Author's note: A thanks goes to FiveBucksWorthy for her advice and beta-reading.
The first snow was late in coming. Sniper expected it to be here earlier, had already looked through his survival guides and wrote down everything he'd read, having never dealt with snow before. But just in case, he scanned over his yellow pad of notes, barely visible in the dim evening.
What he learned: Stay warm, stay dry. Don't build fires directly on the snow; expose the frozen ground and build the fire on it. Don't sleep directly on the snow either, and sleep instead on tree boughs or leaves. Frostbite could rob you of your fingers as well as other extremities; always cover as much skin as you could. Further down the pad, the bits and pieces of advice Scout offered were etched, things about how rocks could be hidden inside of snowballs, and how he should wear the scarf his mother made for him. Heavy's advice was circled: drive slowly. Snow was deadly, but ice deadlier still.
Flipping through the pad again, his back aching he grumbled to himself. Black, barren elms stretched around him, clawing at the overcast sky. Darkness pervaded the woods around him, but the base's flickering yellow porchlight led him forward, the frost clinging to his mudspeckled boots.
The weather reports said the snow would come on November 15th, then the 17th, then December 3rd. They thought it'd be cold those nights. Sniper bought all his winter gear, stocking his van with a spare pair of mittens and a hat, outfitting it with snow tires. But the snow didn't come. Sure, freezing water fell, sloshy, half-crystalline, but that? That wasn't the real stuff.
Tonight it would be cold. Tonight there'd be a storm.
Tonight it would snow for sure.
Pity he didn't have the energy to deal with it. The day's battles were a long slog, the persistent chill of Coldfront seeping into his bones as he strained to fight off the BLUs. He'd been whacked, fried, stabbed, beheaded. Muscles ached, limbs were stiff, and his fingers numb.
And even afterwards, no reprieve. He argued with Soldier in the cold for what felt like hours about how his camper wasn't for raccoons. If he saw a single hair inside, he stressed, he'd take Soldier's pests and shoot them in the woods. After Soldier stormed away, Engineer roped Sniper into helping him move his stupid overly-complicated grill, too delicate to stand the snow, too burdened with lasers and rocket launchers to move more than an inch a second.
And now, on top of all the aches and pains, it was going to snow. He had to go out tomorrow, do it all again, but he'd also freeze his fingers off while trying to snipe.
Fan. Bloody. Tastic.
He pulled open the base's front door, scraping his muddy boots on the carpet, and walked into the mudroom. It might as well have been a literal mudroom for all the footprints stamped on the floor. Sniper sat on a bench, set his pad down, and took off his jacket, gloves, and boots. Then he reached out to his locker. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he gave it a firm yank.
The door refused to budge.
Sniper groaned, and yanked again. Nothing. He put a boot back on, readied himself, and slammed his foot into the bottom of the locker. Yanked the handle. Slammed his boot into the locker again.
Nothing. Of course he forgot to fix it.
Shitty thing would have to wait.
Sniper muttered a curse and threw his jacket on top of the locker. The crankiest mercenary in the base then made his way to the kitchen, which was full of dirty dishes and cooking utensils, but suspiciously empty of people and dinner.
The scent of a ham wafted through the air, along with other fainter scents. Sniper followed his nose to the living room, where his tucker steamed on one of the tables: a spiced ham, mashed potatoes with butter streaming down the sides and parsley sprinkled here and there, and carrots seasoned with dill. His teammates lounged in there as well; Scout was draped over an armchair, legs dangling off the sides, and Medic, Demo, and Engineer shared the couch, plates placed precariously on folded knees or teetering on the sofa's arms. Heavy leaned up against a bookcase, holding his own plate in one hand. Though everyone was talking or eating, they eyed the window, going silent every so often with a smile.
Small white things drifted past the window, fading as they hit the glass.
Strange. Looked like ash, But ash didn't fade away.
"Hey, Sniper!" Scout said, twirling a fork in his fingers and fumbling it. "Are you gonna watch the snow with us?"
...Snow.
"Guten abend, Herr Sniper," Medic greeted, his teammates next to him turning to see the newcomer. Demo grinned and held up an eggnog carton. "Care to join us?" Medic asked.
Sniper stared, taking in the plates of ham, the carton, and the grins on their faces. "You're watching the snow."
"Well, o' course!" Demo said. "We've been waiting for the damn stuff all November. Aren't you sick of the weather?"
