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Hyena Werks, A proud Orario Company.

DanmachiXDnD Nonhuman semi SI

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Chapter Seven:

First Floor: Tools, Gnolls, Comically Large Shotguns.

(Second Floor: Existential Dread, Maniacal Laughter, Terrified Locals.)

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PA-ting!

The other day was… a wake up call, of sorts.

PA-ting!

I had asked around the Loki familia, hunting down more information on that herbalist I had met in town.

Arnica Syllis, or ‘Granny Syllis’ as she’s known to everyone else, is a loving mother of six and a grandmother to fifteen. While these days she sells herbs that she and her family collects for a living, In her heyday, she had been a level three adventurer with the Demeter familia.

PA-ting!

An affectionate poke by someone's kindly old grandmama who was only kidding around had felt like she just broke my leg.

Tink-ting-tink!

I already figured these people were going to be physically stronger than me- faster too… But there was no way for me to know how outclassed I was until that moment.

PSHesstsss-

Yesterday, I had been invited to spectate the Loki familia as they held spars between members. Watching the lower ranks fight was like having front row seats to a whole show of no-holds-barred, cinematic as hell fight scenes straight out of a Hollywood blockbuster.

Scratch that, it was more like fight scenes out of a Bollywood flick. People were doing fucking backflips to jump over attacks, while somehow delivering crushing counterstrikes while they were still in mid-air!

During one matchup, I had watched as two spearmen went back and forth in an epic, blow for blow battle that sent sparks arching feet away from the edge of their blades; While in the sparring ring next to them, an archer did a kickflip off his partner's shield so she could fire an arrow from the hip while still upside down.

Battles out of myth and legend had been raging all across the training yard of Loki’s estate, and they had the balls to look me in the eyes and say it was only some “friendly spars”.

It had been utter madness. But the higher rank matches between the Second Strings and above?

I couldn’t even tell what the hell had happened.

Two Second String combatants would face off against each other… And then just blur into color and indistinct shapes as they moved almost too fast for my eyes to follow. There would be a brief flash of light and the clang of metal on metal, and then one would be on the ground, gasping for breath.

The fights between Executives were even worse. I couldn’t even distinguish between the two combatants as they clashed over and over again. The only thing I could recognize was the ringing reports of their weapons crashing against each other with enough force to generate a small gale right there in the training yard.

And the bitch of it all was? Every single time I glanced over at Loki, she was watching me right back, carefully gauging my reaction to her little army as they showed off with feats of inhuman skill and martial prowess.

Not once did I ever see her looking in another direction or even at her familia as they trained.

I don’t know what she was looking for, but I’m almost certain it wasn’t anything good.

Shaking myself from my memories, I pulled back my tongs from the bucket of rapeseed oil at my side, revealing a slightly steaming rod of blackened metal.

What had once been a flat bar of high carbon steel had been meticulously hammered and rolled over itself until it was forged into a long hollow pole over the course of the last half-hour or so. I gave the piece a few shakes to get the last bits of oil off before setting it back onto my mobile anvil…

…Which was just a pretentious name for a solid brick of steel with a few square holes punched in it. Right now, it was perched precariously on some wooden bench I had commandeered in one of the courtyards surrounding Loki’s castle.

With one paw holding the rod in place with the tongs, my other one went to the small hunk of iron tied to my necklace. I felt a chunk of my mana burn away as I concentrated on forming the Heat Metal spell, and before long, the steel rod began to grow hotter and hotter until it was glowing cherry red.

Taking up my planishing hammer once more, I set to work flattening out the edges of the piece. My blows falling with the force and steady cadence of a mechanical drop hammer as I made my way down the length of steel, humming a song under my breath as I went.

Losing myself to the extremely therapeutic process of hitting things really hard, I let my mind wander back to the past couple of days.

Loki and her familia had majorly stepped up the little information game we had been playing back and forth. While they never quite crossed the line into being pushy, per say, they were definitely persistent.

I had been bombarded with probing and leading questions on a near constant basis, forcing me to remain constantly on guard as I weaved, ducked, and dodged around their unending inquiries with a social grace that I didn’t think was even possible for Max, let alone my socially inept ass.

I was inordinately proud of some of the utter bullshit I was pulling out of thin air. Like when Loki cornered me at breakfast the day after our market trip and just flat out asked me who gave me my falna. I looked her right in her squinty eyes and told her that Moradin the Allhammer is “My patron God”.

