Glen and the Gun - SCP Foundation

Hello, Glen. I am your Gun- what do you need from me today?

A peasant sits within a reticle, head filled with pumping, crimson blood, tucked beneath an inconsequential layer of bone and flesh. Their eyes, a perfect entryway for bullets, seek, pupils dilated with the terror of pursuit.

Glen sees it all from his perch among the eaves of the dilapidated apartment complex. The breakdown of the Vegas housing market that occurred after it was unveiled there’s a monster closet under the streets has given Glen more than enough posts and purviewing points.

What does the drifting embrace of a midnight moon mean for the derelict denizens of detritus?

Glen puts down the binoculars, lugging the massive suitcase he lugged up fourteen flights of derelict stairs, his eyes gleaming with desire as the augmented lenses of his cornea zoom and focus. Every detail of the case is greedily consumed by his ocular receptors: its sharp plasticene edges, ribbed for the users delight; the shimmering metal locks meant to keep the tool within from escaping its confines; the dusty handle, covered with hand prints. All of this is stored away in back-up, mental filing cabinets slowly filling with information.

Dust the inside— your mind must be uncluttered as you approach the weapon.

Glen slowly unlatches the case, utilizing the forty-seven character password with the complex electronic locks. Gangly legs, filled with lithe musculature, spread, the case kept between his thighs. The case lid is slowly brought up, the noonday sun reflecting what little sheen the plastic still possesses. He gulps as his eyes survey the piece, the ultimate expression, his magnum opus.

Glen is famous within the blackhat gunsmithing community for his insane requests and orders. The biomechatronics specialist Glen employed (and subsequently bribed to keep silent) looked agape at the complex blueprints as they slid across his desk, his eyes filled with the joy of challenge very few blackmarket mercs and merchantmen get to engage with.

A gasp. He looked so excited. I won’t forget the twinkle in his eye. I have the same one in mine right now.

Sitting in front of Glen is a weapon. Composed of a composite titanium alloy second only to xanaso alloy, with hand-brushed and hand-fitted pieces. His fingers reach down, tracing across the delicate designs containing a network of neural processors, targeting devices, heat tracking software, and a host of other additional features added at Glen’s request. His purview was generous- he promised a payment of hundreds of thousands for this piece.

The experimental thought pattern and operating intelligence programmed into the brain stem cost him a pretty penny, along with the brain matter itself.

All worth it. All of it. To make this.

Housed within a heat-treated neodymium-copper container embraces the receiver, tucked neatly inside the bulky, side-hugging stock, in the special breed of vat-grown brain stem Glen paid top-dollar for. It floats in a specially regulated and recycled soup of minerals and vitamins- iron, copper, manganese, selenium, iron, zinc, copper, vitamins A, B, C, D, E. Hanging from this mechanism are a collection of short, coiled wires, each ending in a variety of jacks and plugs. Each matches a similar port concealed under a flap of false silicon skin pinned over the shoulder Glen had reinforced ten times over. A neural connection wire, a targeting wire, and a dedicated wire to control firing, all able to perfectly align with Glen’s thought patterns.

Their gleaming, gold-plated connectors fit snugly between Glen’s fingers, and his eyes widen with glee as he views the firing mechanism, the railing ready to have the scope slotted into it. The fingers of his right hand, kept clean and callous-less through explicit effort, run across the immaculately machined barrel. Each expulsion causes a small increase to his normally plateaued heartbeat, each tiny slit of heat-venting a small miracle of precision engineering.

Put it together. Get it ready. Possess your masterpiece in all its glory.

The rifle itself is based roughly on a Remington 700 (Sturdy, reliable, good-natured) combined with a MAS Modele 36 C96, a French takedown rifle (delicate, exact, perfunctory), and a third, extremely special piece of weaponry (powerful, nubile, perversely beautiful). It shows his exacting design, his dedicated and practiced precision, and his absolute love for the craft in every piece. Currently it sits in pieces. Glen knew this particular job would provide a perfect opportunity to savor the moment— the target is currently locked in a hotel room, enjoying the company of some particularly talented parastitutes arranged specifically for the occasion. Glen’s obsession for bolt-action has lead to this piece of high-tech gadgetry being saddled by an antiquated firing system.

Worth it. All worth it.

