He lined the target up in his sights. He was maybe a thousand feet away, on the edge of the forest on the hillside that overlooked the city. He was unseen here, death watching over the battlefield.
The target was atop a building, aiming downwards. Oblivious.
He heard the buzz of a beam, sounding distant from here. A faint pop in the sky, hardly noticeable. The clash and burning of mobile suit metal below. The chaos of war.
He was calm, steady. The shot was ready. He waited a moment, to be utterly certain. Yes. He could not miss this. The shot fired, the sound silenced inside the cockpit. He did not need to hear. He only needed focus. Concentration.
The shot hit. The target dropped, toppling from the edge of the building. He felt a little rush, a slight swell of pride.
He shifted his gun, took aim again, found his target. Another pause. No flaws. Only perfection. Only certainty.
It found its mark, this one on the ground. It fell, silent, dead.
A slight shift of the gun found its aim on another target, standing near the previous. Pause for perfection, certainty. The billow of smoke and flame as the machine fell. Another shot, another. Two more, silenced.
He did not love the kill. He did not like to think of the men in the cockpit, the young boys and the old soldiers. It was unnecessary. War was death.
He shifted his rifle again, paused for perfection. Shot, another down, another rush.
So he took pride in his skill, in a talent long honed and perfected. Where was the shame in taking pride in a job well done?
Shift the rifle. Certainty. Shoot. Down, dead, satisfaction.
He was a watcher. A guardian. Every shot he fired was a comrade saved, a trusted friend let live, an ally protected who might one day protect him. He was an angel of death.
Shift. Shot. Down.
This was the way of a sniper. Cold. Focused. Ruthless. Not vicious. Unfeeling. Because a part of you that was locked away, kept secret in battle, cared. Cared for the men and women you served under and fought with.
Shift. Shot. Dead.
In the back of your mind, you kept your humanity alive. You hid it away, kept it from tarnish, let it drive you to fight. With it, you remembered that you fought to save, that there were people to whom your life, and you owed them yours.
Shift. Shot. Satisfaction.
The battle was drawing to a close. Nine dead, by his hand. To him, nine friends who did not have to die today, because he fought for them. Because he watched over them. An angel of death, but an angel still.
Another target spotted. No escape allowed. No mercy needed. So, shift, sho-
Up the hill, unseen, the glow of a scope. Then, Shift. Shot. Satisfaction. There is always someone watching.