Which is even technically true! Max is a nominal devotee to the dwarven God, though he is not exactly the most zealous of followers, to put it lightly.

And with that little half truth, I had the Trickster Goddess completely distracted as she demanded more information on a God she had never heard of, loudly decrying it as impossible even as I told her no detectable lies while regaling the Goddess with stories about a God of crafting and family from a different reality.

‘Baffle them with bullshit' quickly became my go-to strategy when it came to dealing with the nosier of Loki’s crew. I spent a few hours alone describing, and in some cases even sketching out pictures of some of the many races of Exandria to Riveria just to get out of answering her questions on my personal life and what I had been doing up until I arrived at Orario.

I zoned back in just long enough to quench and reheat the metal before getting lost in my thoughts again.

To be honest… I wasn’t exactly sure why I was keeping up this game of verbal cat and mouse. I knew that building this rickety, wavering tower of half-truths and white lies was almost certainly going to end poorly.

But if I had to justify the skullduggery to myself… Then I would say that the lies are a necessary form of self-defense. I knew that one of the only things keeping me free right now was the veil mystery and mystique I had stumbled ass-backwards into building up around myself.

My real strength and skills were still largely unknown to these people… But the second that paper thin defense was torn away the Gods of this city would try to press gang me into their service.

And speaking of self-defense...

After a final quench, I held the barrel up to my eye and looked down its length to ensure that it hadn't warped or bent as it cooled. Satisfied that it was still perfectly straight, I took my ryndon-haired brush and started to forcefully buff the outside of the tube.

A part of me hated-

No, not a part...

I despised this.

I didn’t want to be the one who introduced firearms to this world.

I didn’t want to be the one who potentially sends this world down the well-worn path my own had stumbled down.

I didn’t want to be the father of modern combat, with its world encompassing wars fought all along the entire borders of nations rather than pitched battles between champions that this world is familiar with.

Wars where death is delivered by disposable soldiers using cheap guns to fire cheaper bullets… Where victory was only measured by enemies killed and losses sustained.

~”Let it never be said-”~

But I loathed the idea of being a slave more.

~”That we died like dogs!-”~

That day at Loki’s training yard told me, in no uncertain terms, that I simply wasn’t strong enough to stop one of Orario’s familias from doing whatever they wanted to me if they so wished.

I could train from dawn to dusk; I could practice nothing but the art of combat until I dropped, and then practice some more. I could do nothing for the rest of my life but hone Max’s body to a razor’s edge.

And it wouldn’t even be remotely enough.

Even with my new physique and its prodigious strength, I will never be able to match the sheer might granted by a God given falna.

From the second a God etches the small slice of their divinity onto someone's soul, it enhances every single physical attribute of the recipient. Speed, strength, and dexterity- Even their appearance is pushed beyond the limits of mankind.

And with every descent into the Dungeon, with every monster slain and their essence stolen, they grew even stronger. Every point on their falna another step on their path to becoming a demigod.

Another step towards True Divinity.

And while we mere mortals will never be able to Physically challenge a demigod, well, as they say…

God may have created man-

But it was Colt that made 'em equal.

So I stoked my anger, marshaled all of Max’s strength and skill, and allowed my fear to smother my sense of morality as I continued my work.

I justified my actions with the knowledge that they would have inevitably stumbled across the idea of firearms on their own as I took a hand drill and smoothed out the bore of my gun.

I disregarded the social and political upheaval I knew I might unleash if this device spreads as I set the newly polished barrel down next to its previously completed sibling and took up my chisel and started forging out the triggers and springs.

I ignored Gareth, my warden for the day, and his occasional questions on what I was making as I slid a carpenter’s plane down a length of solid maple, slowly shaving it down into shape.

The dwarf remained oblivious to the horrors I was crafting before his very eyes as I carefully installed the trigger assembly into the forged action with a surgeon's steady hand.

Hell, the world would probably remain ignorant to what I had wrought this day for decades, if not centuries to come.

In fact, they may even praise me. A whole new kind of weapon to wield against the Dungeon. A new tool for those unblessed by the Gods to defend themselves with against the roaming monsters that still lurked on the surface.

What I do today may very well cement my place in this world's history for all time.

…But, long after I’m dead and buried.

