Play, Albedo called it, but Junior's word for it was far different. War. What they were designed for, what gave his own existence any semblance of meaning. There was nothing for a U.R.T.V. but this. Fighting tooth and nail and, evidently, gun to finish a mission that he'd come to despise.

He reached out to catch the gun as it sailed towards him, noting the green light but ignoring it when no physical harm was forthcoming. The muscle extension made his shoulder wound positively burn and the dark stain on his shirt grow, but he kept that pose until the gun was securely in his grip. Then the redhead held the injured arm close to his body while spinning the pistol around on his opposite hand so that he could grab it better.

His finger was on the gun's trigger even before Albedo finished speaking and he aimed for the same arm he'd hit with the sword earlier. Junior squeezed the trigger as the last syllable fell from his twin's mouth, then again in succession.