Post by Gwebster2 on Aug 11, 2015 19:45:24 GMT
One Gun is an isrp. Choose an action and I'll give you a personal thread.
He gripped the Pistol in his hands, closely examined it's edges, it's sharp curves and dangerous levers and notches. A flick of a lever and a brick ejected from it's grip, falling gently into his hands. From the small gaps carefully sliced into it's surface he could see the round dull-gold, red tipped cylinders that rest inside, stacked on-top of eachother. They were silent, but they screamed with power yet unused. Seven little cylinders, one bullet missing, he didn't have a full set.
One of those infernal machines buzzed past his room, a contrasingly blue-glow creeping through the space between the door and his carpeted floor. He ground his teeth together. For so long, he had been hiding in this room, his own room, a personal hell of his own design. He inserted the magazine back into the pistol and locked the hammer and slide back into place. He wouldn't need to fire. Not yet. He thumbed the safety, itching to release the explosive thunder that it held captive.
But his Pistol was not a toy. It was his life. In his mind it was a river. A river without a dam is surely a river wasted. The simple beauty of the Pistol was not what made it his life, it was the energy that it beheld, energy that must be maintained and used carefully...frugally.
Trapped in his abode, he had wondered for so long why the world had ended, why the streets went silent and the sky-scrapers still. Why the cars had stopped, why the city was sleeping. Why he could see the stars at night so clearly. The stars stared down, mocking him with their glimmering, glaring eyes.
Then those contraptions took to the streets. He once had so many questions. What were they? Why were they here? But of course, he realized it didn't matter. Nothing mattered besides the Pistol, the only machine in the world that hadn't betrayed him. The machines that roamed the streets were his enemy, he knew that. And on this cloudy morning he was going to escape his prison and take to the world outside. Just him and the Pistol. Seven little cylinders.
He took a few steps towards the door and gripped it's brass handle that glinted from the gray light behind him. He paused. Turned the handle and peered into the hallway. It had been a long time since he had peered into this green corridor. But he remembered that some stairs were too the left, and they led down to the other rooms. And to the right, another flight of steps that led directly to the lobby. There was an elevator directly in front of him, but it's vertical mouth had opened for the last time. The Pistol was a proud object in his right hand, and he knew that he was ready.
He gripped the Pistol in his hands, closely examined it's edges, it's sharp curves and dangerous levers and notches. A flick of a lever and a brick ejected from it's grip, falling gently into his hands. From the small gaps carefully sliced into it's surface he could see the round dull-gold, red tipped cylinders that rest inside, stacked on-top of eachother. They were silent, but they screamed with power yet unused. Seven little cylinders, one bullet missing, he didn't have a full set.
One of those infernal machines buzzed past his room, a contrasingly blue-glow creeping through the space between the door and his carpeted floor. He ground his teeth together. For so long, he had been hiding in this room, his own room, a personal hell of his own design. He inserted the magazine back into the pistol and locked the hammer and slide back into place. He wouldn't need to fire. Not yet. He thumbed the safety, itching to release the explosive thunder that it held captive.
But his Pistol was not a toy. It was his life. In his mind it was a river. A river without a dam is surely a river wasted. The simple beauty of the Pistol was not what made it his life, it was the energy that it beheld, energy that must be maintained and used carefully...frugally.
Trapped in his abode, he had wondered for so long why the world had ended, why the streets went silent and the sky-scrapers still. Why the cars had stopped, why the city was sleeping. Why he could see the stars at night so clearly. The stars stared down, mocking him with their glimmering, glaring eyes.
Then those contraptions took to the streets. He once had so many questions. What were they? Why were they here? But of course, he realized it didn't matter. Nothing mattered besides the Pistol, the only machine in the world that hadn't betrayed him. The machines that roamed the streets were his enemy, he knew that. And on this cloudy morning he was going to escape his prison and take to the world outside. Just him and the Pistol. Seven little cylinders.
He took a few steps towards the door and gripped it's brass handle that glinted from the gray light behind him. He paused. Turned the handle and peered into the hallway. It had been a long time since he had peered into this green corridor. But he remembered that some stairs were too the left, and they led down to the other rooms. And to the right, another flight of steps that led directly to the lobby. There was an elevator directly in front of him, but it's vertical mouth had opened for the last time. The Pistol was a proud object in his right hand, and he knew that he was ready.