When the Dungeon breathed its last.

When the people of this world no longer fear what lurks in the dark beyond their cities and towns.

When these people realize that the unblessed now possess the power to challenge those demigods uplifted by the Gods themselves…

Will they turn my creations against one another?

I shook myself free of the morbid thoughts that have haunted my waking moments since I realized what I would need to do in order to protect myself in this world.

There's no guarantee that these people will make the same mistakes that my own did. Not when they have actual immortal Gods by their side to guide their hands and shape their society. I seriously doubt that the few Deities I’ve met so far would willingly allow their “children” to descend down the dark path I’ve envisioned.

And just because guns themselves are simple enough to recreate, doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy for some wannabe warlord to steal the idea.

Because If there is one thing I can at least try to black box, it will be of course, the most important component of any firearm.

The propellant.

You can over or under engineer a gun all you want; From a simple tube with one end blocked to some kraut watchmaker’s space magic made manifest.

But without the right type of ‘bang’? Then all you’ve made is at best, a very ineffective club.

And at worst? A needlessly complicated bomb.

The technological height of Exandria’s (and by extension Max’s) ability to make a piece of metal fly out a barrel really fast, begins and ends with black powder. As far as Max knows (or cares), the substance was only created some fifty odd years ago by some dusty old noble from Whitestone.

Max didn’t care one whit about who made it or where it came from. All he cares about is that black powder goes ‘boom’ really well, and making things go ‘boom’ makes Max a very happy gnoll indeed.

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I know, however, that firearms were unleashed upon the unsuspecting realm of Exandria when Percival De Rolo unwittingly made a deal with the shadow demon Orthax. Percy then became the conduit and thrall through which Orthax introduced a whole new way to wage war. All just to increase it’s influence on the world as new cycles of hatred and vengeance were created.

As I was hammering in the axle that would hold the hinge plates together, I felt a shiver run down my spine as I drew uncomfortable parallels between Orthax and myself both using someone else’s body in order to introduce these weapons to a new world.

I stamped down hard on that train of thought before I could lose myself once more to another spiral of self pity and loathing.

Just because I was making a gun did not mean I was going to make it easy for someone else to recreate it.

Which means that, other than the small cask of it Max brought with him from Exandria, making more black powder is a no-go. It would be far too simple for someone to track my purchases and work backwards from there.

Guncotton, on the other hand, might just work.

I would need to set up a small laboratory to make it, but with Max’s alchemy skills and my knowledge? I should easily be able to make both sulphuric and nitric acid. I mean, if the guy who originally invented guncotton discovered the stuff by accidentally blowing up his kitchen, then Max and I should absolutely be able to get a small cottage industry going.

I was torn from my thoughts by someone shouting my name from across the courtyard.

Both Gareth and I looked up to see the bright eye’d rookie that I had conscripted into being my gopher for the day running towards us, a large sack thrown over his shoulder.

The red-faced kid dropped his cargo at his feet with a wince inducing crash as he went down with his hands on his knees, huffing and puffing all the while.

“Did… Did you run all the way here?” I asked him incredulously while pulling the sack towards myself, I had him getting things from all over the city!

“Y-yes sir.” he managed through gasping breaths. “You said you needed this stuff as soon as possible.”

Gareth and I shared a disbelieving look before he burst into guffawing laughter. I only shook my head in muted amusement at the obvious FNG as I reached into the sack and pulled out a carefully wrapped package wrapped in brown paper and twine.

With a single swipe of a claw I cut the rope and unfolded the package to reveal a whole set of monster stones of assorted sizes and purities. Carefully pinching one of the smaller ones between the pads of my fingers, I held up the gently glowing, lilac colored crystal to my eye.

Deep within the depths of the uncut gem, a small spark of amber light shone out, playing across the sharp edges and angled lines of the stone in a mesmerizing display of warm colors.

With nothing but a glance, I could tell already that these ‘monster stones’ were not only comparable to residuum for its capacity for storing and directing magical energies- These Monster stones were, in many ways, actually superior in terms of magical energy storage to crystal volume ratio. A residuum crystal of a similar size to the one in my hand would barely be able to store enough energy to power a cantrip level spell.