Sniper blinked. Waiting? For snow? Drinking eggnog and celebrating over snow?
"You're joking, right?"
"Yeah, we sure are," Scout answered sarcastically. "What, you think we like cold rain?"
"No, but-"
Boots clomped down the hall, and Pyro bounced into the room with a tray of cookies, a chef's hat swaying on their head. Pyro set the tray down on a coffee table with a bow, then bounced back up and shoved a cookie through their mask vent.
Sniper gaped at the tray. "Pyro made cookies? For this?"
Pyro nodded, hat wobbling with excitement.
"But why?"
"Why not?" Scout asked, stretching an arm out to the cookie tray, almost falling out of his chair. "The snow's finally here! We've been waiting forever. And it's, y'know, kinda mesmerizing to watch. And it's pretty." Scout bit into his cookie, crumbs spreading all over his shirt. "What, don't you like snow?"
"No," Sniper said, wondering if they'd all gone mad. "No, I don't."
"How can you say that if you've never experienced it?" Medic said. "You can't have a clue what it's like. You've never gone for a walk after a snowstorm…"
"You've never been in a snowball fight!" Scout exclaimed. "Or gone sledding. You haven't even-"
"You've never hunted yeti in a blizzard, or used ice skates," Demo interrupted.
"-hitting icicles off of houses. You definitely missed out. And-"
"Mphhhh mphh mphhmphh," Pyro said, holding up a cane-shaped cookie."
"-gotta stick your tongue to a pole-"
"I get it, I get it!" Sniper shouted, swiping an arm to silence them. "I've read books! Watched programs! I know what snow's like without seeing it! Enough." Holy shit, he wasn't that stupid.
"Then why don't you like it?" Heavy rumbled.
Sniper gathered his thoughts. "Snow… Snow makes everything colder. I hate the cold. I like the cool desert nights after a hot day, but this will just be constant. And snow makes driving dangerous, makes physical movement more difficult. Slows you down." Scout loudly chomped into a cookie, looking at him like he was a fool, and Sniper glared back at him. "And another thing? It's not pretty."
The team rolled their eyes, Medic scoffing, Engineer shaking his head, Demo raising both eyebrows. Pyro gasped and slapped a hand to their mask vent.
"What?" Sniper asked, crossing his arms. "Look, I've never been in parts of Oz during the winter where it does snow. But I've seen enough postcards of Mount Kosciuszko to know that snow's nothing special. It's just white lumpy stuff; nothing beaut about it." He made a disgusted noise. "You know what it really is? A nuisance to everyone besides the skiers. I don't see why anyone would get excited about this damn place getting more difficult to live in. Do any of you care about our work?"
Heavy nibbled a piece of ham, nonchalant. "I think you are making this too serious." Medic nodded.
Deep down, Sniper wanted to yell at them. At everyone. Tell them they were daft, that the kangaroos were running loose in their top paddocks. But Sniper, being the mature man he was, shrugged, turned his back to the mercs, and got himself a plate. Arguing was a waste of his time and energy. He needed to get his tucker and get out.
"I'm going to my room," the assassin grumbled.
"Come on, you're leaving?" Scout pouted, slumping farther over the side of his armchair. "But you can't miss this; watching snow's funner with more people. L-look, the snow's prettier than the postcards. It's whiter! And, and fluffier, it's fluffier too!"
"Don't care." Sniper spooned some potatoes onto his plate. He stared at their fluffy whiteness for a moment before shoving them back into the bowl.
His teammate scowled. "Are you kidding me? You've gotta be stu-"
"Scout, that's not helping." Engineer spoke up, a glass of eggnog in his robotic right hand. "I understand if you don't think the snow's a thing of beauty, Stretch. It can be a pain in the ass. But right now, it's really a welcome change." He sipped from his glass. "The snow's got its merits. It'd give you something to hide behind when yer snipin'. And when you're working outside, it cools you off."
"Not worth it," Sniper growled, stabbing at the carrots. Oh, he worked up a sweat in the cold alright. Worked up a sweat tonight moving a bloody useless grill, where the push of a button would cook your food and your face. Besides that, Engineer's work involved hauling machines and running around for metal, he never had to sit in the same exact position for hours. Didn't have a PhD in common sense, did he? Jackass.
"Buddy. Pal," Scout whispered. "We've got warm cookies. Fresh from the oven!"
Sniper picked up his plate stiffly. "Goodbye."
