Hey! Standard disclaimer, etc. Please read the next bit, it's kinda important
Disclosure: Consider this a warning about two things. First, if the story continues according to plan (which I have no reason to think it won't) there will be a pretty dark ending, mostly through implication. Second, this story will not make it to Golden Morning, as there is a definitive end point well before then (Even though I won't be following the stations of canon like, at all)
Make of that what you will :)
For anyone who reads my other stuff, I haven't abandoned it yet, just need a break, and have been working like 40 hours a week. Sucks, man. It'll probably take a while for the next updates in those ones. This one will be rather short, and is kinda mindless fun to get me back into writing.
I hope you enjoy! Any comments are welcome, however, if you post a criticism, please provide some manner of suggestion on improvement, or just be specific about /why/ you didn't enjoy it, as well as what you didn't enjoy :)
Being a sniper was weird. Not a problem most people would have to deal with, she couldn't imagine. The weirdest part was she hadn't sniped anyone, but she was still so sure of her identity. After waking up, there had been lots of distractions. Something about a hospital, and her father, and a mental ward – it all blurred together after a few weeks. Especially with the itching, oh, that horrible, relentless itching. An itch to pull a trigger and end a life. Gods, it barely mattered who, anymore.
Eventually, there was some mention of a money shortage, and she was set free. After those weeks, there were a few orders. Weird ones, but orders.
Attending school was less boring than waiting in a hospital bed, at least. Not for the lessons, gods no. Nor was it for the constant posturing, and threats, as amusing as it was to watch. Some of it felt familiar, three people in particular, but she didn't really care. They interacted with her a lot. So, friends, probably. Certainly, they hunted her down and spent time with her, one time they were even kind enough to give her a shower. With clothes on, but still a shower. Like with her father, the lack of any reaction seemed to make them more determined.
A sniper was nothing if not patient, and focused. Still, without a target, the constant nuisances would've been unbearable. But she had a target.
One of the three who kept interacting with her. Whenever she looked at them, there was that brief flicker of negative recollection, followed by a surge of joy. More than a month with no clear goal, and now, the girl was a target. Nothing seemed to set her apart from the other two, except for skin colour, but she didn't give a shit about that. There didn't need to be an indicator. It was a target.
By comparison to her time in the hospital, the next few weeks flew by. Studying every moment, without raising suspicion. Playing the game. Watching nervous habits, and ticks, developing a profile of it. After some tinkering with scraps of chemical, layering with a special mark. No matter the distance, through a scope, she would fine The Target. Despite the focus on it, they weren't a person, anymore. Her itching was still there, if contained. Something in the back of her mind made her think taking a life should be frowned upon, but every step planning the act brought elation.
It was amazing, how ending the life of another was what would give hers meaning.
For her first time, she intended to do it right. That was how she ended up following The Target through the night, dressed in it's costume. Talking with others in costumes. She recognised the others, vaguely. One more than others; Vista, someone who could warp reality. Oh, the possibilities were endless. Another, Clock, could pause time… and line up the perfect shot. Weirdly, they didn't carry guns.
Which was her other problem. It would take a fine gun to take The Target down. A dirty bullet from a mud-covered revolver wouldn't do. The world was cruel, death shouldn't have to be. Building something would take a lot more care than throwing together random chemicals, so even though information gathering was nowhere near its end, she started.
Every waking moment was spent analysing the target or working to their downfall. She couldn't describe how peaceful, how fulfilling, that was. Sometimes, The Target would return to it's HQ, where she couldn't follow. A perfect time to work on the schematics, while waiting for it to exit – usually having changed clothing. One time it stayed the night.
Annoying, but she'd made great headway into her schematics. If only the cold hadn't been so prevalent.
After a week of surveillance, she felt confident. The Target travelled in packs, and was rarely alone, but that wouldn't matter. No one was alone down the barrel of a sniper. Phasing through objects didn't help if you never saw them coming, so the weird quirk it had was worthless. To it. She would probably kill for that, there were so many applications. Especially since it applied to fired projectiles, for roughly 0.743 seconds. Likewise, the intangibility took 0.219 seconds from start to cover torso. A decent window, but it meant changes to her schematics. No real habits for bathroom breaks or eating. Mild consistency in night and day locations. What was most interesting, was an upcoming event, where it would be before a crowd, surrounded by its allies.
Seven weeks, her face had remained a neutral mask. It twitched upwards.
For a first target, it was important to do things right. Just as important to make people take notice. There would never be another chance quite like it, to stir up a crowd, to deliver her lethal silence to an unsuspecting victim. Even the rumour of a sniper would make people just a bit more paranoid. Snipers like her, that was. Not like the 'Militant' lady, who bore arms, and never killed.
For her to make the event, the gun would need to be sped up, and corners would need to be cut. That didn't mean the target could leave her sight, so the first thing she finished was her scope. Then, she called in sick, and spent her days working with what little she'd been able to scavenge, one eye locked at the targeting reticule.
The target strayed from less than one kilometre away, to more than one hundred and seven, in expected routes. As long as there were no unexpected changes to routine, things would proceed smoothly.
She could have finished effortlessly, with more than enough time. But a thought had come to her. Why should she hide in the shadows, content with a simple spray of blood, and the end of a life? Surely, there was something she could do, short on time as she was.
With two days remaining, a thing of beauty was finished. Not perfect, by any means – a disappointment. To her. But to the observers… her bullets would make up for a failure, she hoped. Her whisper wasn't aesthetic enough. Stable for a shot, and functional, but with strict limits on its capabilities. Four shots was all it would get before needing a repair. Despite this, a lotus lay engraved onto the side, and each of the four bullets, her one and only concession.
Whisper was bronze, and dull grey. There was no real grip, and the trigger was a straight bar. Even polished to a sheen the discoloured, uneven metal would never be a thing to admire, though it was quaint, in a way. Some parts near the chamber were missing, a passable substitute to eject spent rounds. Some of it's many rings could be spotter on the inside of the barrel, if one looked at the right angle. Some pieces were broken, when she'd found them. But it was a weapon. All in all, the gun was longer than her arms, and just as thick.
Despite the weight bearing down on her, slung over one shoulder, her step was light as a feather, with twenty-six and a half hours until the event.
Close rooftops, likely even far rooftops would be monitored, and searched. But just under a kilometre away was a multistorey building, with a storage closet that, for some reason, had a window pointed the right direction.
Twenty-four hours until the event, her stage was set. She returned to her sniper's perch.
Between her and the stage were buildings. From a perfect angle, aiming through six windows, just past a lamppost, and less than a millimetre from the edge of a building, she had a total of four inches to fit the one-and-a-half-inch projectile. In other words, just enough for her to get an angle on the whole stage.
Eighteen hours until the event, and her speakers started to pick up noise. No traps. There hadn't been time, and they would give the game away, get the event cancelled. But a shitty, broken phone? 'Disabled' radios? No one even bothered to check them. Nothing interesting was coming through, but one of the hidden ones would give her audio of the stage. Hadn't been found yet.
Twelve hours in they had finished setting up patrols, and the faceless, armoured grunts were instead methodically sweeping the area. Every room within four hundred metres. Every rooftop for nine hundred. Despite how clear the area near the stage was, there had been lots of cover left in the area. Smart. An appearance of cleanliness, and space, while actually having the place shut off from most directions.
Seven hours in, speakers one, three, four and seven picked up more audio as PRT snipers set up their own equipment in two of the more ideal sniper's dens, and two rather well-hidden ones. If they weren't in pairs, to prevent boredom, you'd have almost commended them.
Four hours, twenty-six minutes, nineteen seconds. One of the masked people, some 'Master of Arms', had entered the scene, doing last minute, very thorough checks. Another smile crept onto your face. Certainly, he might become a worth opponent, given… incentive. But he was too passive, and careless. Too efficient to waste time. Three of your decoy speakers were dealt with, as well as one functional one. No suspicion, just random pieces of junk that could, theoretically be dangerous.
Two hours, two more masks and a camera crew arrived.
Eighty-three minutes, she was starting to get nervous. Not in a recalcitrant way. There would be no hesitation. She allowed herself a slight shift, to ease the butterflies.
"Smile, everyone is watching…" she muttered. Not true in a literal sense, but it would still be her performance. Her chance to steal the show. Most importantly, a chance to end The Target. Publicly. As wonderful as it would be to use her most powerful bullet last, to ward off danger with the first three and instil panic, instead, it was chambered, and ready to fire. With better equipment, in the future, she could have more theatrics. For now… with a window that small? The first shot would kill it. Her three normal shots would go unused, most likely.
Fifty-four minutes, more reporters, and the target had begun to move in that general direction.
Thirty-Eight minutes, crowds were properly forming, and The Target, and multiple masks were waiting backstage.
Maybe stage wasn't accurate. Armoured walls thick enough to block her shot, in a fortified above-ground bunker would be more technical. But she preferred stage.
Twelve minutes before the event. Rifle up. All but three of her speakers turned off, as planned, running out of battery. Only the two to listen out for things near her location, and one near the Protectorate's stage. A deafening, meaningless din was ringing out almost silently, having to travel quite a ways to reach her speaker.
Negative three minutes. Noise had started properly, a grand, enthusiastic announcement, meaningless in nature.
Negative four, The Target was on the stage, and her finger itched, alongside some other masks. Second from the left, of eight total, in a 'v'. Her shot was lined up, against a stationary target.
There would be three leftover bullets, it seemed.
"…will continue to keep our city safe." The speaker rung out, transmitting a charismatic, empty voice, with charismatic, empty words.
As the mindless cheering begun, a single retort rang out. Dead centre of the collarbone, with shattered windows.
4.391 seconds later, the target shifted one inch to their left, an idle fidget. Whisper's bullet buried itself into her throat, pulsing with an arcane light for one moment. Then, a painting formed on the wall behind her, as she fell.
If it had been one fourth of a second faster, the shot would've been perfect. Something to note for future versions, slightly too slow – but a hard balance. Too much faster, it would've been one millimetre to the other side of the neck.
Screams rang out, muffle from distance. The masks sprang into action, as did the soldiers, spreading out after 0.797 seconds of shock, looking for the culprit. Against all odds, Master of Arms' visor looked in her direction.
Two spare bullets, them. A normal one scratched against his foot, eliciting a curse and a dash for cover. Vista had warped the body out of the way, a right shame that – it had completed the picture. The slightly imperfect picture. Her lotus, ruined by a bored twitch, the final action through which her target would be remembered. How droll.
There was another scream of agony as her bullet's secondary effect went off, launching fragments of enhanced wires into the first responder. Not quite lethal. Little permanent damage. Likely the reason had shot had been delayed those 0.391 seconds, but worth it, to paint a much more minor picture into the skin of whoever it had hit. Nothing fancy, just a simple mosaic, and a message.
Shooting one last look at her broken lotus, an immeasurable sense of satisfaction ran through her, before she finally scooped up her rifle and left. It wouldn't do to get caught; that would ruin the magic, and her chance of a second act.
Still… one thing was bugging her. Not the mistakes. For a rookie, some imperfections were… unavoidable. No, for there to be a performance, there had to be an audience. If not directly, then at least someone who could make a difference. An opponent, someone to witness, and appreciate her art. But it had to be sporting, or they'd grow bored. Desensitised. Desperation would add such a tension to her. And already, she could sense her next target. For the third time, a smile creeped on her face.
Using the spent shells as a paperweight, Taylor scrawled out a note, and left it in view. On the side, a quick sketch of a lotus, and a flared signature. Not her name. The name of one who would become larger than life.
With that, she left – or she risked being caught. That would ruin the fun, and the show.
(9 0 _ 0 9)
It took six minutes for Armsmaster to reach the building and storm the stairs. They would be gone, he knew they would. But he would never forgive himself for not trying. Losing a colleague hurt. But he had never lost a ward under his command. Until then. His first action was to scan for traps, they'd seen him coming. Had shot at him. Deep down, he knew that it wasn't to kill, or he'd be dead. Their first shot had been tinkertech, what had grazed his foot was a normal bullet.
No traps. No fingerprints, or DNA, from his preliminary scan. No sign of the culprit bar an immaculate note, propped up by ejaculated casings, mocking him with it's presence. Taunting him.
Not yet. First, a recorder flicked on, and he analysed the room. With no one else nearby, coldness ran through his voice.
"Preliminary observations on the crime scene, temporary designation 'sniper's nest', April Fourth, two thousand and eleven. Armsmaster on site, reporting and recording before altering any evidence. The lock of the door was broken. It is doubtful the unnamed parahuman, temporarily designated 'Locus' for this recording, holds any connection to the building."
There was a long pause as his eyes swept the room, allowing his visor to record its state. Finally, he walked to the shattered window.
"Codename Lotus has so far exerted these inhuman feats. Thinker three; a shot that should've been impossible, even to trained snipers, almost matching the longest recorded shots by non-parahumans. Both shots were taken with flawless accuracy, the first striking less than an inch from perfectly centred, and the second being a warning shot. Both were taken through multiple layers of windows. Tinker thre – tinker four, or blaster four. Whatever rifle used ignored the effects of gravity and wind or would've impacted buildings. Shot one had additional effects, crippling and blinding hero Vista, who was extracting the… victim. Non-lethal, possibly by intent, and carved deep in a way that would have caused minimal scarring."
It hurt, to have to analyse the situation. To think about their capabilities. But the more they knew about whoever was responsible, the sooner Colin would be able to take them down. That in mind, he picked up the note. Reading it left his teeth clenched, and somehow made the whole thing worse. Because even with how immaculately prepared the violent murder of a teenager under his care had been, even having taken the time to taunt him by note… there was no visible motive.
~ (It seems a little birdy has sharp eyes… my next show)
(will have to bear something worth admiration, then.)
(I hope you'll forgive a painter's slip with a brush. Art)
(shouldn't be tarnished by my fault, I know. To serve)
(as apology, I'll allow insight to my next performance) ~
~Regards, Jhin~
He growled, fist tightening by his side. An elegant lotus marked a desire for him to turn the page.
Any information was another step to taking them down, he reminded himself. If they were crazy enough to already be planning a second target, and stupid enough to leave a hint, he would do anything he could to shut them down. Should their target be another of his wards…
Even if there was no kill order, he would stop them.
~ (Nine godless animals,)
(One safe through plea)
(An attack dog was caged)
(But death sets them free)
(Eight pups remaining)
(One bound to a hate,)
(Reset through oppression)
(No more were there eight) ~
"Concluding the recording of preliminary observations," his cool voice rang out. There was a slight click, before he buried his fist in a wall, and screamed in anguish.
Sorry that I couldn't format the 'poem' correctly. makes that hard. If you want to read it with decent indentation for whatever reason, just head over to SV.