Low Light hated windy days.

Even a moderate breeze made a significant difference in a bullet's trajectory when that trajectory covered better than a mile. Normally, snipers had spotters to help them gauge wind speed, temperature, distance, and other important considerations, but Low Light usually worked solo.

He liked it better that way. Spotters talked too much and distracted him. Besides, he'd learned long ago to accurately estimate wind speed without having to use any distracting charts or gauges.

He squinted at the long grass he was hidden in, examining how it swayed and moved. Blowing north-northeast, at about eleven knots. He put his eye back to the scope on his rifle and adjusted the angle by several degrees.

He liked jobs like this. Alone, with just himself and his rifle and his objective. It made everything very simple, and Low Light liked it when things stayed simple. It was one of the reason people and conversation weren't his favorite things; people were complicated, and social interaction was even more so.

It was why he disliked wind, too. Wind made things more complicated, but at least it could be understood and compensated for.

He settled his cheek against his rifle, squinted through the scope, and breathed.

Like any skilled sniper, he knew when the shot was right. He took a breath, let half of it out, and then squeezed the trigger in between heartbeats.

It took a couple of seconds for the bullet to travel the mile and a quarter to his target, but it hit dead on. The fifty caliber bullet smashed into the generator in the COBRA camp like a sledgehammer. Sparks showered everywhere, smoke started to rise, and the camp descended into panicked confusion as the floodlights set up around the perimeter flickered out.

Low Light smiled. In his ear, he could hear the chatter over the radios as his team mates moved in. He switched his goggles to night vision, chambered another round, and started sweeping the camp for secondary targets.

One tech managed to get to the emergency generator. Low Light shot him through the chest, and took out a good chunk of the emergency generator with him. One Viper commander started yelling his men into something resembling order; he got a bullet through the brainpan. A Crimson Guard commander emerged from the largest tent wearing boxers and struggling into his uniform; Low Light shot him before he could finish getting his pants zipped.

The rest of the raid went smoothly.

Later, on the chopper ride back to base, Low Light nodded cordially to his team mates, in a good mood.

"Fun day." He said, and went about cleaning his rifle.

"That dude is creepier than Snake Eyes." He heard Shipwreck mutter this to Grunt.

Grunt made a vaguely affirmative noise. "Be glad he's on our side."

Low Light just ignored them.