9.30.98
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The gun weighed heavy in her hand, though it was a perfect fit for her small grip. Smooth plastic and metal, a cool kiss of the evening's chill when she picked it up, faint scents of Jack and oil and the nighttime air when she bent her head and sniffed lightly. She knew it was a weird thing to do, and weirder still to pick the smell apart, but it was something she'd always done. Jack's scent was something sweet and clean and almost innocent, rather feminine in some respects... She'd never bothered to ask him what made him smell so good, she didn't know if she could bear to know the mundane truth.

The gun itself was at once ugly and beautiful. It was almost snub-nosed, with a classic pistol profile, its components sleek and stripped down, reducing its bulk. The barrel was a frightening-looking 68 caliber, yawning blackly as she peered into it. Yes, it's _not_ the recommended way of doing things, and she felt a twinge of guilt and fear as she did so, even though she knew it would be impossible to kill herself with it, at this point in time.

Pointing it ceilingward once again, freezing as she catches a soft scuffling sound from somewhere up ahead, she considers one of the few features on the weapon that wasn't black. A tiny little brass sight perched a half-inch back from the end of the barrel, low-profile and actually somewhat useless as there wasn't a corresponding notched sight at the rear of the gun to help one aim more accurately. Not like she -needed- it to put a hole in the ten-spot of a target at a hundred yards, since most of the time she was involved in close-quarters action, but a rear sight might help her compensate for the fact that the gun shot low and had a nasty curve at about 18 yards.

The scuffle sounded again, and closer, too. Ducking behind a handy crate, she fought with the sticky slide, one of the few drawbacks to the handy little thing. Racking it back with a sharp -clack- causes her to bite her lip in an effort to stay as quiet as she can, cursing whoever had forgotten to bring home a new can of SuperSlick 3-40. Or a bottle of Rubbe's gun oil, or powdered graphite, or any of a number of other lubricants. Shaking the thoughts away and smiling a bit in satisfaction as a round -clicked- into the chamber, she stood still again and strained to catch any whispers of sound...

A quick shuffle just to her left and she pops out from behind the big box, drawing a bead on the dun-colored coveralls over the chest of her opponent and firing with a dullish thunk, like someone flicking an empty pop can. The woman throws herself into a roll, bouncing back to her feet in an easy manner, grinning cockily as she surveys her handiwork. The man she's hit was standing there with a surprised expression on his face, his fingers probing gently at the edge of the new stain...

"Gotchya, fair and square, Jack!" She giggled, stepping closer and waggling the gun at him. "You okay?"

Jack grinned and swiped his fingers through the bright pink paint, then raised his hand and threatened her hair with it. "Yeah, 'm fine... Y'little -brat-. C'mere..." He lunged towards her, careful to keep his own gun out of the way, lest he hit her with it.