The gunsmith works late into the night, lit only by the red glow of the furnace, picking over the disassembled gun from Blutwald and shaping damp sand to match the contours of its components. Lost in the details, he doesn’t notice the movement in the street outside, and by the time the workshop’s doors crash open, it’s too late to grab the ammunition from the silversmith, too late to do anything.
Amnistar the gunsmith is dead.
Mm, written in a rush, but I meant grabbed in the sense of “from his desk” rather than “from the silversmith down the street”.
makes me think that when he started to blame bucky like that he left himself open to this.
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spikebrennan:
Not to contradict the story post, but the gunsmith had the gun and all of the bullets at the time of his death. Phooey. I shouldn’t have put them all in one basket.