I dislike shooting people. I find the blade a much more personal touch. A knife is simple; it is sharp. You stick the pointy end into soft flesh and you watch as it tears asunder. There is beauty in that simplicity.
But there comes a time where a gun is required in order to get the job done. When the blade simply will not suffice. We find ourselves in one of those moments as we hunt for that one thing that eludes us all.
Freedom.
We stand before the Death Chamber, the warden of the gates the only thing that stands between us and that freedom. Our little uprising stands before Max Meadows as a gun pointed unknowingly at his temple. Each of us, a working piece of that weapon. But not all parts of a gun are created equal.
Jasper Redgrave is the grip of the gun. Often shaped and coloured to be aesthetically pleasing, the grip can be a work of art on the surface, much like the Devil of Arcadia himself. But when the moment comes, the grip must be exactly as you are. Easily handled. You’ve proven yourself to be just that, manipulated all too easily into stitching a dying man back together only to be Max Meadow’s punching bag.
Aster Grey, the barrel. He who has steered our friend Tuga towards this path. Your paradoxical plan has been the rifling that has stabilized the Demon, calmed him into the workable piece of the firearm reluctantly wedged into the fray. But you merely steer the action.
CJ Thorpe is our sights. He who has cast the vision, he who sees down the scope and tracked the target of our desire. Without the sights, we fire blindly from the hip and our chance of hitting the target accurately becomes like spitting into the wind.
Nox, the gas. The combustion that allows the weapon to function. For the pan to come together, the gas is needed. His is the reaction that allows the spark to catch. The trigger that must hit true when the moment is exactly right.
And Amataga, the firepower. All guns need the explosion of gunpowder within them. You are that explosive demon, ready to erupt with any amount of prodding. And I have prodded, repeatedly. We need that firepower, but if that is all we have… We’re merely shooting blanks.
Because as much as the gun must work together, it is not the gun that kills people is it? It is the bullet.
I am that bullet.
The one sent forth from our weapon of an Uprising to strike true. You ignite me when the gunpowder is sparked by the combustion of the trigger. You aim me down sights and send me rifling through the barrel towards a freedom that I bring you.
I am that which slays the warden. A gun with no bullets is useless.
Come Death Chamber, our gun fires. But it will be the bullet that takes down Meadows. It will be me that paves the path back to Arcadia. You need me, all of you.
So let’s make a scene.