This was inspired by a wonderful girl and her glorious art. And it is to her that I dedicate this. Go on, take a peek, makes this ficlet much more poignant;

http: /rossoalchermes .tumblr. com/post/4881350196/you-shouldnt-get-sniper-drunk-spy (Just take out the spaces, FF is a little pithy sometimes)

It was hell, if he was being polite about it. If he was being honest with himself, it was a fucking disaster, full of gore and guts and misery and fleeting victory, all to the tune of a Harpy screech for reasons unknown. It was worse than hell. It was super-hell. It was the hell of hells. It was... it was...

He didn't know what it was.

Sniper sighed and adjusted his gaze, switched to a darker knot in the table's grain. It was the length of his thumb, with mottled rings and stark outline. It was a flaw in the rough-hewn, shoddy, company-issue table. It looked like an artery clogged with rusty dried-up blood.

He picked at it, dug a chipped nail in a gap between rings and tried to lever the heart out. The bloody clot out. His thoughts drifted yet again to the pointlessness of his existence. He was a professional. He had standards. They didn't include shooting the same nine targets every day, over and over in a macabre play. What difference did it make if his aim was perfect, if his kills were merciful? What did it matter, if he fought for his life, for his honour, for the money? It all meant the same, was the same. Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He'd almost managed to get the knot out when the soft scrape of shoe-on-concrete reached his ears. He tensed, but kept at it, viciously scraping at the wood. Splinters forced their way into the nail-bed, but the pain meant nothing to his current purpose. Defacing the mess table wasn't much of a purpose, but it was something.

"I am sure there are more satisfying things to do to get back at them."

The table creaked as his new companion leaned against it, dipped towards the weight. Pinstripes filled his peripheral, Cologne his nose, and irritation his heart. Maybe there were, but he couldn't find them in this hell. The table surely didn't deserve the treatment but fuck if there was anything else. The splinters finally drew blood and he stopped, crossing his arms. As if that was enough to be rid of him.

"Like?"

The pause was too significant, too heavy to be spontaneous. How long had Sniper been observed? How many sighs had he indulged in, thinking he was alone on his misery? Too many.

"Beating them at their own game, for one. Finding a way to being them down, for another."

"Don't know their game."

He had toyed with the ideas for a moment before rejecting them. He was a Sniper. He looked through a scope and pulled the trigger. It was what he did best. It was all he could do.

"It is not so difficult to understand, mon ami. They are testing their toys. Weapons and men, both."

The tabled creaked again as Spy pushed himself away and over to a cabinet. Glass clinked, and metal clanked, but Sniper barely heard it through his swirling thoughts. A toy. It fit. Men playing at toy soldiers. A child's game of no consequence. Boiled down to nothing.

"So be a toy, a weapon. Be the wooden toy soldier moving to their commands."

He could feel the heat at his back, Spy leaning close in a not-embrace. A gloved hand delicately placed a glass of something strong in front of him. Warm air ruffled his hair, escaping from lip too close.

"Keep yourself inside the shell. So that when the dust settles, it is you that has won, and they that has gained nothing."

It could have been air that brushed past his cheek, could have been lips, but it was empty air he caught as he turned. It didn't matter. A small smile curled his lips as he lifted the glass in a salute.

It was hell only if you let it be.