"Lonely Hearts"

That's what they were known as back at base. Most of them didn't care; some took on the phrase as some kind of label, an identity. He hated it. He had always disliked being called a 'loner', a 'recluse'. He didn't need a label, a nickname to know what he was...what he was capable of.

"What do these grunts know anyway", he had heard himself quip one day. Unfortunately, this comment of his had been overheard by some of the residents of the camp, the ones who did, take pride in being called 'grunts'. Needless to say, the results of the consequent 'conversation' hadn't been too pleasant.

It was a miracle he had passed the course, having spent almost two weeks of the six nursing a broken finger...his 'trigger finger'. It was during these fourteen days that he had learned about his gift, his 'power'.

"The sniper is the most adaptable of all animals", he remembered his chief instructor saying. He remembered the looks on the other cadets' faces when he made a perfect score using his other hand. He had never been ambidextrous, but it was something in him, something that he felt only when he was with his rifle, that made him feel 'invincible'.

He felt a bond, a 'kinship' with that object of wood and metal that he had never felt with any other human being, ever.

By the end of the six weeks, only four teams had survived the course. There was no ceremony, no party to celebrate the accomplishment. They had boarded a plane the next morning and been dumped, equally unceremoniously in the middle of a war which had slowly started to lose all meaning and sense of purpose.

Snipers always worked in pairs, one would watch and the other would kill. Those were the rules. Simple rules, which, if not followed could mean certain death.

He had never been one for rules. But he had been clever enough to know when to abide by them. In the camp he had to, if he had to earn the badge. But they were no longer in camp and the rules appeared easy to bend...even break.

"That looks like a good spot..over there", whispered his watcher. He pretended not to hear. "Hey..didn't you hear what I said?" said the watcher, nudging him on the shoulder.

He didn't reply back. His Beretta did it for him. The soft metallic 'clinks' of the casings falling on the cracked concrete were muffled by the sound of the watcher's body crumpling, collapsing against the wall.

Holstering the sidearm, he walked to the slit of a 'window'. "It isn't such a bad spot after all" he said aloud. He was alone now, exactly how he had wanted it. Just him and his rifle. Just like it should be.

He cringed with a sudden rush of rage as he remembered that night, a few days after they had landed. Their first mission, the promise of their first 'kill'...HIS first kill. All taken away by that bungling pile of flesh and bones that now lay rotting in a pool of 'its' own blood.

He remembered how he had wept that night, how he had felt his entire world, his dreams implode, leaving behind a deep vacuum, a scar that seemed to deepen with each passing hour.

But his luck had changed. There was another mission, the promise of another kill.

During the briefing, he had felt it grow within him, a deep, warm feeling...no, not just a feeling, a craving. It was the kill he craved...the 'red mist'.

He'd first heard this phrase when he was in camp, from one of the older ones. "That's all you can get to see", the man had said. "Through those cross hairs, all that will tell you if it's a kill, will be that puff, that cloud of mist...RED mist".

Since then he had wanted it, wanted the mist, the kill.

He looked at his watch. A few more minutes to go. He had been waiting for three hours now.
Even if he had decided to take position in the open and not in the deserted 'pill box', no one could have made him out. He was one with his surroundings. In the past three hours, he had moved twice; the first time was to allow a scorpion to pass through his 'ghillie suit' and the second movement was to compensate for the first. He could hear his sweat seep into the cracks of the concrete floor, feel the dehydration setting in. But he couldn't move...not now..not when he could hear them...hear his prey approach.

He breathed in, feeling the slight jerk of the recoil against his shoulder, the sharp smell of cordite, the soft 'sneeze' of the suppressor. Then he saw it. The mist. He felt his senses exploding in unison, a feeling of elation that could never be described in words, one that he did not want to let go off...he felt...he felt like 'God'.

The yelling broke his stupor. Looking through the cross hairs, he saw his remaining prey scatter, hiding behind whatever cover their surroundings could provide. His rifle now seemed to be a part of him, an extension of his arm. All he had to do was point and breathe and he was answered by the mist that he so craved.

One by one he saw his prey fall. And with every breath of his, he could feel the breath leaving their bodies. This was his moment of truth..his moment of self realisation...of true power.

Snipers had rules, simple but cardinal. One such rule was never to compromise one's position.

But he had never been one for rules.

He never heard the muffled footsteps behind him, the whispered orders, the creak of the door. He turned only when he heard something rolling on the floor...something heavy.

"Clear!!!" yelled the man near the door.

"That takes care of that nuisance..." remarked the other, his superior. "Come on...we've got the wounded to take care of...and...what's wrong?"

"Nothing Sir...I mean...when I tossed it in..I saw him...his face..and..."

"And what? Speak up man!!"

"I could swear he was laughing..."