder, closed the box, and set it back on the shelf. He stood, and returned to the couch. He grabbed a rag and dusted off the cylinder, until it reflected the light like a mirror.
Devon looked at it a moment. On the outside, it looked like any other bullet. And Devon had many bullets. But this one held a secret inside its tip: nothing. The tip was hollow. It was designed to flatten on impact, causing the flat, sharply-cut tip to dig through its target, causing much more damage to its target. These bullets were brutal, and illegal in most places. Depending on where fired, it was guaranteed to destroy that part of the body. Whether it be the leg, the chest, or the soggy brain.
Devon stood and walked across the room to his mantle. It contained various trinkets from his life. A few dusty plastic model ships that he had built. A cat made of sea shells a wicker owl and a cloth salamander. A tiny silver pin of a partial mask. A dragon's eye, given to him when he was a teenager. An Alaskan knife of some type. A picture of him with his grandparents, taken on the day of his graduation from college. And finally, a picture of his parents, taken before he was born.
Devon set the bullet on the mantle, just in front of the picture of his parents. It seemed to fit well. The death of his parents was always a great mystery to him. But it didn't matter to him anymore that he'd never know the solution. He had investigated all his life and learned nothing. All he knew was that somewhere inside the great Aztechnology pyramid sat a dragon who knew the answer. But try as he might, he never made it. He really didn't care anymore. It all seemed so dreary, so colorless. Pain had killed the nervous system that was his feelings. Pain had set the final brick in the wall around his heart only days before. Everyone that ever meant anything to him was either dead or missing. And so it simply didn't matter anymore.
He turned quickly, and walked back towards his couch. As he did, he glanced at the calendar. October 23. It wouldn't be much longer now. Just a little over two months. While he doubted that he could last that long, he knew he would.
He sat heavily on the couch, and leaned back. As his eyes fluttered closed, his mind looked back on the events of a year ago. Back when he was not quite so depressed, but still much more stable. Back when he lived in London, and was just about to take a quick business trip to a land known as RhyDin?
The Ares Predator. The finest of its type. Considered by most to be the best handgun in production. More powerful than most other types, and equally as sleek.
This particular model was special. It glistened by the street lights, making its lines seem perfect in every manner. Cold, accurate and deadly. Its handle was re-designed from the original to fit its owner perfectly. It also contained the necessary electronic pads to interface with the users' Smartgun? Link, allowing an appropriately-equipped user to target anything in his field of vision with a set of crosshairs, which would match up perfectly with the gun's aim.
It was much more expensive to have the device embedded into it, but its owner coughed up the extra nuyen. He had trained for over a decade on that weapon, and he had to have the best of its kind. And when Devon Goral placed that gun in his large hand, he was deadly. Even without the pin-point accuracy of the Smartgun Link embedded in his head, he could still pick off moving targets at long range with a few inches' accuracy.
Devon took a few minutes to study the weapon. Often, before going to bed, the Protector would examine it. Usually, he would remove the clip, check the ammunition inside, then slap the clip back in and shove it under his pillow. He had never used it inside his apartment, though his dreams often put him in that situation.
But this eve, he put the pistol down on the lamp table at the head of the couch on which he slept. With a long, deliberate breath he stood, and walked to the other side of the living room. He knocked over disorderly piles of papers and things as he walked, but didn't flinch as they came crashing down to the floor. His two cats scattered quickly, disappearing into the kitchen. They knew to get out of the way when their master started crashing about.
Devon kneeled down before a small cabinet and tugged on the left door. It stuck fast, not having been opened in months. Finally, with a stronger yank, it flew open and off, the hinge falling to the floor in pieces. The protector paused a moment, then let the door fall to the side unattended.
He reached into the dusty cabinet, and felt around a moment. When his hand finally closed over a small cardboard box, he slowly withdrew it. He looked at it a moment. It was only a couple inches wide, and three or four inches long. The protector pushed on one edge, sliding out the contents.
Inside the box were thirty silver cylinders stuck in a piece of styrofoam. The looked dusty, un-kept. Devon withdrew one cylinder, closed the box, and set it back on the shelf. He stood, and returned to the couch. He grabbed a rag and dusted off the cylinder, until it reflected the light like a mirror.
Devon looked at it a moment. On the outside, it looked like any other bullet. And Devon had many bullets. But this one held a secret inside its tip: nothing. The tip was hollow. It was designed to flatten on impact, causing the flat, sharply-cut tip to dig through its target, causing much more damage to its target. These bullets were brutal, and illegal in most places. Depending on where fired, it was guaranteed to destroy that part of the body. Whether it be the leg, the chest, or the soggy brain.
Devon stood and walked across the room to his mantle. It contained various trinkets from his life. A few dusty plastic model ships that he had built. A cat made of sea shells a wicker owl and a cloth salamander. A tiny silver pin of a partial mask. A dragon's eye, given to him when he was a teenager. An Alaskan knife of some type. A picture of him with his grandparents, taken on the day of his graduation from college. And finally, a picture of his parents, taken before he was born.
Devon set the bullet on the mantle, just in front of the picture of his parents. It seemed to fit well. The death of his parents was always a great mystery to him. But it didn't matter to him anymore that he'd never know the solution. He had investigated all his life and learned nothing. All he knew was that somewhere inside the great Aztechnology pyramid sat a dragon who knew the answer. But try as he might, he never made it. He really didn't care anymore. It all seemed so dreary, so colorless. Pain had killed the nervous system that was his feelings. Pain had set the final brick in the wall around his heart only days before. Everyone that ever meant anything to him was either dead or missing. And so it simply didn't matter anymore.
He turned quickly, and walked back towards his couch. As he did, he glanced at the calendar. October 23. It wouldn't be much longer now. Just a little over two months. While he doubted that he could last that long, he knew he would.
He sat heavily on the couch, and leaned back. As his eyes fluttered closed, his mind looked back on the events of a year ago. Back when he was not quite so depressed, but still much more stable. Back when he lived in London, and was just about to take a quick business trip to a land known as RhyDin?