Hector Santiago (vayacondios) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-02-03 21:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | cougar, revolution man |
Who: Hector and Connor
What: A professional meets a (comparatively speaking) novice. And so a perfectly nice, quiet evening is ruined.
When: Last night
Where: Rooftop of Bathos
Warnings: None that I can think of, unless you morally object to awkward silences and "shop talk".
Hector liked rooftops.
Most thought it was an occupational thing; he'd spent most of his time with the military on rooftops, and when he wasn't on a rooftop he was belly-down in a sand dune or a pile of leaves. Given that, being hundreds of feet up in the air and not surrounded by ten reasons to take a shower would have been preferable to most people.
The fact of the matter was, he just liked the view. Being that high up, that far removed from the rest of the world, watching everything from the other side of the scope...it gave you perspective. Made you realize how small and insignificant you were in the grand scheme of things, and yet how that insignificance didn't equal worthless. From 200 yards he could kill a man, without any effort, and he would never see it coming. Life was precious, fleeting; it could be taken in the blink of an eye, without warning. It was both humbling and empowering, all at the same time, having that kind of power.
He placed the stand of his rifle on the edge of the roof and knelt to look through it, scanning the streets below. Just watching; he hadn't loaded it, in truth hadn't bothered keeping it loaded since crossing over. He'd lost his taste for it when he hadn't been able to save 26 innocent souls (never mind the rationality of one man being able to stop that particular catastrophe singlehanded), and while Johnny's prodding about the poor shape the city was in was starting to tease it back...it was still a ways away.
Why he bothered to do this, keep sharp when he didn't really intend to go back to his old life, he didn't really know. Habit, maybe, or maybe he wasn't as ready to leave it behind as he'd thought. Whatever the reason, it was good practice, and he found himself up here at least once a week, usually more, watching the streets below and the apartments around him like some kind of silent protector, albeit an ineffective one. He knew more about his neighbors' habits and routines than they likely realized, and if he thought this strange at all, well.
He was a sniper. It was his job to watch.