Blowhard frowns and wrenches the weapon from the dead soldier's body. He slips the strap over his shoulder and holds the weapon up for her to see: it, like the armor, is painted bright white and emblazoned with a bright red eye logo. The gentle humming it exudes can be heard very faintly in the aftermath of the detonation.
"...Do you see this?"
Anyone with Carnage's degree of weapons experience could easily place it, down to the very last component: it was a RedSea Arms Reaver-Pattern Automatic Shotgun--known as the "Widowmaker" by the classy and uncreative, and the "Cockshredder" by the scatalogically-inclined. It was something of an iconic design among black ops circles: eighteen-inch barrel with six inches of muzzle brake, fully-automatic nine-shell magazine, magnetic pylons inserted at strategic points along the barrel to allow the user to switch between a back-mounted stance and a hoof-grip stance at a moment's notice: it even had a grip for anyone with a finger aug.
That wasn't what made it famous, however: the Cockshredder's claim to fame was what it spit out the other end. It had been pioneered back during a particularly nasty spell of rioting, back when the laws and customs took second fiddle to just keeping the rebellion down. It used a special line of shells that were roughly two and a half inches wide: after firing, instead of launching pellets, it launched a pellet wholesale much like a grenade. After impact, a small explosive in the tip of the shell would discharge eight superheated flechettes into its poor target, which would in turn cook off their own micro-explosives. Suffice to say, what was left after it clicked wasn't pretty.
The Cockshreader was innacurate and difficult to use, but it was the undisputed God of short corridor-clearing.
It was also so amazingly illegal that you weren't even allowed to look at one unless you had more military pins than you had legs.
"Who the hell can get their hooves on..."
He shakes his head and stands up, collecting the fallen pony's ammunition pouch as he goes.
"Well, guess I always wanted to use one of these."
He stands at the top of the stairs, mounting the shotgun on his saddlebag grip, and nods towards Carnage.
"Hey, C. You remember the carousel?"
"The carousel" was a name he used to euphemistically refer to a stylish, amusing, and rather unsafe maneuver: where she would leap onto his back and he would gallop around the place screaming bloody murder, sucking up fire while she got a clean shot at anything and everything.
So called for obvious reasons.
"...Weird. He's not even trying to stop the jammers."
"Hiding", such as it is, is something of a fickle practice. It requires being out of your enemy's sight--generally accomplished by cowering behind an opaque (preferably thick) object and sitting very still; keeping the noise you create to a minimum (again, generally accomplished by keeping still); and keeping your bowels under control so that you do not betray yourself with an errant fart or a burst of terrified urine (this does not always require standing still, but it is advised all the same).
But, of course, that is only the act of sneaking, which encompasses but one of the many facets of hiding. Another such facet is the time-honored art of disguise, which is something you have some amateurish degree of skill with. To disguise yourself is to pretend to be someone else, which enables you to hide without being quiet or ducking behind objects or much of anything at all, terribly. To disguise oneself is to assume the identity, you see, of another: and it involves mimicry of the highest magnitude. You must wear the clothes, mimic the voice, imitate the accent, and master the specific walk of your enemy: and in this way, you might assume his place.
Of course, hiding goes beyond that.
"Hiding" can simply be telling a lie--concealing the truth via sleight of hoof or a well-chosen word, that others might accept your reality and substitute their own. Stage magicians, are liars; children are liars; politicians and moneylenders are accomplished liars, more often than not. "Hiding" could mean stealing the cookie from the jar and framing your brother, or secreting away an aggressive interest policy within the fine print.
Given that you are not stupid enough to attempt and lie yourself away (at least, not twice), and disguise will serve little use, sneaking served you best--at least it did, right up until a high-powered sniper bullet hit the sofa you were hunkered behind, distorting the metal frame and causing the steel to "punch" you squarely in your ribs.