[i]It was raining outside my window, the sound washing out the world as it drowned the streets below. Men and women trudged below through the unhealthy cast of the street lights. Some hurried. Some didn't. Some barely seemed to notice the rain. Maybe I was the only one foolish enough to hope that the rain could wash this city clean. Blood and desperation are cause for a deep stain, though.[/i] The man turns away from his apartment window and moves toward the small square table off the kitchen. A pale yellow light barely illuminates what he's working on. A massive revolver rests next to the lamp. He's worked nearly non-stop the past day and a half to etch designs into it, and now each elegant twist adorning the weapon catches the light. Next to the hand cannon sits a belt and holster to house it. It looks like it's out of the cowboy days of old - old being the key word. Stored upon it are twelve rounds, each as thick as a man's thumb. The brass took a long time to collect to create each casing, along with the typesetter's lead for the actual bullets. Markov picks up the revolver and touches a latch on the side with his thumb before "breaking" the top of the revolver to load it with six bullets sitting next to the belt. He snaps the top-breaking revolver shut with a flick of his wrist. Three loads to fight with. At least he'll have a chance against the psychotic woman if she ever shows up again. (( Open ))