Rack, Tap, Bang [X-COM 2] (Broomhandle45 & Erit of Eastcris)

[Erit of Eastcris]

The West African Savannah was calm and clear in the grey light of pre-dawn, fauna ignorant to the plight of the world prancing and skittering and prowling in the long grasses and brush of the wild lands. There was a sense of calm to the place, an unperturbed innocence that could almost make one forget the state of things elsewhere in the world. The soft, thundering crack of a round exploding into its component bullet and casing, though, served as a harsh reminder to any whom might wish to meditate on matters of peace in that false serenity. A man that some called Lost knelt in that grass, eyes cast down the sights of his rifle as another round exploded forth from the chamber, metal whizzing through the air and planting itself in the bark of a twisted, gnarled old tree some poor family of meerkats tried to call home. Lost didn't much care about the meerkats or the tree, though; he cared that he had missed twice in his last altercation with the wrongful occupants of his planet. The ballistic weapon in his hands didn't have quite the same kick as the weapon he'd been using then, but nonetheless he was out in those planes planting metal seeds in that tree, eyes wide open to look down the hundred-odd yards between him and his imaginary target. Would that he could use a proper firing range, he would better know his score thusfar, but honing his marksmanship out in those planes where the wind was present would have to do. More representative of real action anyway, minus the magnetically-accelerated slugs some box-wearing grunt would have been trying to forcefully introduce to his nervous system. ADVENT's basic troopers were nobodies, faceless goons wearing mass-produced ceramic plate armor which held up to sustained fire about as well as tissues on a naked asscheek, but they had numbers and some measure of discipline. Lost had to make up for that by making every squeeze of the trigger count for something, anything; if he didn't then, as far as he was concerned, he may as well turn himself over to a gene clinic for all the good he could do in bringing his wife home from them. How long had it been since she disappeared through those doors? He'd stopped counting after the first year, choosing to instead count the number of ADVENT swine he sent to their graves. They would be the cobblestone in the road he walked to her side.

"Karen..." He whispered her name, the sound a talisman to the lost man. Another casing flew from the action as the rifle kicked back into his shoulder, Lost's grounded posture absorbing the impact and sending the projectile sailing true to it's mark. Some had tried to convince her she was gone, that he would never see his wife again. Lost refused to believe them, seizing with both hands the hope that if he fought hard enough she would still be there, at the end of the world. It was all he had left at that point. His job, his home, even his name; he'd thrown all of them aside and joined up with the resistance in exchange for a gun in his hand and an enemy in his sights. He had secured thirteen corpses for the cause so far, but he wouldn't be satisfied until that number had at least another zero at the end. Not after everything they'd done to him and the others, the mothers and sons of his planet. Again he squeezed the trigger, a ball of hot lead zipping forth and burying itself in the flesh of the tree. He wouldn't let them go until every last one had paid in blood for their sins against his kind. The indignities the innocent suffered through, the injustices they endured, the loss they all shared. He'd hunt them until every last one had a bullet in their skulls.

Another, final squeeze of the trigger yielded naught. His clip was empty, Lost realized, which meant practice was over. The man switched out the magazine and stood, drawing himself to his full five feet and ten inches of height, slinging the gun over his broad shoulders and starting the half-mile trek back to the resistance haven, thickly-muscled legs carrying him with long, swift strides. He was not the most handsome or most beautiful man, Lost, with his sallow cheeks and slightly crooked nose, hazel eyes matching well with his short auburn hair. He didn't let it grow out too long, anymore; it turned into a mess of curls and waves that was impossible to keep tidy, and gave the enemy a convenient handhold to tear at him with. It was only twenty minutes before he was back at the place that was, for the time being, "home" to the lost man with nothing but a seething hatred to his name. And no sooner did he arrive than he was approached by a familiar face. "Jaws." He said simply, acknowledging the presence of his apparent partner in crime. They weren't terribly close, at least he didn't think they were, but the pair had been on assignment many times before and worked well as a team, so they stuck with each other more often than not. "Trouble?"