This stone, according to the locals, held enough juice to power a magical device such as a refrigerator for years. Which reminds me… I still need to find the time to get one of these ‘magitech’ devices for myself to crack 'em open and see what makes it tick…

Physically shaking the distracting thoughts away once more, I wrapped up the gems and started pulling out the other items I asked what's-his-face to grab for me. It was just a bunch of odds and ends that I forgot to grab the other day, like some wood lacquer, paper, and the aforementioned monster stones.

But one of the more interesting things I had asked for was some specifically ordered monster parts.

Finding a group of several glass jars tied together, I pulled the bundle free and popped open the one I was looking for. Shaking out a couple of Hellhound fangs onto my open palm, I pushed around the bone-white teeth across my hand to see them for multiple angles.

The wolf-like monsters these were pulled from are apparently textbook examples of ‘glass-cannons'. According to the book I found that mentioned them, they were physically unimpressive, but packed a devastating magical fire breath attack that could kill all but the strongest adventurers with ease. Their attacks are so deadly, in fact, enchanted fire-resistant gear was considered obligatory for anyone delving down to where they dwelled on the ‘Middle Floors’, regardless of level or ability.

The fangs themselves held value because a small part of that elemental fire lingered on in the creature's teeth. The locals used them for a wide range of applications. From heating elements in homes to ignition elements for kitchen stoves.

Adventurers occasionally used them as raw ingredients for making their equipment, crafting them into specialty gear, mainly weapons. Hellhound fangs, however, are considered to be a poor choice compared to some of the other monster drops that could be obtained on the Middle Floors, such as Crystal Mantis Wings or Infant Dragon Claws.

The reason why I was so interested in them? Well-

Pinching the end of one in my fingers, I dragged it forcefully over my anvil; Causing fiery sparks to fly off the tooth as it was yanked across the plate of steel, leaving a small trail of flames in its wake.

I inspected the tip of the lightly smoking piece of bone before I felt an ear-to-fluffy ear grin grow across my face, flashing my own fangs in excitement.

Oh yes, this will do just fine.

Taking a small strip of steel in my paws, I used brute force to crimp the metal into a ring around the fang. Repeating the process with another fang, I spot welded the rings to a small curved shaft with a brief Heat Metal spell.

Setting those aside for the moment, I took my two barrels and laid them side by side. Carefully placing another piece of steel in between them, I again used my magic to meticulously heat small patches of the rib until it was white-hot; Then clamping it all together with my bare paws and a whole lot of elbow grease.

I let the now joined barrels cool for a moment before picking up the wooden forend and sliding down the guides I forged onto the bottom of the barrels. To secure the piece I hammered in a nail across the grip and through a set of loops in the barrels.

Repeating that for securing the grip to the action itself, I then took up the fangs I had crafted into hammers and slotted them into the already prepared holes, carefully pushing them into the action until tension from the trigger assembly held them in place.

After that? Connecting the barrels with the action was as simple as holding the two halves together and hammering in the hinge pin.

And with that, the gun was complete.

I gave the finished piece that I held in my paws an inspection with a critical eye. Trying to find any imperfections or faults, but finding none.

Leaning back in satisfaction, I took in the weapon in its entirety.

While it was definitely longer than the average sawed-off shotgun, it was still a few inches short of a true coach gun.

The brown lacquered maple wood forend ran the entire length of the barrel, but for the actual stock, I decided to just use a pistol grip, forgoing a shouldered one entirely.

The trigger guard was oversized by necessity so I could fit my large fingers. Max wanted to go even further and up-armor the whole assembly until it was functionally a giant pair of knuckle dusters, with a shotgun half-hazardly stapled onto the end of it.

We compromised with an a thick full finger guard and an heavy steel pommel that was perfect for helping people who fucked around, find out.

The most distinctive aspect of the whole weapon was the Hellhound fangs being used as hammers. The twin, slightly yellowed teeth pressed up against the breech block lent the weapon a primal, savage flair that Max really, really liked.

With the magical canines supplying the primer spark, I was able to neatly sidestep the need for a flintlock (Or Allhammer forbid a matchlock) mechanism. I wouldn’t have to worry about fiddling around trying to prime a flash pan or any or such nonsense in the middle of a battle.

Depressing the release lever, the gun slid open with a buttery smoothness that had Max crooning with pride, revealing its yawning breech.

When I set out to create something to defend myself with, I went into it with the intent to make something using a normal, sane caliber; Twelve, eight gauge at most.

But Max wanted boom.