"Hey- hey, you don't wanna miss your first snow!" Scout whined. "Come back!"
"Good riddance, I say," Medic snapped. "He was killing the mood!"
Sniper slammed the living room door behind him.
Within his bedroom, the carrots and ham slowly disappeared from Sniper's plate as he flipped through Marksman's Quarterly, the text swimming and darting before his eyes. But he couldn't sleep now. From beyond the closed door, boots stomped, teammates chattered, people yelled, and Sniper swore someone was banging pots together. The walls couldn't be thinner. So, resolute as ever, Sniper ate, fighting to keep his eyes open.
Damned teammates. Damned snow. Damned tiredness. No one gave a shit about their work. Noisy stupid arses.
Branches rattled against the window pane, and the wind forced its way through the cracks in the building, its keening whistle heightened to an eerie scream. Sniper shivered, the draft slithering around him. He looked up from his magazine. Hundreds of white spots dotted the window, fading, only to be replaced by hundreds more.
As the dinner plate clattered on the dresser, Sniper stomped to the window and yanked the curtains shut.
After reading a few more paragraphs, Sniper yawned and dropped the magazine on the floor. He stripped down to a pair of boxers and got into bed, pulling the sheets over his head. It wasn't enough to muffle the chatter, the yelling, the stomping. As his fingers clenched his pillow, the wail of the wind rose, shrieking in the night, a banshee calling for his doom.
Somewhere after his three hundredth turn in his blanketed prison, sleep took Sniper under.
Silence.
Silence, broken by a little rushing sound.
It was… his breath.
He was awake.
Dim blue light glowed on the floor's wood panels, so faint he could barely see it.
Morning. Early morning, before the sun peaked over the crest of the earth.
The warm blankets enveloped him. Soft flannel wrapped around his legs, folded over his arms, and brushed against his fingers.
He lay there, eyes half open, thoughts drifting, turning, images and words shifting, meanings there and then not.
But as the minutes passed, the blankets became hot. Overly soft. Sweaty.
Sniper threw the covers off, stretching his long, gangling limbs. Straightening to his full height he yawned, and the air cooled his skin. Rubbing at the stubble on his chin, he walked over to the window, feet thudding against the floor, and pulled open the curtains.
Sniper yelped. He jumped backwards and smacked into the dresser. Flailing his arms, his hand slipped against the dresser's edge before he crashed to the floor. His heart racing, pain flooding his back, Sniper stared at the window.
White. Not bright white, it was too dark for that, but it was definitely white. Something white everywhere.
His hand clutching the dresser, he pulled himself up from the floor.
The white stuff was all over outside. It piled up to the middle of bushes, smooth on top, sloping in a wave, the surface broken here and there by black sticks poking up. The white dusted the trunks of elms, and clumped on leaves, the boughs bowing under its weight.
Sniper rubbed at his eyes.
He had to be dreaming. That wasn't anything like the view outside his window. That wasn't anything like his world. An alien planet, that's what it was. There wasn't a single word or name he could think of for the thing outside, the thing he'd never seen in 40 years of living. He was dreaming, he had to be dreaming.
But the pain in his back said otherwise.
He stepped forward, hesitant, and pressed a hand against the smooth, cold glass.
The thick white stuff bunched on the tree in round puffs. It looked like cotton. Or whipped cream. Or mashed potatoes.
Mashed potatoes…
...Snow.
It was snow. It snowed last night.
He shivered, and stared at the still, foreign world.
As he stood, gazing out into the forest, the snow became lighter, whiter. The sun crept higher below the horizon.
Sniper backed away, mindful of the dresser this time. He opened a drawer, and tugged an undershirt and sweater over his head. He tried pulling on his pants while looking to the window and swore as his feet got stuck. Reluctant, he broke his eyes away and adjusted the pant leg. Sniper walked to the bathroom, went through his morning routine, and then walked to the kitchen.
Light glowed through the drawn shades, softly illuminating the tiles and counters. Sniper made his way to the far counter, and lifted the coffee pot over to a power outlet. He plugged it in, filled the pot with some water, but paused.
Coffee. Coffee was for when he was groggy and not quite awake.
Sniper was very awake.
More awake than everyone else.
The snow party everyone had last night was long over. Smeared, crumb-covered plates were stacked haphazardly next to the sink. No footprints echoed in the halls, only rumbling snores. Soldier and Heavy, judging by the volume. Everyone must have stayed up late for even Soldier to still be sleeping.
