Monica Pinkston RT

Nothing told her explicitly that she had gained enormous power and that she needed to use that power to escape. The message didn't come in words. It was like smoke and iron filings in her blood. She felt things she had never learned the words for. The thing that was using her body like a cheap apartment had taken something from her, she knew it. She didn't know what, but it was gone. Something was gone. And in its place had been left an arsenal.

It had taken all her frustration, all her hatred, her misery and doubt and blackened determination, everything that she was as a human person, and smelted it into a shape. The shape that had hammered her life to pieces and defended the shards again and again. The shape that represented what she was to the world.

The shape of a gun.

She had thousands now. Millions. Pistols, rifles, grenade launchers, howitzers, cruise missiles, and other things that the human animal had not yet been able to imagine. Great expanses of black powder, rivers of bullets and endless fields of firearms now rested in a space just behind her own life. And she had used them to escape.

The Shape of a Gun

http://www.scpwiki.com/the-shape-of-a-gun