Some years ago, before the Three Arrows seized his entrance, Glen took a job in the the Library. A ridiculously beautiful place, filled with knowledge and paranatural wonders— Glen had no intention of harming any of it, so he passed easily through the knock. In the Library, he discovered something the increasingly wired part of his brain had a deep and passionate love for— schematics and blueprints. In a dilapidated and disused section, Glen had discovered blueprints for nearly every gun ever created. Unable to experience sexual pleasure due to a particularly painful accident years ago, Glen immediately made an excuse as to why the job would need to be extended, and delved through the database at his fingertips. In it, he found a design labelled with the aforementioned Three Arrowed seal, and the designs for an interesting tool. Whether the piece was some ghoul they abducted from a paranormal life, or the design of a coked up scientist, Glen did not give a shit— he was inspired.

In front of him, his hands even hesitating to sully their gleaming perfection with his human oils, was his Gun, in four beautiful pieces.

Do it Do it DO it DO It DO IT DO IT

He reaches down, hand gingerly passing along the perfect grain of wood encasing the brain, their finger finding the cords placed just under the butt of the stock. He slowly threads one out, the metal grip shining in the noonday sun. He removes his shirt, revealing his body, letting the sea-soaked wind curl around his abdominals, his spine shivering with delight. Under the stock butt, in a hastily scrawled note that Glen promptly ignores, text reads “Brainstem must be unplugged majority of time.” Glen quickly uses the thin paper to mop his ports, removing the flap of silicone alt-skin he had grafted onto the joint. The jack slips into the hole easily, the small click signaling a successful connection which make the corner of Glen’s mouth twitch. The interior lights connected to the computer gear and brain stem begin to whir to live. Glen may be hallucinating, but he swears the stem wiggled just slightly.

Hello, Glen. I am your Gun- what do you need from me today?

Glen grins, white teeth looking sharklike at the voice in his mind.

Hello, Gun. Do you have a name?

No, Glen. That is up to you.

The thought patterns begin to align with Glen’s, the brain matter contained within the protein slurry matching his alpha and beta waves. Glen slides the receiver in, the excellently machined metal slipping perfectly into the open slots. The machinery within the receiver comes alive as well, hungry for information to calculate firing angles and timing. The barrel is next, sliding onto the exposed threading. The rifling is exquisite, giving the bullet (Glen’s favorite, 7.62) an exceptional spin that causes his specialized ammunition to be even more effective. It spins on with a satisfying tap-tap, secured with two flick bolts that secure the barrel in place. Finally, the coup de grace, the scope.

Incredible. He did a great job.

He made me perfect, Glen.

Glen pauses. To his knowledge, the thought-grams were only able to access fully conscious thoughts— commands, requests, etc. To the best of his knowledge, of course. This design was, well, special. Vat-grown brain stem, cloned from someone with an EQ of at least 220, with a specialty blend of chemicals cycling through the fluid meant to keep the brain matter operating at high efficiency at all times. An expensive royalty, and Glen will need to source the cocaine from less verifiable sources, but it should be worth it.

How much can you read?

My scanners are able to penetrate deep into your sub- and conscious minds, Glen, in order to better predict and understand your needs.

Glen nods, and picks up the scope. It is just as long as the barrel, with more lenses than an amateur astronomer's telescope. One might consider it bulky, but as Glen slots the scope into home, plugging it into his shoulder and letting the optical nerve of his right eye go dead and fill with the vision the scope sees, all he considers it to be is bliss.

I am glad you find me attractive, Glen.

I think you’re gorgeous. And you need a name.

Uneeded. I am a tool- the only name I need is Gun.

Glen places the barrel on the sandbag perched on the ruined brickwork of the apartment, the small room the size of a jail cell covered in dust, his second home th eonly place he feels comfortable.

Nah. You need a name.

Then give me one.

At exactly 7:37 PM, the curtains of the hotel room located across the Vegas strip are thrown open, and a scene of debauchery opens itself up to Glen as he flicks on the scope range finding programs with his mind. The corners of his vision are taken up by advanced scanning outputs, microscopic analysis. Wind speed, temperature, moisture in the air, the exact distance to the tubby man currently tied to a cheap four poster bed in feet, the power needed to pierce the sheet glass and how much randomness (to the hundredth percentile) this would add to the bullet. The firing pin slides in last, nestling within the workhorse of the gun.

Prove yourself first.

Gladly.

Finally, Glen retrieves the magazine from an inner pocket of his ratty jacket. Every piece of outerwear he possesses has this addition— a small fleece-lined pocket a few square inches in size. The magazine fits snugly, five copper-jacketed bullets placed within the vulcanized rubber shell with care and diligence beforehand. Internal locks click in the receiver, and it is held fast. A small alert crosses the display in Glen’s eye: “Ammo Inserted.” Again, Glen swears he could see the brain stem wriggling just slightly, but he ignores it as a trick of the dual vision.

Whatever he put in you, I like.