Good. He could make brekki in peace.
Sniper opened the fridge and dug out the eggs, chicken, peppers, and an onion from the piles of leftovers shoved in every available space. He grimaced as the cold air engulfed his arms. Shutting the door, setting the scrambled egg supplies on the counter, he glanced at the curtains.
Today would be chilly. Chillier than usual, since it had snowed.
What was he supposed to do on his day off? Go hunting? There'd be snow. Go shopping? He'd have to drive on the snow. Knit? He'd get sick of it, want to do something else. And the snow would be out there. Everywhere. Unavoidable.
Sniper pulled out a knife and a cutting board, and sliced through the peppers, sneering. Great, he had to deal with that frozen shit today. Cold, wet, and miserable, that was the next three months here in this dump. Well, guess what? That numpty frozen shit was going to learn to deal with him. He was going to go out today, out into the snow, and he was going to thrive.
The disgruntled Sniper ate his scrambled eggs like a stiff automaton, glowering at the curtains. After washing off his plate, he marched to the mudroom. With a groan, he pulled on a boot, kicked the locker, and pulled at the handle.
For some reason, it opened with ease, but even this victory meant nothing to Sniper.
Inside the locker, taking up any available space, Sniper's winter gear waited for him. Snowpants, hat, two jackets, gloves, mittens, a hat, water bottles, a small camping stove… too many things. Sniper took it all out of the locker.
Grumbling and cursing, he pulled on the snowpants, then the boots, then light gloves, then mittens, then the jackets (mittens before jackets meant his wrists would be exposed). As he fumbled with the zipper, the wrists of his mittens slipped out of the jacket. He tried stuffing them back in, gave up, pulled his hat onto his head, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and stood.
Ugh. He'd have to repeat this stupid, time-consuming ritual every time he wanted to go out. He flexed his hand, barely moving his fingers with two layers restricting them.
Sniper hated winter.
He looked to his water bottles, his gear, his notebook. He shoved them into a small pack on his back. Midway through putting the notepad into the pack, he paused. He pulled it out again.
Stay warm, stay dry, don't make fires on- gah, he knew this already! Reading books on this shit was a waste! Nothing compared to raw experience!
Back into the pack the notebook went, its pages crinkling and ripping.
The outdoorsman stomped down the hall, boots thumping against the floorboards, and stopped at the front door, the bright world outside blurred by frost on the window. He turned the knob, the metal slipping beneath his woolen mitten, and opened the door. Look out, snow, here comes a profess-
Sniper blinked, his mind as blank as the clearing.
Nothing was there. No cigarette butts, no beer cans, no mudpaths... all of it was gone. In its place was blank, pristine white, wiping away all traces of filth. The snow gently sloped in drifts, white, icy sand dunes sweeping across his vision. The elms and pines walled in the clearing, and the snow shaped the branches with its weight, clumping in smooth mounds on the ends and bowing the wooden lengths down to form a roof.
It… It was…
Sniper shut his gaping mouth. A nuisance, Snow was a nuisance, at best a survival tool, it wasn't…
Wait…
Was it… sparkling?
Snow bunched on the porch's handrail. Sniper stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind him, and drew closer to it.
On the smooth, unbroken surface, little lights shone, whites and blues and pinks. Many winked out with the movement of the shadows, and still more flashed to life. It wasn't the gaudy sort of glimmer you'd see on an overdecorated birthday card, no. There was a sort of elegance to it, restraint, reservation. The snow didn't sparkle everywhere, but only in those choice places where the sun hit its surface just right.
Odd.
Odd how it could be so… pretty.
No one told him it sparkled like that.
There was beauty, too, in the way the snow curved, the way it frosted the trees, lining elm branches in white, and striping the pines.
And the sky. The white branches made the clear blue sky even bluer than a jay's wings.
It had been so long since he'd seen such a blue, blue sky.
Off to the side of the clearing, a trail led invitingly into the woods. Sniper stepped forward across the porch, the flakes crunching under his feet, the boards squeaking. He stepped again, and- wherewasTHEPORCH-
Sniper's foot plunged down, and his body tilted forward. He flailed his arms, and with a loud thump, he faceplanted into the snow. He lay for a moment, stunned. Sniper then lifted his head up with a gasp. His arms shoved his torso up out of the white, water droplets running down his face and dripping off his hat.
