Scars of War
A trashed room in a dump of an apartment. There's the kitchen table with dirty dishes scattered all over its surface. The stove was hissing but not alight; someone had left it on. Cupboards stood open, their contents strewn over the linoleum floor. The living room came next, with a large, moth-eaten futon against one yellowed wall facing the large screened television. The once white carpet was dark and stained with countless unnamed substances. The imitation wood door leading to the dump of a bedroom stood partially ajar, the topmost hinges hanging uselessly from the frame. The remaining screws connecting the door to the frame groaned and complained as the door was pushed by a weak breeze from the open window. The view from said window is one of death and destruction. On the street twelve floors below, cars had been rolled on their sides to be used as cover. The bottom of one was shot from an unseen assailant, and a flaming spray of oil was launched, igniting the arm of a nearby soldier as he crouched behind a trash can. He jumped and waved his arm, trying to extinguish the flames. Unseen shots were fired as he moves from behind his shield, and he dropped, never again to rise.
All this was seen from the eyes of a young woman in the window, a high powered rifle balanced expertly in her able hands. She sat carefully on the sill, her back against one edge, her graceful right leg braced against the other. Her left foot rested against the floor underneath the window, giving her something to stand on should the ramshackle sill give out from under her.
She peered down the street below through the scope of her rifle. Save for the dead body, it appeared empty. Her long fingers lifted themselves from the trigger and easily found the digital, touch-screen control panel on her wrist. These controls connected the rifle, her helmet, and the suit she wore, fusing them into a singular masterpiece. Her suit was the CHAMELEON MARK V, one especially designed with sniper units in mind. Since sniper units were typically higher above the battle field and closer to the sun, the suit's power came from countless photosynthetic solar cells which gave the user an endless supply of power and clean air should they be subjected to rising fumes or toxic gasses. Or the horrid smell of decaying flesh, she thought to herself. It also progressively scanned the surrounding area and changed its coloring to match it. The MARK V's sensors were sensitive enough to pick up and change to even small patterns such as flowers or fine lines on wallpaper. The same power cells which power the MARK V also give power to her rifle. The rifle, with the words DIVINE LIGHTNING engraved on the side, fired condensed energy bolts distances of over three kilometers. As long as the rifle was receiving power, it could convert that energy into bolts. It also had the capability to, while relying on an internal battery, fire an immensely powerful electrical charge, giving it the appearance of firing a lightning bolt from the heavens, thus earning its name. The scope of the rifle was synched with her helmet. The helmet itself was a minor miracle of technology. It captured the oxygen produced by the suit and expelled any carbon monoxide emissions. Unlike the ancient gas masks that filtered the air around the wearer, thus making them susceptible to the improved micro-gases, her helmet and suit supplied her with everything she needed. It even slowed down her metabolism so that she rarely, if ever, had to use the bathroom while in combat. The blue face shield that dropped down to cover her sparkling azure eyes could switch between Scan, Heat, Electromagnetic, and Night-To-Day vision with a push of a button on the wrist control panel. Her nimble fingers, which had long since memorized each button's location, found the one that would switch on the Electromagnetic setting and activated it. Instantly the view down her scope changed to one of different shades of red, with previously invisible waves of electrical currents becoming suddenly, absolutely, obvious.
On the street below, two enemy soldiers, believing themselves hidden by their own Chameleon or such type suits, were near the face-down body of the soldier they had just recently gunned down. The deceased's outfit had stopped functioning the moment the bolts struck him. Or her. It's hard to tell with these suits. This was true. With an increased armor plate across the chest of the suits, it was difficult to tell whether the wearer was male or female. She switched briefly back to Scan mode. Thanks to the fact that the creator company of her suit was owned by her faction, the Underground, her face shield was constructed with the ability to, while in scan mode, collect the name, rank, and battalion number of any soldier wearing an Underground uniform. The corpse was Becky, Becky Wingland, a Private of the 3rd Infantry Battalion. Never realy knew her. She was always a loner at Basic. One soldier was stooped on the right side of the body, looking for anything valuable, either currencywise or of millatral usefulness. For a brief second she was afraid that if he were to look up, even at a fourty-five, that she would be seen. Her fears were soon appeased by the fact that the chances of her being spotted by anything other than Electromagnetic were highly unlikely in her suit. The other stood five feet off to the first's left facing away and searching on Electromagnetic for any other nearby troops. Too bad for them they were never taught to look up and around, not just at normal eye level. She centered her sights on the crouched soldier. This one's for you, Becky. In between heart beats, while inhaling, she squeezed the trigger.
The standing soldier turned just in time to see her bolt hit home. He followed the electric charge given off by the super-heated bolt and looked straight at her. Shit. She quickly took aim and fired, but the damage was done. If he got off a warning chime, this place will be swarming with the Monarch's men. I've got to get the hell out of here. She looked directly down at the base of the appartment building in which she was positioned. Sure enough, Monarch troops were dashing madly toward the foundation, using cars and lightposts for cover. One raised his head and seemed to comb the side of the building, looking for her. She rolled sideways off of the ledge and into the room, lying flat on the floor behind the sill, hoping the ancient concrete walls would block any energy discharge given off by the MARK V. Lifting her head, her eyes frisked the room for anything she might be able to use.
