The crumbling house in which the machine materialized had been abandoned nearly a year ago. Glass from the broken windows lay scattered across the dirt floor and the concrete walls were eroding with disuse and age. The time machine's hatch swung open, clanging loudly against the machine's metal exterior. Moran stumbled out of the cylindrical chamber carrying the briefcase in one hand and a fat laundry bag in the other.
Traveller's sickness overtook him and both items fell to the ground as Moran involuntarily fell to his knees. He struggled to organize his thoughts and control his muscles, but found himself unable to comprehend the full function and capacity of his limbs. His brain and stomach took on a tsunami of nausea. The sharpshooter's facial features twisted into a grimace of disgust, disgust at his own bodily weakness.
Drawing a tarnished flask from his back pocket, he unscrewed the cap and downed some liquid strength. It burned in his throat pleasantly, and he could feel his vitality returning slowing like an incoming tide. Finally he stood up. His muscles strained unsteadily as he shed his t-shirt and jeans and changed into the uniform he had taken from the laundry bag. He rolled up his worn clothes, stuffed them in the bag, and tossed them into the machine. All his power had returned when he stooped and took a handful of the gritty, dry soil. With the deftness of an artist, he gently smeared the dirt on his face and clothes. Then he turned to the briefcase and greeted the two guns that lay within it.
The smaller one was a military grade handgun. It was a standard L9A1 Browning, crafted for functionality. Moran curled his fingers around the well-worn grip gingerly before he slipped it into the pocket of his uniform.
The second gun was a SA80 Rifle. Moran flashed a sincere grin at the deathly weapon as he took three magazines from the briefcase, loaded one into the rifle and stuffed the others in his pocket. How many have I killed with this lovely, he mused. He had lost count long ago. It was exhilarating to tuck the machine again his body again. He had missed his old lover.
Finally, he stretched out. Moran relaxed his shoulders and raised his jaw with self-satisfaction. The ease with which he shed three years of civilian, or rather criminal, life was astonishing. Clad in thin, flexible brown-camouflage osprey armour with a military rifle partially tucked beneath his right arm and the insignia of a Colonel upon his chest, he looked like the soldier he once was and would now be.
xxxx
When the patrol truck appeared in the distance, Moran stretched out prone upon the ground and set up his rifle, staring down the scope to survey the vehicle's occupants. As promised, the three were of low ranks and so young and inexperienced that they probably were afraid to take a piss without a buddy on lookout nearby. He nestled the rifle into his shoulder, drew in a deep breath, took aim, and fired, twice. The air cracked with the sound and a second later the driver slumped in his seat and one of the front tires burst. The truck tumbled and Moran took off, running a wide, looping circle around the runaway truck. Then, he approached the scene from the direction opposite where he had fired. He was lightly panting when he reached the scene.
The soldier in the passenger seat had managed to stop the truck and pull the driver out and onto the ground. The man in the back had slammed his head and was still in the truck, hunched over and semi-conscious. The passenger-seat soldier noticed Moran first, and, after glancing at the crown and two stars that were embroidered onto his uniform, greeted him with a respectful solute. The private began to explain the situation hurriedly and Moran pretended to care. Finally the older man cut him off and, with another glance at the bloodstained driver, impatiently barked at the young man to get a doctor.
With an obedient, "Yes sir," the private scampered off towards the camp.
Moran watched him run for bit, grinning at how perfectly the pieces were falling into place. The struggling gasps of the dying driver brought him back to the moment and he turned, knelt down, and stared into the man's eyes as he straggled away the gasps. Then he dragged the dead man to the truck. The trunk was easy to open, and Moran gracefully dumped the body into it.
The semi-conscious man's eyes were closed when Moran sat down next to him and loaded his handgun, but the older man pried them open and smirked as fear spread to younger's features like dye diffusing into water. The air cracked. The bullet tore through the man's heart.
Moran's job was only half-complete, however, so he hopped out of the truck and crouched down, waiting for the private to return with his prize.