The Longshot My life was always in flames. The harsh, dusty sand burning through what remains of my flesh straight to the bone; the scorching sun penetrating my cloak, with the pain of a countless needles prodding me every second. The fire in me still burns strong, yet the meat and sinew inside me scream with the pain of age and the ghosts of physical torture. I was dying, but then again, who isn't the moment they were born?
Every step I took to my objective, a bit of my being collapses into the dust, and every gust of wind assaults my one working eye, the only eye I ever needed. I was backup, against the volatile Vash the Stampede, should He fail. In the back of mind lurked the knowledge that this was to be my last day in the Hell that is this planet. Yet I continued on, in my arrogance, rage and my determination to continue to live in defiance of this damned body and world. I shall see his head open and the blood to come out as a waterfall from my dreams, and I will continue on wandering this damned world until I at last collapse, when the fire inside me burns out, and my eye closes for good.
I do not want your pity, or sympathy or rage. I don't give a damn what you think of me. Curse me, hate me, or spit on me, I do not care and never will. The lot of you can burn in Hell, and when you do come down, rest assured that I have put in a good word for you to the Devil himself. He and other malevolent abominations are meager compared to what I deserve, and thousand times more than anyone else deserves. I murdered, slaughtered, assassinated and massacred countless people, innocent and otherwise in blood colder than a corpse on a winter's night. This was my calling, what I resigned myself to do. The only thing I could do.
I allowed my hellish rifle fall to the ground overlooking the city a few miles away, and I collapse around the scope. Peering through the scope, I waited for a day. Food was meaningless to me, as was water. I could wait as long as I needed to for my victim. My cloak blended in seamlessly around me, with only the long arm of my gun pointed. I noticed two people talking, people in the same group as I, possibly discussing the changes in orders. My mind then stopped, and for hours, I let the burning suns and the scorching sands cook me slowly, and when night rolled around I was chilled to the point where it ironically burned me. Yet neither of these conditions pried me away from the scope, lest I miss my shot.
Finally, mid-morning came. Vash stepped out, and He stopped him in the street. I know two outcomes of this: He wins, and I carry on to some other meaningless task, or He fails and I take Vash out. I cared not for the reward nor the fame that would undoubtedly be awarded to me should I kill Vash the Stampede. He means nothing to me, and I will remain unchanged with his death. Now, He drew his cross. What will happen?
They talk, which didn't bother me. They could talk for an eternity and I would still remain here, eyes centered on the temple of his head. He fires a shot, and I could barely see the bullet pass by Vash's head, snipping off some hair, and then lowers his gun.
No sooner had I squeezed the trigger on the lethal shot, He moves his cross and blocks it. Neither upset nor angry, I simply reloaded and with machine like repetition, began assaulting the pair. He would be taken care of, this I knew, but my concern was with Vash as he takes cover in the building beside him. I could wait for a very long time, as I proved earlier, yet he takes the initiative and runs out, narrowly dodging my bombardment of almost automatic sniper fire, and leaps in a car and drives off. He was indeed good, as I changed my positions to get a better shot at him. His unpredictable driving saved him, as he drove erratically around the town, finally breaking out into the open, where I seized the opportunity, and shot his engine. It was time for Vash the Stampede to die. I took my time and selected the final round to inject into his head.
And I knew I lost. If you were to tell me I would meet someone more inhuman than I, I would have considered you a fool. Yet here he was, pointing a gun at me, with a smirk on his face and me with nothing to defend myself, save for a pistol I thought I would never need. Caine the Longshot was defeated.
Hey, no one needs to get hurt. Why don't you just leave? Everything would be okay, no one gets hurt.
I remember hearing this before, a very long time ago, before I was twisted into this wretched bastard. I drew my pistol and pointed at my head. His smirk melted into a horrified expression, which both gave me a sense of smugness and at the same time, sadness. He would genuinely leave me in peace, yet I knew I couldn't let that happen. I lost, for the first time since the Devil knows when.
I could feel my engines power down, as I turned over the last few burning pages in my life. He opens his mouth to try to get me to reconsider my actions, perhaps telling me that I had something to live for. I don't, but just the look on his face conveyed the thought that I had some redeeming qualities, made me feel something I haven't felt since I was a young child. He looked like he would genuinely miss me. I thanked him for the offer, and though he never saw it, I smiled, painful and lopsided as it was. I squeezed the trigger.
My slumber was long overdue anyways.