I WAS MADE RIGHT

I was made right.

Not holy.

Not evil.

Right.

I was not the first of my kind.

That is important.

Others that came before me were heavier, cruder and frankly more temperamental. They misfired and jammed. They required patience and expertise to use properly.

Not me.

Steel cut clean. Polymer poured warm. Parts fitted by hands that rusted diagrams more than doubt. They tightened my tolerances. Smoothed my feed and gave me a voice no other could imitate.

I was an improvement.

I learned early that humans love labels.

To protect the raw steel from rust, I underwent a chemical transformation called bluing.

Rack. Click. Rack.

I passed the test.

That is the second label I learned: Passing was fine.

The testing bench was the last place I felt the sterile touch of a machine. After that, I was signed, sealed, delivered and received in the cool echoing confines of the armory.

“Number 400492,” a stern voice read from a manifest.

I was taken from my simple cardboard box by a large hand belonging to a man whose face was a study in concentration. He didn’t just grab me, he assessed me, caressed me,

“This one looks solid,” he said.

He checked my serial number against a paper form pinned to a clipboard and used a small, sharp tool to scratch his initials near the grip base.

"Sign here, Officer Miller," the stern voice instructed the new hand holding me.

"Yes, Sergeant," Miller said. His voice was steady, but I felt a subtle tremor in his grip—He lifted me, his thumb tracing the smooth curve of my trigger guard. He had already gone through weeks of dry firing, safety lectures, and range qualifications but he still wasn’t sure.

He performed the 'press check' he'd been taught: pulling my slide back just enough to confirm I was empty, as protocol demanded when receiving new property.

"Clean it tonight, Miller," the Sergeant ordered. "Range qual at 0700 tomorrow sharp. Don't be late."

"Understood, Sarge."

I was placed not in a box, but into a stiff, new leather holster strapped to his belt. The smell of the tanning leather was strong, mixing with the starch of his uniform. The metal snap of the retention strap clicked shut, securing me firmly against his side.

Life was easy.

My first owner, Miller Barnes, believed in order. He’d clean me after shifts, laid me out on the kitchen table like a meal. He would even talk to me while he ate.

“Partner, I hope I never have to use you.”

Hope is for the weak. It doesn’t change metallurgy.

The leather of the holster grew supple over the weeks, molding to the shape of Miller’s hip. I became a weight he expected, a constant, silent partner in the rhythm of his day.

Then came the call. It wasn't the voice of a dispatcher; it was a frantic burst of static and desperation over the radio—another officer, screaming for "Code 3" back-up.

Miller’s heart rate spiked. I felt it through the holster, a rapid, rhythmic thrumming against the polymer of my frame. The world became a blur of blue lights and screaming sirens. We arrived to see two officers down on the ground. Beside them were a couple of rusted crates. Quickly, Miller moved to check their pulses when..

“Give me the gun,” a high-pitched voice spoke from behind us. “Slowly…”

Miller stood, slowly drawing me and gave me back to the assailant.

I felt the assailant's hand—it was slick with a cold, greasy sweat, a sharp contrast to Miller’s disciplined grip. He pressed my muzzle firmly against the base of Miller’s skull.

Just an inch. Miller turned his head.  Just enough to catch a glimpse of the man holding me.

That was a mistake.

The recognition in Miller’s eyes was the catalyst that started my story. The assailant’s pulse jumped, a jagged, electric shock that traveled through his palm and into my frame. Before he could squeeze, Miller slammed an elbow into his ribs. The assailant didn’t go down, instead spun and choked Miller.

“Give it…up, Miller!” the assailant wheezed, his weight bearing down, trying to pin Miller against a crate.

Miller’s boots skidded on the gravel. He pushed back slightly, then slammed his hand into the assailant’s wrist, redirecting my aim away from his brain. We became a blurred knot of limbs and desperation. I was at the center of their universe, being jerked back and forth. Miller’s fingers found my grip but the assailant’s finger was hooked deep inside my guard.

He jerked his arm upward. In that tangle of sweat, Miller’s arm caught against the assailant’s knuckle, pulling his finger tight.

Four pounds of pressure. That’s all it took.

Crack.

The recoil was a violent snap. I finally spoke, the sound swallowing the area whole. The assailant stepped back letting me go but Miller’s grip didn’t. He slid backward, his back scraping against the crate. I felt his grip falter—a sensation of falling, of gravity reclaiming what it was owed.

We hit the ground together.

Then came the warmth. It wasn't the warmth of the polymer mold or the chemical heat of the bluing tank. It was thick and metallic. It spilled over Miller’s hand and onto my slide, seeping into the grooves.

I lay there, feeling the life-force of the man who carried me leave.

My first kill.

The assailant stood there, his chest heaving, staring at the smoking hole in Miller’s chest. Sirens blew from the distance, followed by the thump-thump-thump of boots as a group men circled around him.

“Shi,t man! What do we do?!” one of them barke,d shaking him. “If we lose the haul, Silas will have our heads!”

The assailant turned stiffly. “Um…uh, take the shipments!” he shrieked with a high-pitched voice. “Get them to the van, now!”

The men scrambled, tossing the heavy crates with uncoordinated speed. The sirens were reflecting on the assailant’s pale face by the time the van left, leaving him and one other person.

He reached down and yanked me from the blood.

“Take this,” he hissed, shoving me into the man’s hands. “Get rid of it, Xander. Far away from here.”

“Where?!” Xander protested, fidgeting with my grip. “This piece is covered in ‘blue’ blood. If they find it on me….”

“Shut up and do as I say!” the assailant yelled, grabbing the man’s vest. "Dispose of it carefully. And tell the crew to stay under until this dies down.”

Xander ran, leaving Miller’s body behind in a blur. His pace was a frantic, desperate scramble through the dark alleys. The fear coursing through his veins was palpable, unlike anything I’d ever felt.

"Too hot," he whimpered to himself, stumbling over a loose brick. "Too f...king hot."

He wasn't running to anywhere. He was running from me. All his senses were focused on the sirens that filled the night sky. He needed me gone. I was ‘hot.’ He ran past three dumpsters before finding the perfect one: a rusted, overflowing bin behind a shuttered grocery store, sealed off the main street.

His hands were shaking so violently that I nearly slipped from his grasp before he could aim me. He threw me. I tumbled through the air, the wind whistling through my trigger guard. I landed with a dull thud atop a mountain of filth—shredded paper, rotting fruits, and the sour remains of a city’s waste. A heavy plastic bag of household shit landed on top of me, smushing me into the rot.

Hours—or perhaps days passed—The metallic tang of Miller’s blood began to dry, turning into a crusty, brown ghost on my steel. The chemical scent of the bluing was drowned out by the stench of decomposition.

I had been made right. I had been an improvement. I had been a partner.

Now I was disposable.

I waited for the "Rack. Click. Rack." I waited for the cleaning kit and the soft cloth. Instead, I heard the heavy, hydraulic groan of a garbage truck turning the corner. Buried in the belly of the dumpster, I knew I was done.

Then a hand grabbed me.