So I had found myself making the bore just slightly wider with every roll of the steel.

Selecting a mandrel that was a bit bigger than what I imagined.

Using a hand drill that was only a little larger than the one I planned on.

And the end result was… This.

I stuck my giant, furry thumb into the chamber… And I still had room to wiggle it around.

I wasn’t going to waste time melting a bar of lead just to measure the bore, but if I had to make an educated guess on what the end result was?

It was easily something well north of a four gauge shotgun.

This- this monster might even be a two bore.

And that scared me… As much as it excited me.

With a flick of my wrist the ridiculously heavy barrels flipped up and slammed home onto the oversized locking lug with a satisfying ‘thunk’.

“You’re starting to creep me out, laddie…”

I looked up at Gareth questioningly, but when I noticed him staring directly at my mouth. I… Oh… I Think I’ve been grinning like a God-damned lunatic this whole time. All the while humming a dark tune through my bared teeth.

The kid who I had running around town was still here, though he looked a bit green around the gills as his eyes darted nervously between my serial killer smile and the still unnamed shotgun.

I shrugged and ignored them both as I set the gun down on my anvil and pulled out another jar from the sack the kid brought me. Inside was a slightly viscous, cobalt blue liquid that sloshed about as I shook it.

The acid of a deep Dungeon slime.

Well, they called them ‘Oozes’ here but as that's a dumb name, so I’m going to keep calling it a slime.

I popped the lid off the jar and set it carefully down on my anvil beside my gun before reaching into my BoH and pulling out one of the most expensive pieces of kit I own.

I unrolled the leather wallet holding my jeweler's tools down on the bench and pulled one of the finer scribers free.

Dipping the tip of the tool in the acid I started etching deep grooves into the barrel of the gun with a rock steady paw.

In the tabletop game, an artificer's infusions are fairly generic in their wording and rather… succinct, when it comes to explaining how the magic actually interacts with whatever you're enchanting.

Take, for instance, the Enhance Weapon infusion. The enchantment adds a plus one to any attack rolls taken with the weapon. It becomes plus two after level ten, but it never addresses how the weapon is improved by the magic.

Is the sword now supernaturally sharp? Does a bow now have an increased draw weight? Does this gun now shoot… Harder, somehow?

Thankfully, Max has the answer to all my questions.

There is no such thing as a ‘Sword of +2’

All of the infusions that I know and love from the game? They are made up, gross simplifications of highly scientific and precise art of artificing.

In short: Artificers use exotic materials and their own innate magic to impose their will on the universe. But what is far more important than expensive ingredients and an expansive mana pool to draw from… Is an intimate understanding of math and physics.

I'm sure a more traditional artificer would put this all in a more flowery, romantic way, but to Max? Studying the inner workings of the universe was just like learning more about your enemy and carefully noting down all his weaknesses so you can more effectively beat his ass at a later date.

So until we can reduce the very Fabric of Reality into a hideously weeping mess curled up in the corner, watching on helplessly as we break the laws of physics over our digitigrade knee with a smile; We will continue to hone our knowledge and our skill as one would hone a blade.

But for now, we will have to settle for this.

The jagged lines of abyssal ran down the full length of the barrel, carefully dictating instructions, nay, demands to reality; That whatever is placed within the chamber of this weapon will have reduced friction, and any chemical reactions that occur inside will take place at a greatly increased rate.

After I repeated the process on the other barrel, I packed up the acid and my tools before taking one of the larger monster stones in my paw.

Reaching back into my bag, I pulled out a contraption that was visually similar to an old school coffee bean grinder. With a large steel base with a curved spinning arm mounted to the side. The whole device was already connected to a glass jar.

I held the monster stone down against the whetstone of the Residuum grinder and started spinning the arm slowly. Small sparks of pure magic shot out from the stone as I steadily ground it down into a fine powder, filling up the jar.

It took two more stones until I felt I had enough material to work with.

Unscrewing the jar from the grinder, I tucked it firmly between my legs while yanking out my hunting knife from the sheath on the small of my back.

Gareth started in shock and the kid quickly looked away when I drew the blade against my palm without hesitation and started squeezing the rapidly swelling blood into the jar.

Pain is, of course, temporary.

Artificing is forever.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the dwarf repeatedly open and close his mouth in aborted attempts at a question as I mixed the solution into a fine paste, delicately injecting mana into it as I worked. Although there are better magical binding agents out there; Blood, especially the blood of the crafter themselves, works well enough in a pinch.