Thank you, Glen. Feel free to put even more inside of me- I don’t mind.

Glen marks a spot on the man’s rotund chest, and the computer begins calculating. Numbers flash across the bottom corner of his vision, and he forces his heartbeat to slow in preparation. His fingers slowly curls around the trigger, the need for a safety nonexistant. He waits, the women he hired slowly shoving a balled up sock down the man’s throat. Glen grins, and the stem gives another whir. Glen’s fingers reach up with reverence, fingers gently sliding the bolt backwards, pulling the steel column back from the receiver, and the bullet slides into place.

I will be of service.

The display flares, and a spot above the man’s head lights up. Glen grins as he sees this, dopamine filling his system as the women he hired saunter out of the room, unwilling to care anymore than their pay stretches. With a flick of his thumb, he makes the two of them hundreds richer, and the moment they leave the hotel, leave his mind forever.

Glen moves with precision, pointing the barrel at the exact position the highlight in his vision indicates, and pulls the trigger. The firing pin slams forward, igniting the powder, and the bullet explodes out of the barrel. The overpacked cartridge causes fire to spit from the cooling vents, and the noise is drowned out by the glitz of Vegas showbiz. In an instant, the man’s brains are scrambled, ceasing his panicky movements, the body going limp in the chair as glass showers the inside of the hotel room, loose glass dust raining down onto the busy street below.

Good girl. Perfect. You’re perfect.

Thank you, Glen. I am glad I was a good girl.

Like lightning, Glen disassembles the gun, putting the pieces inside the case again, tucking them in with deftness. Almost as an afterthought, he tucks the receiver into his jacket, keeping the jacks plugged in, and allows the gun to share in the rush of dopamine and adrenaline flowing through his mind. He takes the stairs two at a time, hips whirring, ankles screaming with impact, his brown hair waving with the speed of his descension.

As he emerges into the back-alley and blends into the crowd, wiping the sweat and disguising himself among the progressively more frantic clots of humanity, a thought crosses his mind.

Glenda. Your name could be Glenda.

Assigning myself the name “Glenda.” Thank you, Glen.

Shit, well. That’s how it is.

Glen blends into the crowd, and makes his way home, his account slowly receiving several transfers of untraceable stock exchanges, his mind filled with visions of a new easy chair.

I may or may not have upholstery advice.

Glen’s home is perversely spartan. He opens the door to his low-rise, the stench of emptiness doing nothing to his nose. He lays down the bulky case on his singular ottoman placed in front of a large OLED television screen, and reaches up to unplug the jacks and remove Glenda from his chest.

Glen, please.

“What?”

Just a moment longer.

“Okay…”

Glen shrugs, tucking the strap containing the receiver and brain stem, and begins his nighttime rhythm. His first stop is the bathroom. He puts up the toilet seat and, with a pang of hurt and depression, he sits down and relieves himself, face growing long as the bowl fills slightly more.

That doesn’t make you a monster, Glen.

“Oh, so you read deep deep, huh.”

He stands up, washing his hands, and begins to cook his dinner. The few places in the house with any life is the kitchen- pots and pans, a display of artfully made knives, a rack of exotic spices, a mini fridge containing a wide variety of herbs. He pulls out some ingredients- bell pepper, spiced sausage, broccoli, tofu. Glen works through them, dicing the pepper and detubing the sausage, heating the heavily seasoned cast iron skillet on the singular electric heating coil jutting from their ministove. Olive oil is deftly spread around the jetblack surface, and Glen begins humming a tune to themselves. In his mind, Glenda picks up the tune, filling the aural centers of his brain with a low, serene bass tone. The ingredients are slowly added, timing their cooking time so that nothing is burnt, nothing is wasted, and the flavors of each added spice suffuses every piece of the dish. He serves himself, the receiver-tube-tank still attached to his chest, and sits down over the steaming meal with a slight grin.

Looks delicious, Glen.

“How would you know?”

I can access your flavor-memory. It’s located within the instinctual core of your brain.

“Interesting.”

The dinner completes, scents suffusing the room, Glen begins his nightly ritual, reading a paperback while ingesting the texture and taste of his creation. Glenda, unable to properly express whatever it is they are feeling, continues to whir within the tank, enjoying the varied sensations hijacked from Glen's mind. With the meal finished, Glen sits for a moment, allowing the flow of time to pass. He basts himself in the spread of his legs, in the tension and release of his shoulders.

Thank you, Glen.

Hesitantly. "Thank you, Glenda. Good night."

Reluctantly, he unhooks the receiver from his cortexial connections and laying the whirring canister within it's shell, and allows his mind to gently drift into the midnight embrace of sleep.