Maarg's breath hitched, his gaze fixed on the gleaming metal. A gun. His mind, still reeling from the dream, from the raw fear of the unknown, instantly shifted into a predatory focus. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes, now aided by the occasional sliver of moonlight, darting through the swirling fog and oppressive darkness. He searched for any sign of the owner, any hint of movement or shadow beyond the natural sway of the trees.
All there was, stretching from the stone where the gun lay and disappearing into the gloom near the water's edge, was a faint trail of wet footprints. They looked fresh, the stone still glistening where water had been tracked across it. The implication hit him like a cold spray from the falls: someone had been here, recently, and was now gone. Or perhaps, still here, hiding.
A primal urge to pursue, to find out who or what had left this weapon, surged through him, mingling with the last vestiges of his bloodlust from the dream. But Maarg, despite his raw power, was not reckless. He had no intention of running towards the darkness blindly, chasing shadows and potential ambushes. If he wanted to go ahead, if he wanted to investigate further, he might as well be armed. And a gun, even an unfamiliar one, was infinitely better than a knife in this uncertain environment.
He took a cautious step, then another, his bare feet silent on the damp earth. His heart began to beat with a strange mix of both curiosity and excitement, a dangerous cocktail of emotions that always accompanied the discovery of the unknown in this new world. He reached the stone, its surface slick with spray, and knelt down.
His hand reached out, trembling slightly, and he carefully picked up the gun. The cold steel of the weapon reacted instantly to the warmth of his skin, a stark contrast that sent a shiver through him. He brought it closer, tracing his fingers all over the gun, feeling its texture, the intricate grooves of the grip, the smooth, dark barrel. He peered at it in the dim light, trying to judge its type, its make, its caliber. It felt heavy, solid, undeniably real. A potent, unsettling presence in his hand.
Maarg's fingers, still tracing the cold steel, finally recognized the imposing silhouette. It had the unmistakable, blocky bulk of a Desert Eagle, a handgun renowned for its immense power and intimidating presence. But even in the dim, foggy light, something about it looked… off. It wasn't just the pristine, almost unnatural cleanliness of the weapon in a world consumed by grime. There were subtle, intricate etchings along the barrel, faint lines that seemed to shimmer even in the gloom, almost luminous. The grip, while large and ergonomic like a standard Desert Eagle, felt oddly textured, perhaps a custom modification, Maarg couldn't really identify.
He knew a bit about guns, mostly from video games and what little he'd observed from Henry. He had always entertained the abstract idea of what it would be like to shoot a real one, the raw kick, the concussive power. He'd seen Henry handle them with such deadly precision, making it look almost effortless. How hard could it be? he thought, a fleeting, dangerous curiosity mixing with the tension. This wasn't just any gun; it felt like a heavy, silent promise of power.
He tightened his grip on the weapon, the unfamiliar weight feeling surprisingly natural in his hand, almost an extension of his arm. Instinctively, without a clear target, his arm raised, and he aimed it up into the inky, foggy air, the unique muzzle-break a dark, gaping maw against the impenetrable night. He imagined the recoil, the thunderous report, the sheer force of a bullet tearing through the darkness.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The voice came from directly behind him, so close it made Maarg's entire body seize up. It was strangely calm, almost conversational, yet utterly familiar. Every nerve screamed. He hadn't heard a single footstep, not a rustle of clothing, nothing to betray Gabby's approach. It was as if he had simply materialized from the swirling mist. He spun around, dropping into a defensive crouch, the unique Desert Eagle still raised, its barrel tracking the sudden movement.
Through the swirling mist, a figure stood silently silhouetted against the fainter, scattered glow of the distant cabin lights. The person's hoodie's hood was up, casting their face in deep shadow, making it impossible to clearly distinguish features. But the voice, even at its quietest, was unmistakable. The slight lean in the posture, the broad shoulders underneath the worn fabric. It was Gabby. And Maarg was utterly, profoundly surprised. Not just by his presence, or his stealth, but by the calm authority in his tone, a stark contrast to Gabby's usual boisterous nature. The air between them crackled with unspoken questions, with the tension of two individuals, one armed with a mysterious weapon, caught in the dark, silent depths of the night.
"Gabby?" Maarg asked, the name a whisper of disbelief as it escaped his lips. His grip on the strange Desert Eagle remained tight, but his arm lowered slightly, the initial combat readiness giving way to profound confusion. The hooded figure moved closer, stepping out of the deepest shadows, and as it did, the subtle contours of its face became clearer in the faint light. It was unmistakably Gabby. His usually jovial demeanor was replaced by an uncharacteristic somberness, his eyes, though still shadowed by the hood, seemed watchful, weary, carrying a weight Maarg hadn't seen before.
"What are you doing here, Maarg?" Gabby's voice was still calm, that unfamiliar quietness clinging to it. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze falling to the gleaming handgun in Maarg's grasp, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"Gabby?" Maarg asked, the name a whisper of disbelief as it escaped his lips. His grip on the strange Desert Eagle remained tight, but his arm lowered slightly, the initial combat readiness giving way to profound confusion. The hooded figure moved closer, stepping out of the deepest shadows, and as it did, the subtle contours of its face became clearer in the faint light. It was unmistakably Gabby. His usually jovial demeanor was replaced by an uncharacteristic somberness, his eyes, though still shadowed by the hood, seemed watchful, weary, carrying a weight Maarg hadn't seen before.
"What are you doing here, Maarg?" Gabby's voice was still calm, that unfamiliar quietness clinging to it. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze falling to the gleaming handgun in Maarg's grasp, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
Maarg's eyes lit up with familiarity as he countered Gabby's question with one of his own, the words tumbling out in a rush of concern. "What am I doing here? Where have you been? I heard splashing noises and came to investigate. I thought something happened to you, man, you scared the shit out of me." To outsiders, Maarg was a mystery, often appearing quiet and stoic, almost detached. But beneath that reserved exterior lay a deep, unwavering soft spot for his comrades, a loyalty born of shared suffering and desperate survival. Gabby, despite his recent odd behavior, was still one of his people.
Maarg extended the Desert Eagle slightly, its unique form catching the faint moonlight, highlighting the strange etchings on its barrel. "But then I found this. You know anything about it?"