Author's Introduction
Snipers— this is an idea I'm playing with right now. It's all about sniping duels in the Haloverse. Recently, I've read War of the Rats, and have been playing a lot of Call of Duty 3. While I don't feel qualified to write about WW2 itself, I guess I'll integrate some parts into Halo. You can almost say this is a non-funny parody of War of the Rats.
The Unggoy's life was a short one. The bottom of the Covenant order was lucky to survive one full battle, under the harsh, watchful gaze of their Sangheili commanders, who would sooner order an infantry charge to slow down a human tank than treat the grunts of the Covenant like they mattered.
And landing on one of their planets, the hives of the enemy, shortened all their lives down to mere hours.
What are we to do, thought Niknik, we are much too "lowly and unintelligent" to know what's going on. We have to obey our commanders' every wish.
"My turn to watch," a soldier of his own kind piped up behind him. The small alien waddled over to where Niknik sat, hunched over a plasma rifle. Niknik passed him the weapon, and got to his feet. He snorted, as his full height did not even clear the edge of the foxhole. He couldn't tell if an enemy was coming—it just helped the officers sleep better, knowing there was someone outside.
It was dawn already, and the sunlight was already flushing out the cool, morning air. Although both grunts did not breathe it, they could feel it on their rough, scaly skin. They stood on a section of the human city the Covenant were already calling their own.
"Not sleeping on watch, I hope," a thick snarl boomed from behind the two, causing them to jump off the ground. A sangheili in fierce, crimson uniform stepped forward; his hunched over back and proud demeanor both intimidated Niknik and inspired courage.
"No, Excellency," Niknik squeaked, buckling under the sangheili's questioning tone. "I was just getting off."
The warrior nodded with a soft growl, and waited for the grunt to step around his massive form. When Niknik waited patiently, the elite chuckled with satisfaction.
"Good. You know your place," the officer told him, then strode forward to survey the scene. "Anything to report? I don't want to be out here longer than I am needed…"
Niknik knew better than to walk away from his superior officer or even interrupt him while speaking.
"… it sickens me, to know that humans have left their marks on our ruins. They are a gift! Stand fast, grunt. We will remove this taint when we are finished."
The elite looked at the two and relaxed slightly. He muttered, "Even the air is filthy. I feel like I've been breathing in methane all night."
The grunt pretended to show interest as the officer began to laugh in his usual warble. As the elite tilted his armoured head back, a bullet sped through the side of his head, splattering the small alien with the sangheili's purple blood.
"Son of a bitch," laughed the spotter, as he withdrew from his field glasses. "Lucky shot, right through the brainpan! I guess I owe you those meal tokens."
The sniper scanned the area for more targets. Once satisfied, he lowered the rifle and peered out towards the enemy lines with his own eyes to be sure.
"Gladly, Lukas." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his spotter's lips purse. He dug into his pocket and flicked over a plastic chip, which they used to ration supplies, to the sniper.
"And they all said you're a nice guy."
"You think I'd pass up an extra helping of Turner's mystery soup? —Time of kill: 6:18, write down— I am volunteering to save you from a dire case of food poisoning."
Corporal "Woody" Woodrow was an artist with the rifle. He could drop an elite running at full speed from over nine hundred meters away. Some have said he's near competition for even Spartans. Woodrow would often laugh and accuse them of drinking too much, but when the fighting picked up, Nathan would be on the front, picking off Covies with no effort at all. When people asked what his weakness was, he'd simply reply, "Patience". While it was true he could snipe as well as a Spartan, he was only a human being. He'd wait only so long to fire off the weapon, but it wasn't like him to sit in a crap-filled shell hole for days just for a single shot. Where he failed in perseverance, he made up for in accuracy.
Private Timothy Lukas was Woodrow's teammate while they fought for the icy city of Beletzkov just a little off of Earth. Unlike Nathan, Lukas was larger and stronger and much more persistent. While he couldn't work miracles with the S2, he was decent enough, and had even sharper eyes than Woodrow.
"Funny. '6:18, I saw it with my own eyes—Tim'. Time, cowboy," Lukas said and tapped his watch. A minute after every shot, a sniper had to keep moving. Enemies would be able to pinpoint the position by seeing the muzzle flash. And the S2 AM had one easy flaw. The high powered rifle left visible contrails. Even in the worst conditions, Woodrow considered it to be a top priority to eliminate any other snipers, even before officers. He wouldn't give the Covie snipers much credit, but he'd prevent a few casualties.
Woodrow slung the S2 on his back. "Shall we?"
"Yeah, but the next one's mine, target whore," Lukas muttered, as the two took off, sprinting back toward friendly territory.
"Rise." The single word echoed off the purple walls and ceiling of the chamber majestically. The minor prophet, dressed in royal, flowing robes motioned for the sangheili to speak.
"Twenty-nine of the original thirty-one field masters I have sent have been killed during the fighting in the human city. Number thirty was killed this morning, Excellency."
"A pity. Does this impede our progress?"
The warrior hesitated, choosing his words carefully in front of the prophet. "The humans are putting up a fight. But I doubt they know anything of why we haven't destroyed the planet. But as it is, they fear of losing another of their territory."
The prophet stared at the elite for a moment, then repeated his question. "Does this impede our progress?"
"Excellency, we are having difficulties on capturing the human city."
"Then why are you bothering me?"
The sangheili bristled with embarrassment, but regained his composure. "Reports have detailed on a human sniper. He is the culprit of twenty-four of my commanders, and at least a hundred others—Unggoy, Kig-Yar, and Jiralhanae."
The prophet rose with excitement. "The Demon?"
The warrior alien shook his head. "Just a human."
"Then why so much trouble? He is, after all, only human."
"I wish to propose a hunt-and-kill mission."
The prophet waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. Our assets shall not be wasted by a single human."
The elite lowered his head, but suddenly stood straighter. "But I know of one who will not be wasted. He matters not, Excellency."
The prophet still showed little interest, but made a sound of resignation. "Who?"
Thorvamee exhaled explosively as he was tossed to the cold ground, the blue lights shone painfully in his eyes. The jiralhanae guards kicked his prone form for good measure, then grabbed his arms and began to drag him out of the detention centre.
The sangheili race was about being proud warriors. The imprisoned elite had been accused of being a coward by not charging into the jaws of death. Instead of wielding the magnificent energy sword, he preferred the beam rifle—the Covenant sniper rifle. Sniping was considered lowly to his race, and was reserved for the lower ranks such as the Kig-Yar. But he did so anyway, and excelled at it.
He was unceremoniously dumped in front of the sangheili warrior who had just visited the prophet. The elite had a beam rifle tucked under his arm.
"Thorvamee," he inquired, "how would you like to regain your honor?"
A/n: There'll be more—review a little, just to show me how wonderful you lot are. Now I've got to be up, playing out the sniper duels in my head.