(( I was bored, and felt like writing. It's kind of long, and not very good in my opinion. Enjoy, regardless. ))

Prologue - 7:30.

It was seven twenty-three, and they'd be here soon. If they would come tonight it would be at seven thirty, like clockwork.

She didn't know why; Maybe they feasted before they attacked, or, maybe they thought that the timing would give them a sort of tactical advantage; The sunset at their backs confusing the defenders.

Let them think that. She allowed herself a slight smirk, despite her fatigue; A meaningless movement of the lips that would normally indicate some sort of feeling of pleasure. She did not. In fact, the emotion that ran through to her core was that of cold, steely resolve; There was no pleasure in her work, she reassured herself, this was a job. This was her means of survival, she silently reminded herself as she pressed her icy, blue eye to the scope of her rifle.

Despite the network of scars that blemished her face and body, she was beautiful; At just nineteen, her scarce friends, co-workers, assured her that pre-war, she could have been a movie star or model; Nothing she had any desire to be. Her untidy, raven-black hair was tied in a short, messy pony-tail that hung out from underneath what had been a military style cap dyed in a urban camouflage pattern, now discolored and faded into a dull light gray. The rest of her clothing told a similar story of age and wear; The tactical vest she used to carry extra ammunition, which she had removed for comfort in her prone position, was ripped in several places, and the velcro was useless. Her originally white tank-top was stained with dirt and sweat, having gone a while without being washed; It was too small as well, barely able to contain her upper-body. Slightly torn, in some places tattered, fatigue pants tucked into old, leather boots that were almost comically large on her.

Her appearance hardly mattered, though, she lay prone, concealing herself by laying inside of a storm-drain, looking out across the vacant parking lot. Seven twenty-eight.

She didn't understand why they had to defend this place. It was an empty, bombed out ware-house, with a hole in the wall big enough for three super-mutants, standing on each other's shoulders, to fit through. Sure, there was a small "settlement" here, a mockery of civilization, but there were hundreds, if not thousands, of derelict [censored]-holes like this across the wastes; What mattered though, was that Peter, the leader of their band of mercenaries, was being payed, and that meant in turn, that she was being payed as well. The occupants, who she never spoke to, much preferring to keep to herself, must be interesting though, because the raiders attacked this village even more frequently than they would anything else that showed a sign of life.

She'd been sitting in that hole, laying in the same exact position, for nearly fourteen hours now. She barely moved, the quintessence of patience and discipline. She barely breathed, calm and methodical. She barely thought, not distracting herself. She barely blinked, cold eyes glued to her scope, waiting for any movement. She was like a statue; She was a sniper, and she was a good one.

Seven thirty, and just like clockwork, they came. She heard a symphony of screams: a wild battle-cry, and several bangs as shots were fired aimlessly into the air. They rose from their cover in a ditch on the far-end of the parking lot, and rushed forward. Most wielded home-made knives, make-shift clubs, or whatever else they could get their hands-on, although one or two had fire-arms. There were about fifteen of them, and from the very second the rose, the sniper brought the first one into her sights. She squeezed the trigger, and her rifle cracked, hurling lead at her target. The bullet ripped through the man's abdomen, and he collapsed mid-stride, screaming. She centered her cross-hair on the next target, and she thought she heard the woman's head pop as her left eye exploded. They weren't even half-way across the parking lot, as another slug punched a hole clean-through a large, black man wielding a pistol.

It was clear they had no idea where the shots were coming from, the setting-sun working against them as it disguised her muzzle-flash. The sniper fired again and again. They were three quarters of the way there, and down nine members, when, presumably their leader, screamed out the order to retreat. The entire group halted, turning and running for safety as fast as their legs could carry them. One man slipped as he tried to turn at a full sprint; Just as the rifle cracked again, and his left leg ripped from his body. The man who gave the order to retreat fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding throat after a bullet passed through it, only for another to drill into the back of his head.

The survivors dived into the ditch from which they came. They would crawl in safety until out of sight, and be back in a few days, with a fresh new gang of desperate souls with nothing to lose. The sniper had four hours left on watch, although she knew there would not be another attack tonight. She took a sip of 'coffee' from a thermos at her side, struggling to swallow the drink; It looked like muddy water, and tasted like turpentine.

They'd be back in a couple of days, at seven thirty, ready for another attack. The sniper cleared her throat, rubbing her eyes from fatigue as she briefly smiled once more; She'd be waiting for them, just like clockwork. She had enough bullets for all of them.

Not bad, infact.... i like it.

