Being a shooter, as well as a long time player of games involving warfare and weapons, thinking about the various points of view of a weapon like a gun was the first thing I did when assigned this question.
I approached this in two broad categories: macro, and micro. (click for full size)
In the macro perspective, there is a Manufacturer, the State, and a Soldier. These are the people more concerned with the grander scale of things. Even the soldier has an illusion of distance, has his training and possibly indoctrination against his targets – his enemies.
The Manufacturer mass produces, and sells the guns. To him, the gun is a Product, a statistic, a string of numbers in his profit margin. This dispassionate connection is a flat, dull blue and grey. The guns’ silhouettes here are clinical white, the barcodes stamped into them are Matrix-green. There are hundreds, thousands, uncountable as they recede into the background. Even the one he currently holds in his hands is only special to him for the briefest instance. Put it together, get it done, get it sold to…
The State, buys weapons for its army, investing money for its protection. To them, it’s a form of Insurance, a sturdy, rock-solid failsafe to fall back on in the event of sudden hostility, when diplomacy and negotiations give way. The guns are distant and small, in orderly rows clad in army greens and browns. The State must regulate them still, keep track, keep them numerated and coded. They do make the State feel safer though, and governments and their militaries are inextricably linked, bound almost like some ghastly approximation of a marriage. The ones truly wed though are…
The Soldier, and his Bride – his gun. The soldier bears his weapon at his side at all times, caring for her, knowing her inside and out, and in turn she protects and defends him. His hand in hers, he in his dark groom’s suit and she in her bride’s white gown, walk down the burning aisle of war together. This holy union meant to be born from love, to bestow new life, is twisted into a wicked thing born of hate, to spread death. The bouquet she carries is wilting, his knuckles are whitened with fear, and the fires in the garden cast an orange glow on his suit.
In the micro perspective, there is the Aggressor, the Bullet, and the Victim. These are the elements directly and immediately involved in the direct confrontation, the actual action of the shot.
The Aggressor could have picked up a gun for any number of bright, golden-noble reasons. Like a comic book hero: curiosity, self-protection, justice. How easy it can be, to slip into the Fun little Power Trip afforded by the gun, especially when the restrictive walls of society and the law go up in a cloud of party balloons. But power like that which is embodied in the gun can be addictive, and it takes surprisingly little effort to squeeze that trigger, especially the more you do it, convince yourself you had to do it. That kill counter ticking up ‘They were threatening me.’ and up ‘They were threatening someone I love.’ and up ‘They were threatening something I love.’ and up ‘They were threatening something I want.’ and up ‘They were threatening something.’ and up ‘They were there.’ congratulations, new high score! To justify every shot, every squeeze of that trigger, every loosed…
Bullet, sitting quiet and still in the chamber, packed full of innocuous black powder. Its fate is uncertain, its destiny is encased within its metal shell, its Potential hidden away by the gun and the hand that holds it. A blank slate, what tale will you write? With the pull of the trigger, new high score! springs, new high score! hydraulics, new high score! ignition, new high score! motion, new high score! flight, new high score! its fate will be sealed. And fly it will, to whatever end, to…
The Victim, watching in horror. Cowering, eyes squeezed shut, behind the walls. But they’ll always be seeing it charred into the backs of their lids, hearing it even in the still silence of peace. The echoes of shells, the crumbling of walls that meant safety, the screams. The moment when the world narrowed down to nothing but their harsh frightened breaths and staring deep into the hell promised by the barrel of a gun. And then they’ll be painting the walls with spraypaint and chalk just like they remember paint on the walls with blood and they might heal but they’ll always remember that Trauma. And they’ll remember and remember and remember.
