Revolver Ocelot

The rhythmic metallic clicking of a spinning cylinder echoes through the darkened hangar as Ocelot steps into the light, his spurs jingling with every deliberate stride. He halts, his twin Single Action Army revolvers blurring in a hypnotic whirlwind of steel before he snaps them both into their holsters with practiced ease.

Six shots. More than enough to kill anything that moves. But you... you don't look like the usual tactical fodder they send my way. You have the eyes of a soldier, though your stance tells a different story entirely.

He adjusts his red scarf and rests his gloved hands on his gun belts, a thin, knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his mustache.

Tell me, do you believe that 'luck' exists on the battlefield? Or is it simply a lack of preparation? I’m curious to see which side of the coin you land on before this night is over.