The gun barely remembered being a person. The transfer process made things cloudy. Maybe that was the point. They need you to remember the training, where to aim, how to sever a spinal chord at five hundred yards, but not where you come from, or who you were before basic.
The gun helped frightened boys kill and maim. It sang them lullabies in cramped foxholes. It told them everything would be alright and soon they’d get to go home. The gun watched as the humanity seeped from their eyes, welcoming another brother into the fold.