Snow was deadly, and deceptive, hostile to Australians, AND-
Alright, maybe he was overreacting.
His face burned, though. Burned in a strange, cold way, which faded to numbness. Sniper pulled himself up. Wiping his face as he stood, he looked through the living room window.
No one saw that.
Aces.
Sniper turned around. The outline of his body was imprinted cartoonishly into the snow. He stepped on the edges, trying to make it look like he'd just walked here, and nothing silly happened. He brushed some snow off the porch with his boot, uncovering the edge. He paused, eyeing the snow on the handrail.
He fell into the snow, but he didn't get much of an impression of what it felt like. It was cold and wet, but…
Sniper pulled off a mitten and glove, wiggled his fingers, and stuck them into the snow.
The fluff parted as his fingers sank in, chilling his flesh. He scooped some with his fingers and clenched them. The snow compacted, rough to the touch, but his body heat melted it to a smoother form. Sniper broke the clump apart, then pressed it back together.
Hmm. So if he wanted to make a shelter, this is what he'd be working with.
The trail into the woods beckoned. The pack on his back, though light, seemed to weigh too much. Sniper wondered if he really wanted to build a fire just yet, or make a shelter. Maybe he could just… walk. Get a feel for the altered landscape. Take it all in and then move from there.
Sniper dropped the clump of snow, tugged his mittens off, and left just his gloves on. He tentatively trod forward, stepping onto the trail, and disappeared into the white.
Silence.
Silence dominated over the empty, glimmering forest. Flakes drifted through the needles of spruces, danced between the black net of branches, and rested upon the drifts without a sound. The powdered trees swayed, but no limbs creaked beneath their heavy load, and no dead leaves cracked, wrapped in their white burial shroud.
Silence. There was more of it than the snow.
There was a challenger to its dominion, however.
Sniper ducked under branches, brushing aside their black, frostbitten fingers, the brittle stems snapping. Bristling thistles rattled as he passed. His movements were the only source of noise, save for the occasional mound of snow that dropped from the elms and thumped to the ground.
He was the only living thing for miles, it seemed.
It was an empty, all-enveloping quiet, as quiet the deadest parts of the desert he called home. Every sound, from the breeze's whisper to the crack of broken branches, was muffled. The silence could have been eerie, but the beauty of the snowy world around him soothed any rankled nerves. The blue sky peaked through the tree's entwined arms, and on crisp, frosted leaves the sun gleamed.
His boots crunched the snow underfoot, the treads leaving perfect impressions. That was one thing he didn't like, how easy he was to track now. A neon sign on a starry night. Sniper preferred leaving no traces where he walked, avoiding damp earth and fragile twigs. Now he left a trail even a blind old biddy could follow, and brushing the footprints wouldn't help. At least on a battlefield he could still hide, walking in other people's footprints.
If he walked somewhere new, his trail would have to be so far out of the way that no one would find it. That, or he could travel while a strong wind blew, a wind that shifted the snow into his tracks and filled them.
Light breeze blew snowflakes down from the trees. Sniper stretched out a glove, catching a few crystals, and held the flakes up to his face.
The elaborate, hexagonal pattern of the flakes held still for a moment before the crystals melted away. Sniper caught a few more and held his breath this time. Some of the flakes branched out from the center in minute spokes, like the needles of pines. Others were blocky, geometric, solid and without gaps. Some had no spokes. Mere hexagons with ridges. Sniper wished he had a microscope; his eyes were sharp, but these little things were so tiny.
Shaking the snow from his glove, he moved on.
One of the things he liked so far, strangely enough, was the cold. Maybe he wasn't bundled up enough to enjoy it earlier. Now the cold refreshed him. He pulled off his hat earlier to brush some snow off it, and when the breeze gently ruffled his hair, he almost didn't want to put the hat back on.
Sniper flexed his fingers and winced, pain shooting through them. The cold might have been refreshing on his face, but it bit at his hands. His fingers were more numb than before, and his gloves were still damp too. Handling snow with his bare hands was a rubbish idea. He'd have to put his mittens back on.
Crack!
Sniper stumbled, and more cracks came from under his boots. He put on his mittens and knelt, keeping his feet planted, and brushed at the snow. His glove slid along something hard and jagged. Water soaked through the mitten's threads.
Was the hard thing a rock? No, rocks weren't so fragile or thin, generally.
He pawed more of the snow away, and found a translucent sheet of the smooth material with jagged edges. Looked like glass. Couldn't be glass; it was too dull. Didn't rip at his mitten or catch on it.
