-Mitch Johnson
There were so many toys to play with. But he really wanted to make a new one. He started with a large block of steel. Slipping it into the machine, he drew up a model on one of the high-tech computers on the table. He didn't know how he knew all the parts and pieces, but he did. For about an hour he walked around, starting other machines on other projects, then finally it was all done.
It was sleek, gleaming black in the white light. About two and a half feet long, this was the ticket, right here. It fired concussive blasts of compressed air taken from the environment to high ranges. A pneumatic rifle. He was quite happy. There was a matching set of armor he'd machined out, thin but strong. He fitted himself with the arm guards, shinguards, chest plate, faulds for his thighs, and face mask. There was one last thing to do.
He sat down at a computer. There was a sophisticated algorithm he could run which might just do the trick. He slowly typed. 4…1…1…4…9…1…1…5. The screen flashed with possible combinations, and he found what he was looking for, highlighted in yellow. DAMIAN, MOST PROBABLE MEANING. So that was his name. He left the computer running, and walked out.
The whole world had changed. Damian was standing in front of a huge door. The door was locked, and there were three holes of graduating size next to the handle. Curious. He walked left, down the hallway. He was listening. Plip. Whirrrrr. Bonk. So many sounds, sounds he'd never heard. But there! A soft creak was coming closer. He stepped around the corner, aimed, and almost dropped his gun. It was HUGE.
The sphere must have been the size of a small car. It whirled around and shot at him. He ducked, feeling the heat passing right over his head. This thing wasn't messing around. Rolling out of the crouch he aimed and shot, hitting its side. The blast spun it a little, but it readjusted and fired again, barely missing Damian as he dove again. He rose, blasting shot after shot into the space in the center. It creaked and spasmed, blasting shots left and right, and then slowly shut down. Damian approached the smoking mass cautiously, gun still shouldered. "This is not good," he said to nobody in particular.
Hunter watched intently, replaying the scene over and over again. The weren't any visible projectiles coming from the gun, but he could just make out a disturbance in the air. Whistling softly to himself, he smiled. "You sly dog, you made yourself a pneumatic gun." He called over an assistant. "I think we may have a real winner here," he said. The assistant merely nodded, watching the footage.
well Imma gonna end here, but there'll be more tomorrow. Here's what I had in mind when I was talking about a pneumatic gun:
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