anyone that knows henry simmons even moderately well would be able to tell that the glint in her eyes is pure evil, chaos untold to be unfolded upon the mortal realm. the pure, childish glee in her face when she stands between whatever vera was doing and the woman herself. in her hands, a handgun. not any handgun, one that has clearly been carved and decorated with the type of work that you just don’t get anymore. engravings of snakes and lilies embroidered into the metal by henry herself, filled in with gold against the gunmetal silver of the gun. not only that, but the grip has been replaced by an equally elegant black one, made more resistant and durable, settling down on the palm like the gun was just a part of you. the sights have been carefully measured, the recoil lowered, and the rounds given a nice boost of bioluminescence, to better track targets in the dark. henry is beaming when she hands it over, looking at it as if it was her child.
❛❛ called it ‘noche clara’, ❜❜ luckily for any listeners, her spanish is good. ❛❛ bright night, ‘cause you hit someone with these rounds and their circulatory system’s gonna light up like a damn christmas tree. you’re the best damn merc i know, so i wanted you t’have it. ❜❜
@streetknown, starter call.
