Weapons

The mysterious skin of the weapon was new to her. She faced it with a set face, the blue sky radiating. This fabric, maybe nylon, was pressed between her forefingers, simple patterns slept against the edge of her thigh. The trigger felt strong, as expected almost. There was something elegant and missing in the trigger space. The most she could conjure up was a fable about wolves, but that seemed to rise from some blue fold deep in a vein beside her heart. She raised it to her eye, conjuring a point at the brink of a landscape. The weapon shrugged off all feeling. This was its secret: it was never new, and always ready.