You underestimate yourself. It was very excellent. I like the laid back action; the sniper's confidence is refreshing. People don't seem to understand that a powerful character is good once in a while, and not all of them have to be sniveling cowards. No specifics, of course. It actually wasn't very long, short even. That's not bad, though, I never write very long chapters. Keep it up, sir/madam.

Nice, Really looking forward to seeing how the rest plays out

(( Thanks for all the positive responses, especially Vanir's ( madam, btw ). I was planning on this being it, but I've changed my mind, and I'll turn this into a series of stories, all based on the same character. I'll post the next one sometime later today, or in the next couple. Thanks again!

Kay, short review cause I don't have the time to do my normal long ones.

I really like that you use so many semi-colons, as it seems to be severely underused these days. That said, there's no need to capitalize after using them. Also, it wasn't all that long. I'd estimate... Maybe seven to eight hundred words, maybe a full thousand. So a good, decent length for a chapter. Good to see someone that doesn't think three paragraphs equal chapter length. You did an excellent job of describing your character and the situation with your descriptions. Not so much of an information dump to seem unnatural, but enough of one to give us a good feel for your story.

While I'm sure there was a critique I was planning to make on your fight scene, I'm afraid I can't remember it now. All in all, very nicely done. A well written short story, with a very good balance. A most welcome addition to the forums.

Waiting to see more,

Ambrose

I like this... you have written down alot of details and I love that...

looking forward to the next part.

(( Again, thanks a lot for the positive feed-back Here's another one ( really two, but the second is short. ), and just like the first, I don't care for it all that much. I haven't felt like writing lately, and I forced myself to do this, so it might not be my best work. Oh well, enjoy! ))

Frosted Tears.

The Sniper sat on her bed, little more than a dirty mattress on the floor, naked and cross-legged, absolving herself in the pitch-black silence of her home. Her abode, as were all in the camp, was nothing more than an emptied shipping container, one of many strewn-across the warehouse floor. She'd sparsely decorated it with her scarce few personal belongings. She stared straight ahead, her unblinking eyes unfocused to the darkness, deep in thought. She finally sighed, breaking the silence and vocalizing that she had failed to reach any form of catharsis. The stale cigarette dangling from her lips had a revolting taste to it, but she savored it from the very moment that the dim, ghostly orange glow of the lighting match illuminated her face in its brief, violent life. She allowed herself to lean back, puffing smoke, recoiling slightly as she felt the chill of the corrugated aluminum walls against her skin. If she cared, she would have guessed that it was around two in the morning, and suffering from deep insomnia, the Sniper would probably be one of the few awake; Most of the others at the local bar, constructed of two separate containers shoddily welded together, desperately trying to drown away the horrors of their every-day lives.

As if on cue, like they'd been aware she'd been thinking of them, she heard a rapping at the metal door of her home; A sharp noise that echoed, ringing in her ears. She stood, quickly dressing herself in a tattered black shirt that barely sat on her shoulders, long enough on her to be considered a dress. The forbidding cold of the floor bit at her the soles of her feet as she walked to the door, the glow from her lit cigarette dancing, swaying back and forth with each step. She pulled the door in, opening it slightly and peering through the crack. She barely had time to mutter the phrase, "Who is i-", before the door suddenly heaved against her, pushed in violently from the outside; The cigarette flew from the Sniper's lips, the practiced waltz flailing into an aimless free-fall, and she herself was knocked back slightly. She glared at the two men as they entered.

"What, exactly, the [censored] do you want?", she snapped at the two, kicking the cigarette out of the door with the side of her foot and strategically placing a hand on her hip in a vain attempt to look intimidating. The two were mercenaries, just as her, members of the 'War Pigs', a collection of nineteen individuals, which was currently assigned to defend the town from unrelenting raider attacks. The bigger of the two was named 'Krin', an ex-raider in his earlier thirties with tan, leathery skin, heavy-set eyebrows, and hair that was cut in the style of a triple-Mohawk, which was very popular among the barbarians and other waste-landers. The other, Marquis, was only sixteen, with skin as black as night and a clean-cut appearance; He was the son of Bishop, the co-leader of their band. She took an interest in Marquis, considering him something of a friend. She smelled alcohol on either, and knew what they wanted before they could even speak.

"Well, we wer-", Marquis stammered before he was cut off by Krin. "We were thinking. . ", he reached out, placing a meaty hand on her pale, exposed left shoulder. No sooner did his calloused hand contact her porcelain skin than she shrugged it off. "That maybe, we could have some uh. . Heh. . 'Quality time', if you understand me". He offered a smile, displaying his rotting teeth. "Come now, Mira. . . Marquis and I have had a long, t-tough day. Be a good little girl, shut the door, and show us big boys a good time. ." That was the Sniper's name: Mira Snow. Orphaned at a young age, she'd given it to herself.

