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Title; Sniper
Rating; PG
Fandom; FMA
Summary; Ishbal-era; the life of a sniper.
Wordcount; 506
She'd gotten used to a sea of faces. There were flashes of blue down below her, too far down to distinguish gaits, faces only visible through the scope of her rifle.
Anytime there was a surge of brown and red, a flash of metal, she aimed, fired, and listened to the rhythmically timed clatter as the casing hit the ground next to her.
Sometimes the blue-clad soldiers didn't even know there had been someone behind them, didn't know there had been someone in front of them, didn't see around the corner she could, didn't know how close they had been to death.
Those soldiers died.
Sometimes the soldiers saw their enemy coming, and had no time to react, or had foolishly forgotten their gun. Their faces were one of stunned relief after she took down the attacking Ishvarite. Those were the ones who turned their faces towards her perch, as if to make sure that the bullet hadn't been a figment of their own imaginations.
Those were the ones whose faces she could see, through the scope of her rifle. Those soldiers died less often.
She knew, vaguely, that the other soldiers in camp talked about her. That there was a sniper on our side, crack shot, might as well have the eye of a hawk, the sniper's perch hadn't even been that close.
The soldiers got sloppy sometimes, if they knew she was on duty. She didn't know for sure- but after a while it seemed that more of them went to the edge of the camp without their guns.
Because sometimes the soldiers saw their enemy coming, and fumbled for their weapon, panic in their eye, only to stop in relief when the shot sounded and the enemy dropped down at their feet, headshot having killed them instantly. They would turn to her perch and smile sheepishly, waving a hand at her unseeing.
Her face never changed expression when she took down an enemy. Never changed expression when she saw faces through her scope. She had learned early that she had to discard all parts of herself that were not her orders when she laid on the platform with her finger on the trigger.
Occasionally the soldiers came up to her after her shift had ended, after she had finished cleaning her weapon, and sat silently at the fire. If anyone came, it was the soldiers who knew she had been there quicker than they had, the ones who hadn't been sloppy. They offered their words of thanks, quietly, and she accepted them quietly. And then, it seemed, there was nothing else to say. Sometimes they asked about her, what her rank was, and where she was from. Sometimes they sat with her at the fire for a few minutes, gnawing on old bread or sipping at the black coffee the army gave them. But they always slipped away after a time.
She didn't know it was because the death they'd seen so close up, delivered by her finger, was reflected in those eyes.
Rating; PG
Fandom; FMA
Summary; Ishbal-era; the life of a sniper.
Wordcount; 506
She'd gotten used to a sea of faces. There were flashes of blue down below her, too far down to distinguish gaits, faces only visible through the scope of her rifle.
Anytime there was a surge of brown and red, a flash of metal, she aimed, fired, and listened to the rhythmically timed clatter as the casing hit the ground next to her.
Sometimes the blue-clad soldiers didn't even know there had been someone behind them, didn't know there had been someone in front of them, didn't see around the corner she could, didn't know how close they had been to death.
Those soldiers died.
Sometimes the soldiers saw their enemy coming, and had no time to react, or had foolishly forgotten their gun. Their faces were one of stunned relief after she took down the attacking Ishvarite. Those were the ones who turned their faces towards her perch, as if to make sure that the bullet hadn't been a figment of their own imaginations.
Those were the ones whose faces she could see, through the scope of her rifle. Those soldiers died less often.
She knew, vaguely, that the other soldiers in camp talked about her. That there was a sniper on our side, crack shot, might as well have the eye of a hawk, the sniper's perch hadn't even been that close.
The soldiers got sloppy sometimes, if they knew she was on duty. She didn't know for sure- but after a while it seemed that more of them went to the edge of the camp without their guns.
Because sometimes the soldiers saw their enemy coming, and fumbled for their weapon, panic in their eye, only to stop in relief when the shot sounded and the enemy dropped down at their feet, headshot having killed them instantly. They would turn to her perch and smile sheepishly, waving a hand at her unseeing.
Her face never changed expression when she took down an enemy. Never changed expression when she saw faces through her scope. She had learned early that she had to discard all parts of herself that were not her orders when she laid on the platform with her finger on the trigger.
Occasionally the soldiers came up to her after her shift had ended, after she had finished cleaning her weapon, and sat silently at the fire. If anyone came, it was the soldiers who knew she had been there quicker than they had, the ones who hadn't been sloppy. They offered their words of thanks, quietly, and she accepted them quietly. And then, it seemed, there was nothing else to say. Sometimes they asked about her, what her rank was, and where she was from. Sometimes they sat with her at the fire for a few minutes, gnawing on old bread or sipping at the black coffee the army gave them. But they always slipped away after a time.
She didn't know it was because the death they'd seen so close up, delivered by her finger, was reflected in those eyes.
