( No holster is forthcoming; surprising absolutely no one, this was not her gun. It's one she scavenged from the ground during the battle, picked up in the heat of the moment out of desperation, because her claws were doing absolutely nothing to the empty husk of dense muscle and feral rage unleashed upon them. He's lucky it even comes with bullets, considering she haphazardly tossed one out to make room for the adamantium round.
A girl in New York who wanted to do the right thing. She's skeptical that this could possibly be a happy story — nobody who wants to do the right thing has a happy ending, but she settles in across the table from him anyway, flickering her eyes between him and the gun as if she expects him to try and swipe it off the table. Silly, because she'd planned on giving it to him for free — but now that she's been promised a story, she's invested.
They didn't have those where she comes from. No books, no movies, no bedtime stories, no media. No literature, or poems, or songs. No history, because you don't teach history to weapons you want to control, to oppress. This is why she likes true stories — she likes to learn, she wants to know things that are real.
Unfortunately, everything she's learned this way has been troubling.
Armor and enemies doesn't seem happy, and that wariness only grows — until he says the magic word that is dog, and her eyes light up. She straightens, newly invested in this girl, but most importantly, in this girl and her dog.
This might be a happy story.
But she is not so sure it's true, and so she narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. )
What were their names?
( Could he easily make those things up too? Yes. However. She wants to believe she would be able to tell.
She wouldn't, but she wants to believe it anyway. )
no subject
A girl in New York who wanted to do the right thing. She's skeptical that this could possibly be a happy story — nobody who wants to do the right thing has a happy ending, but she settles in across the table from him anyway, flickering her eyes between him and the gun as if she expects him to try and swipe it off the table. Silly, because she'd planned on giving it to him for free — but now that she's been promised a story, she's invested.
They didn't have those where she comes from. No books, no movies, no bedtime stories, no media. No literature, or poems, or songs. No history, because you don't teach history to weapons you want to control, to oppress. This is why she likes true stories — she likes to learn, she wants to know things that are real.
Unfortunately, everything she's learned this way has been troubling.
Armor and enemies doesn't seem happy, and that wariness only grows — until he says the magic word that is dog, and her eyes light up. She straightens, newly invested in this girl, but most importantly, in this girl and her dog.
This might be a happy story.
But she is not so sure it's true, and so she narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. )
What were their names?
( Could he easily make those things up too? Yes. However. She wants to believe she would be able to tell.
She wouldn't, but she wants to believe it anyway. )