When it was settled, the syrupy compound was glowing a sinister crimson. With my bare paws I scooped out a dollop on the tip of one of my claws and started stuffing it into the acid etchings I made, infusing it further with yet more mana as I went.

The finished product sat proudly on the bench; The Demonic script pulsating with a malevolent, blood red light.

https://imgur.com/Rw1vJ1T

Now the only thing left to do was make some ammo.

Thankfully, Max had already bought a bullet mold when he was in Whitestone, so it was a simple matter of using Heat Metal on a crucible until the ingot of lead I placed in it melted. And then scooping out the molten metal and pouring it into the pliers like mold.

It took a very tedious half an hour of pouring the metal, waiting for it to harden, and then dropping the scorching hot balls into my bucket of rapeseed to cool them down. But eventually I had used up the whole ingot and was rewarded with a good amount of roughly double-naught sized buckshot.

Taking some of the paper the kid brought me, I rolled it up into a cylinder and sealed it with glue. I couldn’t help shooting Gareth a hesitant glance as I pulled the small wine cask full of gunpowder out of my bag.

When I tipped the cask over and opened the spigot, I was planning on using a sensible load of a eight, maybe ten dram charge of powder, at most.

But I couldn’t stop pouring.

I watched on in mounting horror as I dumped more, and more, and more powder into the cartridge.

Forget P+, I was already at Bubba’s Pissing Hot Loads and rapidly encroaching on the forbidden realm of Drunk Uncle Cletus’s Fiery Fuckin’ Specials before Max was happy with the absolutely absurd amount of powder crammed into the shot-glass sized cylinder of paper.

Before I could even register what we had just done, Max took a fistfull of shot, rolled them in a second piece of paper, haphazardly forced the wadded up shot into the cartridge, and sealed the whole thing shut with a lick.

I was in shock… In awe, of the monstrous evil we had just fashioned in but a few short seconds. What should have been a normal charge of propellent and steel balls had been corrupted, twisted into something more, something unnatural.

The innocent, lumpy looking wad of paper sat there in my paw, menacingly. Bending space and time around it like it was the fucking One True Ring. And like the Ring, It had been crafted with all of Max’s cruelty, his malice, and his will to make things go boom.

…Naturally, I made twenty more.

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Gareth and I stood at one of their familia’s archery ranges, where they had generously set me up with a straw dummy that someone had draped an old iron cuirass over.

The adventurers who had been previously training had gathered into a small crowd to watch, curious as to what I had been making all day.

As I forcefully crammed two paper shells into the chamber and swung the shotgun closed, I glanced up towards the mansion to see Loki and Finn watching from his office window.

With a deep, steading breath I cocked back one of the hammers with my thumb. Keeping the gun down low by my waist, I took aim, and pulled the trigger.

It did not go ‘bang’.

it did not fire with a ‘crack’.

And It did not ‘roar’.

When the fanged hammer fell, there was a split second delay, and then the gun fucking exploded.

At that moment, my world was only fire and smoke. The acrid, bitter tang of burnt powder filled my nose and burnt my eyes. The recoil damn near sent me on my ass, with the gun leaping back right into my chest. I looked down to make sure I still had all my fingers, and was pleasantly surprised to find that not only was I still whole, but that the gun itself survived as well.

As the wind blew away the lingering haze of smoke, I was finally able to see the result of all my hard work.

The top half of the dummy was simply… Gone.

It was as if a giant beast had taken a messy bite out of the target; Leaving only ruined remains of half a breast plate and chunks of steel strewn about, as well as a few tufts of straw drifting sadly towards the ground.

Beyond the dummy, I could see that even the far wall of the courtyard was pockmarked with holes. The damage highlighted by the cloud of stone dust still hovering in the air.

I looked back and forth between the gun in my paws and the destruction it had wrought several times before a small giggle bubbled up from within me.

That giggle became a snicker.

Which grew into a chuckle.

And then suddenly I was full blown howling with glee.

And I laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed.

From this distance I couldn’t see what expression was on Loki’s face, and to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure what expression was on my own face.

but I made damn sure I was looking right in her eyes when I leveled my gun a second time and blew away what was left of the dummy.

You’re not the only one with power here, Loki.

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