[origin :: Borderline ]
It was called a “machine gun” because it was new technology that used many parts to make a working object run faster, stronger, like a machine. A gun in this case, new and improved. More complicated than your basic shooter. More dangerous than anything Sanoko had ever used. And she had handled a lot of weapons.
“Friendly fire” is a stupid phrase. There’s nothing friendly about getting shot at by someone who’s supposed to be on your side, only he happens to have a thing against half-bloods. And yet she was “lucky”.
Lucky, like the pain had been worth it. Lucky, because she could have been cut in half by the spray of bullets, if she hadn’t reacted when she had. Lucky to just bear scars, instead of wandering this gods-forsaken land as a ghost.
Luck was why she preferred swords.
The physical therapy had been killer. But at least she could walk again.
“How did you get those scars?” Zen asked one night, while the girls were in the hot-spring.
San ran her fingers over the puckers of skin on her lower abdomen. She decided to humor the fellow mercenary. “A machine.”
(A/N: drabble inspired by writing_game. Progress here.)