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As crossing the teleconferencing center Morgan found a small, silenced pistol. The first time he used it, he aimed the crosshair at a writhing mimic. After the black alien substance remains splattering across the floor, Morgan turned the gun’s muzzle toward himself.
A confusion welling up from the depth of his heart: Do people who commit suicide with a gun aim at their temples?
Though his memory was muddled, fragments of common sense faintly warned him this wasn’t the right approach, because the angle of shot might not be ninety degrees due to tension or other factors, causing it's unable to strike cleanly at the temple and only damages the brain leaving him alive in agony, so Morgan adjusted the weapon pressing it against the roof of his mouth.
From a technical standpoint, this too was flawed. Small-caliber firearms lacked the firepower for a clean kill. He would endure excruciating pain and heavy bleeding if the first shot failed. Once again, Morgan reoriented the weapon, deciding not to kill himself by pistol. He reloaded and took it back into his Transtar suit.
He needed a more powerful firearm, ideally one loaded with hollow-point rounds. The Maguire shotgun, a Yu family heirloom etched with dark gold filigree, would have been perfect.
However Morgan was too unfortunate to find a hint that his family was concerned about a rebellious son in space, he steeled himself and began climbing the network of pipes crisscrossing the ceiling, searching for a weapon to end his life. While January, his AI companion, followed him up to the ventilation ducts and watching him from behind for a long time with its mechanical blue eyes.
Unimpeded, Morgan finally secured the shotgun. A powerful weapon that would wipe out the phantom with the name of someone he had known in just four shots. If he pressed the barrel into his mouth, its large-caliber rounds would tear through his hindbrain or brainstem, severing arterial vessels in an instant. It promised a swift death.
Morgan returned his executive office and sat in his chair at his desk, the most powerful weapon he'd found resting upright between his parted legs.
The place he had seen as home in the last three years was shrouded in slience, broken only by the faint hum of machinery as a operator drone returned, but the minor disturbance failed to draw the attention of the would-be suicide, he just asked himself: There's one thing I want to know, how do people typically end their lives with a gun?
"You’re holding it wrong," January said. "Soldiers without pistols use a spoon to pull the trigger on their rifles. Your grip will weaken your force and throw off the trajectory."
"I can could use a wrench or my toe," Morgan replied, "it is a shotgun. The recoil of a long firearm is stable, and the cavity effect will end me instantly."
"It's not elegant, Morgan." January lowered itself to speak from beneath him rather than above, It sounded almost like a real volunteer, desperately trying to save a dying soul, "your face would be torn apart, like a cherry cake sliced open."
"I have seen wartime documentaries when my parents taught me history. People lost control of their bodies, their ability to move, their consciousness, all in an instant. " Morgan's voice devoid of emotion, "I can remember those images vividly, and now it's time to forget them."