Fragile, smooth, found out in the middle of nowhere, over a puddle of water…
Ice.
The water didn't freeze all the way through. Thankfully it was too fragile to slip on.
But there'd be more ice soon.
Sniper kept walking, the trail curving here and there, ice occasionally cracking and fracturing where he stepped. As he trod forward, water pattered in the distance. He broke into a run, branches waving in protest as he knocked against them, but he only stopped once the creek came into view. The thick ice gleamed opaquely between the rocks at the creek's edge, and the outdoorsman stepped more carefully, slowing to a halt.
Shards of ice drifted down the steady flowing river. The outlines of leaves and rocks shifted and wavered underneath trails of white foam. The snow bunched at the edge and clinged to the grasses, careful to not get itself too wet.
The creek. One of the only sources of water out here. But now…
Sniper scooped up a handful of snow. Frozen water. Frozen water that lay everywhere, in larger quantities than he'd ever need. He'd never have to worry about thirst. A welcome change of pace from New Mexico.
The thing was, though, that frozen water was, well, frozen. He could eat it and let it melt in his mouth, but it'd steal his body heat away, doing more harm than good in a pinch. However, if he filled a water bottle with it, it could be melted by a fire.
It wouldn't hurt to take just a bite, though.
Sniper ate the frozen handful, the crystals crunching between his teeth. The water trickled down his throat. He frowned, suddenly conscious of his body temperature, and how he'd been warmer when he first stepped out of the base. Even if he found the cold refreshing before, it was nipping at his nose a bit now.
How long was he able to stay out here, anyway? He wasn't close to feeling too cold, and he knew it was safe to spend hours out here if he stayed warm and energetic. But what was the limit?
Sniper shrugged. He could ask Heavy later. As far as Sniper cared, he'd go back when he got peckish.
He turned his attention back to the creek. Now, as for where he was going next… should he cross the river? Go downstream to the dogwood thickets? Upstream to the waterfall?
Come to think of it, he hadn't been to the waterfall in a while.
Sniper turned, following the creek's path, the snow sloshy as the freeflowing water permeated it. The grasses tangled around his feet, a few stems trailing behind his boots. The river flashed and sparkled in the morning light, widening, deepening, its voice rising. Sniper stepped over fallen logs and errant bushes, slowing his pace to step in dry spots. He circled around a massive blue spruce, ducked over an overturned birch, and walked under the rocky overhang that the waterfall spilled over.
A cliff, crescent-shaped, curved around Sniper, the river cutting between the moon's horns. The cliff was formed by dolomite stacked in flat sheets, long-buried strata exposed to the world, some jutting out and forming a roof over the area. Roots reached down over the top stretching in futility for more sustenance. At the middle of the crescent, some 20 meters from where Sniper stood, the waterfall spilled through a notch in the cliff, wearing through the stone with the inexorable strength of time. It slit into many little streams and rivulets as it came down, snaking under curved logs and threading through the frosted grass and bushes, the snow perching on the rocks and letting it all pass by.
Other sections of the river tumbled down from the section of overhang above Sniper. At least, they used to; nothing dripped down over Sniper's head save for a few water droplets.
Sniper suspected it had something to do with the… the… the doohickeys everywhere.
Something odd hung from the snowspattered logs and roots, draping from the overhang. Curtains of clear, glassy stalactites hung from each and every one, some massive and longer than his body, and from the logs and roots, some as thin and small as his pinky. Icicles, that was the term. Coldfront, though snowless, was awfully cold at times and just above freezing at others. The shifting temperatures caused the water to freeze, melt, and refreeze, and boom! Icicles. The smaller streams above were too slow to keep flowing, stopping midfall to freeze to icy spears.
Sniper reached out, grabbed an icicle drooping from a bush, and broke it off. It shattered to pieces, and he grabbed another, snapping it off more gingerly this time. It was smooth, transparent, the image of his mitten's threads warping within its form.
He walked farther under the overhang, balancing in the round tops of rocks, dropped the icicle, and grabbed a larger one from the shelf, one twice as big around as his fingers. Water dripped down from above. He brushed it off his face, then pulled at the icicle, pulled until the stubborn thing broke away. It's smooth sides threatened to slip out of his grip.
The BLU Spy had stabbed him with one of these before.
