Steampunk Pistol Novels & Stories

Not a single spark of pity. I shed my coat, tossing it onto the leather couch, and gave a sharp nod to Unique Wilson, my sotto capo. Without a word, he handed me my weapon of choice: a .32 ACP calibre, the Welrod. It was a small piece of machinery, but it was efficient—designed to bury a soul before they even heard the shot. Its built-in silencer made it my personal favorite. I tucked the gun into the waistband of my trousers and stepped into the dining area. I didn't use the gun yet. Instead, I let my fists do the talking. The room filled with the rhythmic sound of bone meeting flesh and his pathetic begging.

I pulled out guns from the steampunk holsters that were strapped around my hips. A knight shot a hellhound around me and it was absorbed into the bullet and then the bullet fell to the ground. The hellhounds lunged at me all together. I swirled, shooting at all of them incessantly. Some were absorbed in one bullet, some took several bullets. The dark mana was still irregular. But there was a limit to how many bullets I could shoot at a time. Killian kept summoning the hellhounds. Soon, I ran out of bullets, and Killian waited for this opportunity.

His ferocious eyes made the men step back. Nicholas gave his signal. His men backed off slowly, but they remained alert. “Mr. Thompson, just go in if you like a cup of coffee. Are you trying to secretly learn and start your own cafe by hiding at the door?” Nicholas scoffed. He peeped at the pistol in his hand at the corner of his eye. It was small, the best pistol to carry around. The unique patterns on the grip hinted that the pistol was expensive. It was called the Glock. It was small, but its lethality was three times higher than the regular pistols.

(Stormy) Stormy fished out a small handgun, in fact it even smaller than the Glock 19, a musket made of wood and irons kinda reminds me of the pirate musket. Polly who seated on the side just shrugged her shoulder as she looked at me, and secretly signalling that I probably have to demonstrate to her a little bit.

Lisa half-turned around to face Pamela. "Do you want your gun back?" Pamela offered up a police issue Glock-22, grip first. My kind of gun. How sad. I was too depressed to seduce Officer Lisa. Brewster reached around to check is firearm. It was still there, much to his relief. "How did you do that?" Lisa wondered as she retrieved and inspected her weapon. Pamela tapped Brewster's shoulder with the man's magazine. Brewster was aghast. She'd stolen his gun, taken out the ammo and returned it without him noticing.

“Yeah. Something small. Something that fits in a purse and don’t forget.. it should be fully fucking loaded.” He nodded slowly. Honestly, I was really hoping he understood exactly what kind of “small” I meant, and led me toward the glass case at the back. Rows of handguns sat gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and for a second I just stared at them, feeling something settle in my chest that almost felt like calm. If they wanted a war, I’d give them one. “This one’s popular with women your size,” he said, sliding a compact black pistol across the counter and over to me. “Easy grip, light recoil.”

I always knew that the merchant was a shady man, and yet- I still bought these bad babies. They look damn great on me after all. I could see the silhouette from a distance. I lowered my crimson hood and cracked my fingers before pulling out my favorite cobalt flintlock. I place my thumb on the trigger- ready to shoot whatever would come to me. I could hear the screams of the anguished villagers who were devoured by the nightly and inhumane beasts. I look up to the sky and fixated my viridescent orbs on the bright, yellow moon.

Precision rested on steady hands, careful observation, and a complete lack of hesitation. He lifted the sleek, customized pistol, checking the threaded suppressor attached to the barrel. The weapon carried a heavy, balanced weight in his leather-gloved hand. Sliding his thumb over the magazine release, he verified the seating of the nine hollow-point rounds. He only needed two bullets tonight. One for the billionaire. One for the wife.

Amy tried not to let the maniacal Joker-like laughter distract her. The woman soldier ignored the pain radiating through her punctured wrist. She had another trick up her sleeve, hoping her crazed laughter would distract Amy. The soldier almost captured Amy when she pulled out her Ruger SR9 semi-automatic pistol, aiming it at Amy. But the Death Row Infantry-woman forgot to reload her magazine, which meant her gun was empty. The soldier pulled the trigger, only to hear her gun respond with a click.

Bryan immediately dipped his hand into his pocket and handed him the money, while the man’s partner gave him two small wrapped powdery substance. He turned his back at them to face Jamal who was already crossing the street, while making his way towards him. He winked at his partner who winked back at him, before he made a quick U-turn while removing his pistol from under his belt at the same time. “DEA! On your knees!” Bryan yelled at the men who had a look of surprise for a second, before they both made to pull out their weapons from the small cross bags they hung across their shoulders.