Haute Tireuse d'élite
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300.
A three hundred thread count.
“What a cheap uniform,” she thought, as she finished counting the fibers through scope of her rifle.
“And he’s supposed to be a captain? Pah. And that tacky green...”
She could shoot him dead for that alone, if it wouldn’t make her mission an absolute waste. She continued to wait, hoping for signs that the dirty old tent flaps would spring to what would pass for life around there, and her objective would present. The so called captain began to pick his nose, and her hoof almost twitched.
Almost darling, almost. She was a fashionista. An artiste. An embodiment of finery and control. There were no twitches, or involuntary spasms, no blemish in her performance, or in her. That is, after all, why she had been chosen over all the riff-raff that sprayed their rounds like a firehose across the range, and prayed they’d kick enough debris in the air to put a hole in the target. Or give them an asthma attack. Her shots were always held to the utmost standards. Sure, she had perhaps taken a bit more time, to pull the trigger. Perhaps a lot more time. But after it had gotten dark, she couldn’t well shoot without a light. What was one to do but to wait for their ruler to bring back the sun?
The fact of the matter was, if a little thing like that hadn’t gotten in her way, there’s no way Captain 300 count- Her hoof itched as she spied him wiping the booger on his coat. No! There was no way she’d let this oaf get the better of her. She’d already spent three days detailing the camp and patrols, the five before that picking the right position, and another two spent making the dirt around her ground not so...dirty. This. Was. Going. Perfectly. She mentally sighed. It’d be a week at the spa just to get her coat bright and proper, but such are the sacrifices for home and country...and beauty.
The curtains moved, and the target, a general-or was it a politician? Moved out of the camp....along with five other clouding her trajectory. Pah. Out of all the things that could have happened, this was THE. WORST. POSSIBLE. Oh! He was a general and politician, yes, that’s right. He was going to give a speech, she remembered. “Heh heh…” She carefully followed his path, doing her best to keep the reticle on him at all times. Finally he climbed alone, and approached the podium, after giving a quick hoof-shake to Captain cheap coat. Rarity felt a tiny pang, a moment of compassion for the one that would die without ever knowing he just touched booger hooves. Not even an enemy deserves to suffer such disgust. If only she’d ended it a moment before... But that wouldn’t do.
Of course, she could end it now, or even then, but that would be the common way to go. It would have lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. The hoofprint of a master, finesse, couture. The unsophisticated schools always taught to aim for the head, but the sight of brains were ghastly. She’d seen quite enough of those in the war already, and she didn’t intend to add anymore. They might not give any concern for the mess it left, but they weren’t rarities like her. Scouting the perfect spot, building and cleaning the perfect gun, patiently awaiting the perfect shot, all to what? Leave the place a splattered mess? That was your reward? Well, technically it was the honor of serving crown and country, but it was better, she’d thought, to kill, as in all things, as beautifully and neatly as possible. If she placed the shot at the neck, right around the fold of the throat met the base of the jaw, and gave it just a tiny bit of an angle, she could leave a hole that would close up when the head was tilted, and the bullet would sever the spine for an internal decapitation. Perhaps the brainstem, if all went well - and it should, nay, it would, and that exit wound would also be invisible once the body was laid out on the ground, or in a casket. He shouldn’t even bleed too much on their stage.
As a point of fact, she intentionally chose a smaller rifle, and refused the larger rounds. Both would subvert her efforts by taking far too chunk-ish bites of flesh no matter where she placed her shot. Yes, it did mean she had to get closer, and of course that entails more danger, but fashion is nothing if not risky. She hoped someone would appreciate the pains she went through. Well, she doubted the family would appreciate too terribly her painstaking handiwork, but at least the coroner, or the ones on cleanup duty-
Bang.
The target had reared his head back to laugh at something obviously hilarious, and that was it. One pull. One shot. One kill. Naturally it was clean. Cleaner than most, she would brag, and he got to leave this world in good cheer. You couldn’t really ask for anymore, aside from not getting shot, but running a business had long taught her that some prices are non-negotiable. Nor could she. Yes, there was always something to lodge a complaint about, like the ground being too hard, or the air being too dry, or that Commander Snotty got off Scott-free after his three time affront to common decency, but the shot itself was good.
He presented himself nicely, and gave a wide opening for her preferred shot, instead of ducking around, and making her life more difficult than it already was. Naturally she obliged with stitched precision, cutting short her train of thought to give it her full and undivided attention for that brief and fleeting moment. She replayed that moment in her mind one more time, remember how the little hole appeared on his neck, and how his legs went weak right before his body disappeared behind the podium. He didn’t even do much in the way of spray and splatter, not even spritzing on his entourage or He Who Shall No Longer Be Mentioned, but she could tell from the way his head jostled that her shot has been true. Practiced experience had permitted her that much.
With her kill confirmed, she closed her sights to the pause and scramble that accompanied the fall of a leader, and wriggled back into the bush that concealed her pack. It was a time again to be still, but also time to stretch and prepare for her trek to the extraction point. It would be hard to make the walk after days of being laid out prone over the cold, and formerly far more dirty ground, but then again her joints had always been more marshmallow-y than other ponies, and that’s why she packed the wet-naps.
Author's Note
After 3000 hours in various shooting games, I know how to kill with class. Such dedication came back to haunt me in games like Left 4 Dead, where the objectively best weapon was the shotgun, yet I could only decently use the rifle and Akimbo. I'm also trash at modern shooters that give priority to the spray and pray style of assault rifles. Pardon my French.