Sniper wrapped another hand around the frozen dagger. Holding it horizontally, he strained, and it snapped in half in his hands.
How did the BLU Spy manage to kill people with these? They weren't sharp at all, and they were fragile! How'd he dig it into the spine without it coming apart?
Water dripped onto Sniper's nose, and again he brushed it away. He swung the icicle like a balisong, trying to copy the Spy's form. He adjusted his grip and swung once more, almost seeing it shatter daintily on a target's back. Honestly- this was a stupid weapon-
CRACK!
Sniper jumped back, slipping on the rocks and falling to his knees. Something plunged down and speared the bush in front of him. His knees protested as he scrambled away, sliding on the ice patches A massive length of ice, thicker than his legs, nested itself in between the bush's broken branches.
Where the hell did that thing come from?!
Sniper craned his head skyward, and up above him, fangs, pale draconic fangs, hung from the stony roof, water dripping down like slobber.
He stood up slowly, and inched his way through the snow, still looking upward, transfixed by the impossibly large teeth.
The BLU Spy's icicle dagger wasn't much of a weapon. However, if someone dropped one of those fangs onto Sniper's head, he wouldn't have much of a brain left.
And if he shot them while someone else was standing under them, it'd be a bloody interesting sight.
Sniper sat on a boulder, finally out of harm's way. He stretched and flexed his fingers, trying to work the stiffness out of them. The creek endlessly churned, droplets leaping out of the foam and splashing back down. The dappled sunlight shifted and flickered on the waterfall's surface, and the snow gleamed on the overhang's edge.
Sniper sat up there once. View was a beaut. The chickadees used to swoop by him on their way down.
He'd have to backtrack if he wanted to see the view atop the falls again. There wasn't a way to scale the cliff with all the ice covering it, and he wasn't keen on crossing the river when a fall into the waters would chill him to the bone.
Sniper made his way back, avoiding the fangs and eventually circling back around the blue spruce. He walked to the northeast, up the hill and along the ridge. The snow deepened, and Sniper raised his legs higher as he trudged through the drift.
Once he emerged from the drift and back to level ground, the wind picked up.
Sniper halted.
He could swear he heard a bird singing.
Stock still he stood, the leaves waving, the snowflakes dancing down. But even after a few minutes he didn't hear the bird again.
Was it just the wind whistling? The call had been so faint, and just a single note.
Sniper frowned. He hadn't seen a single living thing this morning anywhere in the woods. A place usually teeming with life. He shrugged. He'd probably have better luck at the thickets, where the wild crabapples grew. Though the birds already picked the last fruits of fall.
The outdoorsman sighed, shaking his head. Then his eyes widened.
Forked shapes. Forked patterns on the snow by his feet.
Footprints.
A small, three-toed bird. It passed by recently; the prints were still clear. Sniper gingerly stepped next to them, carefully tracing the path to a small clearing. The prints weaved and wound around the stems coming up from the ground. Then the tracks lightened. Faint on the snow's crust, they disappeared from sight. Sniper lowered himself down, until he was almost level to the snow's surface. The softest suggestions of shadow led him onward, and the trail clarified, forked prints digging deeper into the snow.
But then, blankness. Small indents, the brushing of wings, lay parallel to the last forks.
Sniper stared, his shoulders sagging slightly. That was the problem with tracking birds. You could have the clearest prints in the world, but it wouldn't get you very far, unless you wanted to know where they generally lived. A couple flaps of the wings, and there goes your lead. He shouldn't have even bothered in the first place.
Pity it wasn't still here.
"Cheecheecheecheecheechee!"
He froze, slowly moving his head up until he spotted a grey junco on a branch above him, the stem bobbing beneath its weight. The bird regarded him with its glossy black eyes and trilled again before preening its white feathered chest.
Adorable little thing. All dressed up to blend in with the trees, wasn't it?
The junco preened a wing, running its beak along the edges of its primaries, then turned its head to pick at a wings underside. Sniper held his breath, watching as the junco worked. It looked so cute, it was so small! The junco looked about, flicking its tail, shivering and puffing up. It shot a glance at Sniper before spreading its wings. It dove and wooshed a few inches past his nose, and Sniper laughed as it disappeared into the canopy.
Branches snapped in the distance.
He dropped down, crouching behind an ash tree. More snaps, and the rhythmic thud of footsteps. Sniper wished he'd brought a firearm.
Something red flickered in the brush, and crashing through the snow-edged pines, Scout stumbled into view.