The bedroom was a complete dump, much like the rest of the appartment. The bed itself, while large, is covered with inumerable stains and the comfortor was so fadded that she cold only guess at its original color. She briefly contmplated hiding under the bed itself and praying to God that no one seriously contmplated looking there, but decided against it. Who knows who, or what, is under there. While the suit might protect her from the various molds, viruses and bacteria, the idea of getting real cozy with a giant cluster of cockroaches wasn't too appealing. If nothing else works, that'll be my backup. I might even be able to get off a few potshots before getting blasted to kingdom come. She didn't even concider being taken prisoner. Snipers were never POWs. They didn't have troop movements, were typically so burrowed in that it was impossible to flush them out, and they had just killed to many of their comrades to be allowed to live. No, if they found her, she would be shot. She crwled on all fours into the living room, careful to not get within viewing range of anyone looking at her window. She stood when she believed it to be safe. There was the futon. She might be able to use that to barracade the door. No, that would be a dead giveaway that I was here. So far, they just know that I'm somewhere in the building, maybe a rough idea on the floor. They don't have my exact location. She glanced over at the television and smiled faintly. I could always watch TV before I die. She pictured the sceen in her head. They would burst in the door to find her leaning back on the futon, drinking some warm bevarage found in the busted refrigerator. "Hey, guys! Come on in! There's not a whole lot on now, just the news. Too bad your 'Monarch' shut down everything else to save money!" Who knows, she might be able to get in a laugh at their shocked faces before getting shot. She sighed and wandered into the kitchen. The floor was littered with different ingerdiants; a couple of them were still in their containers. Her eyes flicked over to the table, noting a bossible temporary bunker. It was a circular table made of a subatance that loosly resembled polished wood. Judging by its thickness, she dicided that it should be able to take one, maybe two shots before breaking apart. She reached for the handle of the door leading to the hallway, then paused. She knew that if she were to walk out of the room, Monarch troops would easily follow the heat imprints her feet left. But I might be able to find a room with something usable in it. Might. If I get caught in here, I'm boned. Can't have that now. She pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway.
She looked to her left and jumped three feet straight up with a yelp of surprise. Ten feet from where she stood was a Monarch soldier, apparantly just as supprised as she. The soldier raised his gun to fire, but she had already dove back into the room, slamming the door behind her as she did so. She slid across the table, knockin its covering of filty dishes and half-eaten food all over the already litterd floor. Landing on the other side of the table, she tilted it over and pushed it over the linoleum floor until the edge smacked into the door. Franticly, she brought her right leg high above her head and brought it down hard on the x-shaped base. Another advantage of the suit was that its polysynthetic fibers had the abilty to stretch, contract and bend on their own power. This meant that while the suit was on her and moving to her movements, it would add its own muscular power to her, thus making her incredibly strong. Her strength was more than enough to cause the table's base to crack the linoleum floor, making it sink into the floor like dirt. She repeated the process, sending small chunks of the floor flying into the air, until two of the x-shaped legs were completly buried in the floor. Hell, they're probably starting to come through the cealing in the floor below. My cover may be blown, but this table is going nowhere. That means that door will not open unless they blow it down. She backed up into toward the cupboards and stove, her weapon aimed at the door. She stopped. What's that sound? She looked around for the source of the noise; a faint hissing sound was coming from the stove. Her eyes widened as she remembered the fact that the stove had been leaking propane or some other flammable gas the entire time. If my rifle hadn't been closed chamber or had a flash eliminator, the spark would have blown this whole place to hell! Wait, if they blow that door up, I'm dead. Her mind raced frantically. Outside in the hallway she could hear multiple footsteps; backup had been called in. She ran back into the bedroom and looked out the window. I might be able to survive the jump, but there are still troops down there and they'll open fire as soon as I hit the ground. Come on! Think, dammit! Think! Alright, troops up here shoot me if I stay, troops down there shoot me on sight, gas explodes if a spark (or bolt) touches it. The open window might have gotten rid of some of the gas, but not mutch; the breeze was coming in, not going out. And with no other way out for it, this place is a gas superbomb. If only there was a way to land on the ground without them being able to see me... wait! Maybe... She crouched behind the window sill and pressed a series of buttons on her wrist pannel. The readout changed and her gun began to hum faintly. In the hallway she heared the door begin to crack as it was pulled against its frame. Dammit! They're not blowing it down? No, they're pulling it down instead! This made tactical sense. An explosion worked both ways; it disoriented the opponent, but it also gave him a smokescreen. This way the whinch pulled down the door and they could enter on their own terms. Less risk of human life. She looked down at the readout on her weapon. 50%... 60%... come on... The door cracked and began to give. 80%... 90%... Yes! The door gave way. A monarch soldier rushed in. Looking out the window, he saw for a brief instant a woman suspended in midair, her weapon pointed at the ground below. A charge was gathering at the end of the rifle. Electric blue sparks shot out the barrel in all directions as a massive lightning bolt plummeted toward the ground. The Monarch soldier had just enough time to register one of the sparks ignite something before the entire floor was encased by a giant fireball.