Quagmire stored his bolt-action back in his inventory, lowered his right hand, and pulled out his pistol from his holster. The scent of chemicals and death filled the surroundings. His adrenaline-fueled heart started to slow down, as his sight stabilized and his breathing returned to normal. The color in his palms returned once his tight hold over his weapons was relaxed.
As many things had happened within the following minutes, he placed his index finger along the frame, pressed the release button, caught the magazine that fell, threw it in his spatial inventory, grabbed another one from the pouch, and inserted it right back in the magazine well. With a clicking sound, it was locked in, to which he then pulled the slide back, and a new round came into the chamber, ready to be fired.