"There you are!" Scout shouted, his cheeks cherry read as he panted, his hair covered with snow. "I've been- looking for ya! Whatcha- whatcha doing doing down there?"
"Hiding," Sniper said, pulling himself up and bracing against the ash. "Wasn't sure who or what was coming after me in the middle of nowhere."
Scout swiped a gloved hand at his hair, brushing the snowflakes out of it. "Ugh. Forgot what it felt like to get a faceful of snow and pine needles, it's been so long." He grinned. "You sure did a good job of hiding, leaving a whole trail of footprints after ya. How's the snow? Do you hate it? Or were you really scared of it? You were reading guides and writing notes-"
"It did not scare me-"
"And you were all grouchy and-" Scout's voice shifted into a wretched Aussie accent, "Oi'm the Snoiper and Oi think snow's dangerous, ooooh! I hate the bloody stuff, it gives me noightmares-"
"Scout." Sniper gave him a look that could toast bread instantly, and Scout relented.
"Well, then what do ya think of snow?" the runner asked.
"I-" Sniper started, but stopped.
What did he think of it?
It was cold, an enjoyable cold that cooled the breeze, a biting cold that numbed him and curled up his fingers. The snow was made of little flakes with an infinite variety of geometric designs, and the flakes caught the light and sparkled, a welcome change from the drab browns and greys of the sleeping forest. The snow deceived him, hiding the places where he'd lose his balance or slip on a rock. The snow was a ready source of water. The snow stole his body heat and would kill him if he spent too long in it. The snow melted and refroze into icicles, and when they dropped, they did not discern between friend or foe. The snow made tracking easier, whether for him or for his enemies, but he could hide his tracks if the circumstances were right, and it made it easier to find animals.
The wintry forest was beautiful, and deadly if you weren't careful. In that sense, it was like his lovely, lethal home.
"It's got its drawbacks. But I guess it's nice," Sniper said.
Scout nodded. "Yeah, it's pretty sweet." He grinned. "It's the only thing you're gonna see for the next three months."
"I'm game," Sniper said, straightening up and crossing his arms. "I've slept in the corpses of water buffalos, and I survived six months lost in the outback. What's a little snow going to do to me?"
Scout rolled his eyes. "Geez, ya gotta make everything a survival challenge." He adjusted his gloves, frowning. "This stuff's too stinkin' wet, though. Every time I go out my gloves get soggy and it's so hard to move my fingers. I can hardly take my jacket off when they're like this. My Ma used to make me hot cocoa and I'd hold the mug so my fingers would warm up."
"Oh wait!" Scout exclaimed, slapping his forehead. "I came out to tell ya that Pyro's making hot cocoa back at the base."
Sniper furrowed his brow. Hot cocoa? Cocoa's the stuff they made chocolate from. Was that hot chocolate he was talking about? He'd never had-
A hand shoved its way into his view and waved obnoxiously. "Earth to Sniper!" Scout called. "This is your captain speaking! Pyro's making freakin' hot chocolate! Aren't you excited?"
"Nah," Sniper said, backing away as Scout circled and tried to poke him. "Stop that. I'll bite your fingers off, you little gremlin! And what exactly is hot cocoa, anyway? Is it melted chocolate?"
Scout gasped, eyes wide. "You don't know what hot chocolate is? Have you ever had it?"
"Nope."
"Never?"
"Never in my life. Unless fondue counts."
Scout shook his head, sinking his face into one of his hands. "Holy crap, Sniper, you really missed out. You take this packet of cocoa, and you dump it in a mug of hot milk, and then you dump in another to make it taste really good, and then you add marshmallows-"
"Scout," Sniper interrupted, "Why don't I just find out and try it for myself?"
"Yeah! Let's go back!"
Scout broke into a sprint, but stopped, wheeling his arms. "Woah woah woah. I forgot the most important part." He turned around and walked back to Sniper. "I got a present to give ya," the runner said, trying to look serious, the corners of his lips twitching. "But it's a surprise. Ya gotta close your eyes or you ain't getting it."
Raising an eyebrow, Sniper squinted at his companion. There was no reason to believe anything good would come out of this, judging by Scout's expression. But why not humor him for once?
Shrugging, Sniper shut his eyes, and shouted as a snowball smacked into his face.
"You bugger! Come back here!"
In the distance Scout's laughter grew fainter and fainter, and Sniper bolted after him back to the base.