Kat leaned against the bar, elbow on the wooden countertop and chin in her palm, expelling a long, drawn out sigh as she lazily spun the bubble gun around on her index finger.
Yeah, she’d tested it already. Obviously. She wasn’t an idiot. She’d stood with her back to the door a few minutes earlier, facing the row of empty glass bottles collecting dust behind the bar, holding the gun with both hands. She’d pointed it at her makeshift targets, squeezed the trigger, and instead of the expected earsplitting bang and recoil, she’d gotten… well, nothing. Nothing but a spray of bubbles and silence, before they all drifted down to the floor and gently popped.
She stopped spinning the fake gun, glancing at the paint job on its side, then staring down the barrel. It looked real enough to her, like all the weapons she’d seen on propaganda posters or on the covers of books. That was what the Yanks had been relying on, of course, providing a little bit of assistance in their subterfuge with the fake weapon manual in her bag that had listed this thing as a ‘Beretta’. She had no idea if that was a real gun or not. She didn’t know the first thing about weapons, and she didn’t want to, not after her parents in their infinite wisdom had decided to christen her after one. And considering this thing’s special properties, she wasn’t any closer to finding out more about them
It wasn’t totally useless, of course. There were plenty of potential applications for a fake gun that looked just like the real article. Just sucked that, right now, Kat couldn’t think of any, and didn’t really care about trying to think of any. There’d been the initial flurry of terror after she’d woken up, as all her memories of the past few hours flooded back into her mind, the strange mix of fear and excitement upon finding the gun in her bag, nestled amongst all her other supplies, her testing of said gun, and then… she didn’t really know. She couldn’t quite tell how she was feeling. She didn’t really care.
The thought crossed her mind that she was in the worst possible strategic location, with her back to the door, and nothing to defend herself with. Again, she didn’t really find herself able to care too much.
Would it be fair to say she’d lost hope already? Not exactly. But it wouldn’t be too far from the truth, either.
Kat sighed again, then let the bubble gun drop to the counter. She paused for a moment, then slipped off the barstool, bent her knees, and vaulted over the bar itself, pressing her hands into the smooth wood surface to propel her to the other side. The bottles on the shelves behind the bar were all empty, sure, but maybe there was a full bottle of whiskey or something underneath it. It’d be something to do, at least.
She crouched down again and peered underneath the bar, brushing cobwebs out of her face.
She scowled. Nothing. Just plastic crates and dirty glasses. Of course.