A/N: I owe a large thank you to those who read my last poem and left such stellar reviews! Following the advice you left me, I've decided to start up a small series of these-but for now, I'll be doing a poem-chapter-fic focusing upon the Sniper versus Spy rivalry. I don't know how long it will be yet, but I hope you enjoy it!
The Real Prize
A stab,
a startled gasp,
a strangled scream of
fading pain, everlasting as it is
as the final moment of life
in my most beloved,
despised
enemy's ill-begotten
waste of an existence.
Like Arthur with his sword,
I pull my knife free of the flesh
that encapsulates it, though it isn't this
little sword that is the prize.
Non-the real prize lies
within that look
in his eyes
as I
relieve him of
his duties, his worries-
no more mere et pere to pester him,
and certainly no more of that
silly little credo of his.
"Be polite,
"Be efficient,
"Have a plan to kill
"everyone you meet," he says.
Said, rather, as the case
now stands. I have
wrote the end
to this, our
most
cherished
game, our most
heated and passionate
entanglement-a rivalry whose
bitterness befouled our mouths for
far, far too long, I'm afraid.
Though, I must admit,
as I stare down
upon my
open cigarette case,
beautiful in its simplicity,
elegant in its duality of purpose,
and well worth the obscene
amount of money I
paid for it,
it certainly was most
enjoyable, our little game of
cat and mouse, where
those particular roles
were swapped
with no particular
regard as to who played who.
Variety, they say, is
the spice of life,
so, in that
regard,
our lives must
have been pretty damn
spicy. Now, as I light up my
clove-infused cigarette,
imported from
France-
fitting, non?-
I hear only the smallest
-what was-? Click.
"Sniper, is zha-?"
Bam.
Well, look at that.
Looks like it's still rainin', mate.