1 . Name: Mus @ 2012-04-16 04:07

Death of a Sniper
Written by Ultrabaguette (permission granted to post)
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It was the Heavy they sent.
His footprints shadowed the snowed over marks of the Huntsman.
Darkness consumed the hulking man as he left the grounds of the base, the little point of civilization in the barren, frozen wastes.
The trees brushed his coat as he trod though the wood, his steps light, his demeanor quiet. Thoughtful.
He could feel something leave him, a weight taken off his shoulders as the boundary of Respawn was crossed. A fear settling into him, the reaffirmation of his waning mortality.
The body was only feet away from where the footsteps faltered and became drag marks. Where the Sniper had crawled. Where he had cried and screamed.


Heavy lifted the body from the snow, cradling the corpse with a giant arm as big, clumsy fingers delicately brushed snow from the Sniper’s face.
There was nothing there. Nothing of the man Heavy had known. Black blood froze in the corners of the mouth, ice clung to his open eyes, the wintery world taking the creature of mud and dust back to itself.
Heavy could not close the Sniper’s eyes.
Back to the light, the comforting circle of Respawn, Heavy felt the body in his arms twitch, the system trying to disintegrate the dead man, to bring life back to him.
But the cells were too decayed. There was nothing left for the miracle system to bring back.


The base was warm. The ice and blood began to run from the Sniper’s body, laid out on the Medic’s examination table.
The team gathered. Quiet. Hands between their knees, their eyes blank, head hung.
In the dim light they could see how the Sniper had suffered. His thawing face was gaunt, paper thin skin stretched over sharp bone, his scalp scratched and caked with blood. His eyes yellowed and shining unnaturally even in death.
Some of the men, the Scout, the Heavy, the Demo, blamed themselves. They had been his friends. They should have known. They should have done more.
The others were quiet. They had known. Medic did no more then frown, preforming a contract required autopsy.
“How…” Scout started when Medic reappeared.
“Starvation vas zhe primary cause.” Medic replied. Scout buried his face in his hands. Demo laid his hand on the boy’s back.
Heavy did not look up from the floor.
“We bury him.” Demo’s voice was strong, clear in the silent room, lingering over his teammates.
“We cannot.” Medic’s voice was tinny, factual. It stuck in Scout’s throat like the bonesaw.
“We bury him!” He burst, his voice cracking, tears forced from his eyes. “You don’t gotta do SHIT. Me an’ Demo’ll…” Demo nodded, gripping his shoulder.
“Zhe ground is frozen. We cannot bury him.” Medic drolled, distant, detached, his bloody hands clasped behind his back.
“We give him to lake.” Heavy’s voice slipped into the silence. Demo’s eyes found him across the room, bleary and bloodshot.
“Aye. We build him a boat.”


Battle was forestalled. The RED built their boat. The BLU watched from their side.
The funeral was held on the lakeside. Wrapped in coats and scarves they stood, eyes on the little wooden boat, the man posed inside with his rifle, his RED contract.
One by one the men dropped something into the boat. A piece of themselves or the man they had known.
They didn’t seem surprised when their enemies filtered to the lake side. Curious. Drawn to the pain of their counterparts. They fit themselves between the RED’s. Quiet. Silent.
One of their own, a soldier, an enemy, a man, was dead. They came to grieve.
Soldier opened a torn, musty book.
“I’ve seen many men die. We all have.” He said quietly, closing the book. “We’ve watched ourselves die, killed our brothers.” His eyes went from RED to BLU, all heads bowed, they knew.
“I don’t know what’s up there, or if we’re all going to Hell, and I don’t have any words of wisdom here. But Sniper was a good man. A professional. A friend.” Scout turned his face to Demo’s shoulder. Heavy felt Demo’s hand in his. “He’ll be missed by us who knew him as a man.”


The boat was pushed into the lake by the rubber suited Pyro and set ablaze, the delicate pine ferns ignited and the old wood crackled.
Both teams looked on with the empty gazes of hardened men, their eyes pricked with sorrow for their own mortality.


The boat sank, the dead man nearly untouched by the flame. In the frozen embrace of the water, another embrace emerged, easing the Sniper’s decent. Gentle clawed hands and suckered limbs caressed the starved, bled body.
“Mon ami, now we can be togezzer. Like we always should ‘ave been.”