Summary: When a sniper begins targeting Eyes Only informants, Max and Logan can't help but get involved. When it's found that he's got ties to Manticore, Max begins taking it personally. S1.
Disclaimer: Cameron and Eglee are my heroes. But I'm also my own hero, so take anything I own and I cut you! I cut you so bad that... that you wish I didn't cut you so bad. ;) Any Family Guy fans in the house? "Those are some bad roaches..." Heh. Yeah. Moving right along here.
A/N: Gots ta give my props. The first few pages of The Silent Men by Richard H. Dickinson put the sniper-y thoughts in my head. Oh, and I even broke out my calculator for this one folks. I can't tell you how or why yet though. Suspense and all, y'know. Also, I dug out one of my classical CDs. The piece I chose to listen to during the prologue (while writing it) was the Adagio from the symphony in F-sharp minor "Abschiedssinfonie" by Haydn. Not that you care or anything, but I just needed to give all the proper props. Another song that goes well here (for me anyway) is "A Favor House Atlantic" by Coheed and Cambria. Okay. I'm done with my props. :)
Timeline: After the transfusion, so Logan can - and does - walk. It makes things easier on us all.
Good eye, sniper
I shoot, you run
The words you scribbled on the walls
With the loss of friends you didn't have
I'll call you when the time is right
Are you in or are you out?
For them all to know the end of us all
-- Coheed and Cambria
It was a Seattle night like any other. The air was cool and a slight drizzle fell from the heavens. Certainly though, not enough to wash away the years of dirt and grime the Pulse had caused. The neighborhood was average in all aspects. Houses were dilapidated but the signs of people living inside were there. Some yards were unattended and a general feeling of despair hung about, in some places thicker than others, but there was also a twinge of hope somewhere in the air.
The man standing at the corner of Terrace and Church was obviously not of the local surroundings. His clothes - a long, black overcoat, starched dark slacks, and a navy sweater - were crisp and fresh. His hat was tipped over his eyes and he gently clutched a briefcase in his left hand. The air about him was fierce and seemed impenetrable. His vision did not waver from the top window of Thirty-three Church Street, where a faint light still shown through brightly.
He had stood motionless for well over an hour before the light was finally extinguished. It was then the statue of a man moved into action. He glanced up and down the street both ways, then moved at a leisurely pace toward Thirty-four Church Street, directly adjacent to number Thirty-three. He pushed the door open without much trouble and did a quick sweep of the room with his eyes before entering.
There was nothing inside but a thick layer of dust that kept his already muted footsteps to a decibel that no living creature could detect. He moved toward the stairs and made his way up. Using the intelligence he had on the building, he moved down the long hallway and entered the final door on his left. He moved toward the window and opened it, allowing the chill air to penetrate the stale room. He let the air rush over his face for a moment before setting his briefcase down. He opened it in a way that was obviously religious to him. He carefully bent over the pieces in the suitcase and constructed them to become something he could use.
Once he had finished piecing together his rifle, he set it on the windowsill and crouched into position near it. The scope allowed him to see clear across the street and the infrared allowed him to see through the darkness in the room. The intelligence he received informed him that the target turned out the lights around eleven PM every night and continued nightly rituals until at least eleven-twenty PM, when he would disappear from the window until the next morning.
With one hand, he expertly reached down into the briefcase where a tiny tape player was snuggled into a corner and pushed the play button. A soft classical melody (his favorite) began playing. His heart did not race, he did not sweat, and he was not impatient. He placed his hand back on the rifle, his index finger gently resting on the trigger. A minute or so passed before he saw his first clean shot.
He took it.
The rifle didn't make much sound and the man absorbed the recoil with no trouble. Once he saw the target drop from his sight, he waited. When he was satisfied that the man would not be getting up and no one would be coming to help, he began taking the rifle apart. Once all the pieces were in place, he switched off the cassette player and shut the briefcase, then the window. Satisfied with his work, he picked up his briefcase and disappeared from the house.