No suture-line. No scar. Only two little droplets of liquid solidifying as one.

Dexterity has never been your forté, but now all of a sudden you have full-on palsy.

Covered in white, gooey spiderwebs of glue.

AN IDOL TO MINDLESS CONSUMERISM, NOW BECOME WHAT IT IS.

It cools in real time, re-solidifying before your eyes.

That thing's not surviving a gunshot.

It emanates the desperation of the battlefield, the ugly cunning of guerillas fabricating weapons of war from out of nothing but saliva and bolts.

You can hear the prayers of the tribespeople echoing up from the pass:

The tape on the grip is slick and uneven in your hands, the barrel heavy.

Except your self-doubt.

May death be at your back, and may the stars direct your hand.

Looking at it does not fill you with positive feelings.

Gripping the barrel in a plastic vice.

A twelve year old child in the gun-crafting colonies of Dream of Rustam makes the exact same movement.

Brother death. Salud.

Simple: the strike of a metal pin ignites the bullet's firing cartridge. Having nowhere else to go, the energy from that contained explosion pushes the bullet out of the gun's muzzle.

If you hit the bullet hard enough it flies towards your enemy.

All found among the junk in your near vicinity.

See? The Opera provides.

The inside of your skull lights up like a cheap arcade cabinet -- flashing, loud, deeply satisfying.

From the profoundest, most autistic depths of your self, a sense of universal harmony and order wells up.

Like a guerilla fighter in the depths of this human jungle, you have gathered piece by piece the tools for your campaign.

Clang. A can clattering down, cutting through the Bazaar's noise. Patrons walking around, sipping cold coffee.

Reno's beloved model train.

One of the prized Wolf Cups.

The techno-fascist fuckwand. Possibly last used by a monkey.

The beloved cosmonaut figurine, ready for takeoff.

The plastic is to craft the feed mechanism. Without that, what you have on your hands is a one-shot zipgun. A dangerous toy for delinquent teenagers, not a weapon to carry in-theatre.

Assemble the weapon.

The mould that emerges looks... less than impermeable.

A clotted, sickly rainbow sludge, haunted by the tenuous remains of discernible shapes.

Bubble of molten gun pop out between the corners in the plywood.

Poppers. Squirming motes in the visual field. Idiocy and pleasure.

Unmade back into synthetic polymer, the primordial soup from which a race of anti-lifeforms might emerge.

Don't start thinking that, after your last success, this will be child's play. Model trains can get complex -- it's serious craftsmanship.

It can be finnicky, but you should have the nimbleness of finger to deal with that.

If only it were as trivial as that. Your dexterity may be severely tested.

The perfect place for your first attempt at improvised weapon manufacture.

Nestled among the camera gear, a black cardboard box with a red band immediately catches your eye: SIDEWINDER 9mm.

Or they're Constanz's: Another manifestation of the murky impulse that got her mixed up with your people in the first place.

Around you, night drags the day out of sight.

Suspended above, satellites blink slowly, as if on the edge of sleep.

Strange that she's not, now that she thinks about it.

She's looking at you. Don't look back. Unsuturable wound.

The twinge of pain is familiar, almost nostalgic. That one's going to leave a mark.

Another drop of phantom blood in the clear waters of your soul.

As a star is dragged into a black hole, it emits periodic bursts of light that scientists liken to dying screams.

All serenity liquidated. Animal terror.

Spines of ice bloom across your ribcage.

WHAT WILL YOU SAY TO THAT CRUEL ANGEL --

Checks