Now, I despise guns. I have never liked the wretched things, and I probably never will. Some might point out that they are the reason I have a job (For those who don’t know, I used to be a resident trauma surgeon in on of the major hospitals in Capital City, back on Osiris), but I believe they shouldn’t exist at all. The concept of something that’s sole purpose is to end lives horrifies me beyond belief. I have controlled myself long enough to point a gun at a person – but only if the situation called for it – but I have never been able to pull the trigger. Well, not with any reasonable degree of accuracy. The point is though, I hate the things. The only thing I hate more than having to use a gun is having one pointed at me. Those situations mean that things can only get worse.

A situation, perhaps, quite like this one.

In fact, if I remember correctly, there were five guns pointed at us. There were two on Mal, two on Zoë, and one on me. I faintly remember trying not to wet myself. The blistering cold in my nether regions seemed to confirm that I had in fact not emptied my bladder.

The man who had spoken was not holding a gun. I could tell it was he who had spoken, as he was the one who looked even faintly smug, as he was wearing the thickest coat. I once owned a coat like that. When you put it on, you could stand in the black itself with it on, and still be as warm and snug as if you were standing in front of a blazing fire.

God, how I would have given nearly anything to have had a coat like that back then.

I can’t remember exactly what he said as the wind was increasing in speed, but I believe the gist was to stand away from the crate with the gigantic metal man. We understood, and with some encouragement by the nice men with guns, we happily obliged. The man with the lovely coat walked over and peered into the crate, before shouting something to his colleagues. He didn’t sound pleased with what he’d seen, and to emphasise this, he shouted at the crate, and kicked it. Instantly realising h