He felt the gun on the back of his neck, it's cold steel sending a shiver down his spine. He knew his mind was about 5 seconds from just giving up and running off.
He couldn't let that happen.
He drew in a deep, quiet breath, and began to speak to his unseen assailant.
"The gun's on the table, sir...or, rather, the shell is. It's, quite honestly, useless." He chanced a quick glance, to show the socket in the gun where the discharge piling had once been attached. After flipping his eyes around in a quick hope that he could glance the one behind him, but, to no avail.
He continued.
"The discharge piling is in my left pocket. I believe I felt it snap as I placed it there..." He slightly shook his head, again feeling the barrel of the weapon behind him, whatever it was.
Slowly reaching down, he slipped out the rusted and cold discharge piling. As he had expected, it was in two pieces, and he held up them both to his side, dangling between his thumb and forefinger. He then slid the gun in his other hand, and dangled it the same way.
He sighed. It was a junk gun, but, all the same, it had meaning. But, his head ALSO had meaning, a great deal more than a piece of scrap metal.
So, he focused more on keeping that, instead of the gun.