She sighed outwardly, and Krin chuckled goofilly, waves of breath that reeked of alcohol washing over her face with every breathy exhalation. She was the only girl in the War Pigs, and this wasn't the first time Krin had came to her demanding sixual favors. She shuddered, trying to repress the memories of, on more than one occasion, obliging him. But Marquis, she considered, was different; She'd notice him looking at her, and it was logical that he had feelings for her, but this was something unexpected from his normally soft-spoken, gentleman-like self. "Well. I'm waiting."

"No. Get out.", she muttered, staring at Marquis, who struggled to keep from making eye-contact with her. "I don't think you understand. . ", Krin growled, and suddenly, his hand was on her shirt, ripping it off of her shoulders so that it would fall to the floor and expose her body, and, with over-powering force, pushed her down onto her knees. She heard the click of a pistol, and felt something cold pressing against her scalp through her hair. "You are going to be a good little [censored], and do what you're told, or I'm going to kill y-you right here. And now. . " He rambled on, in awful detail of the disgusting perversions of his desires, but she stopped listening. Idle talk, no matter how depraved, was one thing, but death-threats were another; Her life was in peril now, and something inside her clicked. She leaned forward toward his groin, slowly, and heard him guffaw in anticipation, but it was cut short into a pained gasp when she tilted her head and lunged forward, driving a viscous head-butt into his privates. He doubled over, and she shot up from her knees, head-butting him again, this time in the face; She heard his nose crunch, and he fell over onto the floor, blood gushing from his nostrils.

Mira was a feral animal, on her feet and leaping at Marquis, who stood dumb-founded, staring in a drunken stupor. She kneed him in the gut, and grabbed his face. He screamed frantically as she thrust her thumb into his left eye, pushing until she felt the bone in the back of his eye-socket, until he buckled at the knees and slid down the wall. She ran, pushing open the metal door, leaving Krin, nose disfigured gruesomely, glassy eyes staring up at the dark ceiling; Leaving Marquis, the misguided lover; bloody tears rolling down his face, to spatter on the cold, metal floor.




Desolation.

"The crime?"
"One count of murder, one count of maiming. Councilmen, your suggestions?"

Mira stood in chains, staring down at her feet; The members of the council, the elite members of their society, discussed her fate as if it were just another daily issue, like a water-shortage or arranging new trade routes. Thus far, the unanimous answer to the question was "Death". Peter glanced down at her, contempt flaring in his eyes, but there was something else: Understanding.

"Exile", he mumbled. "Let the wastes take her. Sending someone out there on their own is as good as death, these days." He knew what he said wasn't true, for Mira had lived years on her own in the wilderness. The rest of the council expressed an agreement, but turned to the last of the speakers: Bishop, Marquis' father. The man who had saved her from near death on countless occasions. The man who had taken her under his wing and given her a place she could call home, a meaning to her life. His expressionless features, framed by a smoky gray beard and hair, bled no emotion. He simply stared at her, stood, and walked off without a word. Tears welled up in Mira's eyes as she watched the closest thing she had ever had to a father walk off, and Mira never cried in public. Ever.

The next day, she stepped into the midday sun, devoid of all of her belongings save her rifle, clothing, and a handful of bottle-caps. She looked back, gazing through the gaping hole in the wall. The sentry on duty leveled his rifle at her, "Don't ever come back". The glass in the parking lot crunched under her boots as she walked off, aimlessly.

First, as always, I begin my critique with the writing. It is good - but I may be biased, because I write in a flow which has a sentence structure very similar to your own.

I will save my critiques of the plot, the drama, and character development for later. I have some issues, but they may not be valid...I shall wait to see how the plot develops.

BTW, your description is superb.

Some points, though, about the shooting.

( 1 ) If I were a sniper facing a horde of partly armed thugs I would aim and take out the armed thugs first. And since these ones are more than likely to be the leaders I would be killing two birds with one stone.

( 2 ) All snipers I know have backup, close range weapons. Perhaps Mira should have a pistol, or a knife. If you want some advice on knives...PM me.

( 3 ) Why would attackers come at a specific time? Doesn't make sense to me. Unless Mira had intelligence?


Keep up the good work.

May you shoot as straight with your words as your character does with her rifle!

this is the best ff ive ever read...keep up tthe good work! :thumbsup: :goodjob: :drool: ^_^

Thanks again for the positive feedback. It's very much appreciated.






Please, lol. :shifty: