This story is about a man who is on a roof with his expert rifleman rifle and different gears, eating a sandwich, too excited to eat that morning. After he's done eating his sandwich, he took out his metal flask to take a swift drink. Pausing for a moment to consider if he should smoke or not until his needs to smoke overcame him, presently later he is nearly hit by a shot from, presumingly, another sniper. The same sniper that is covering his sole escape route. Taking a risk, he decided to do a peek-a-boo. Seeing a flash and feeling a bullet fly past his head, he quickly dived back in cover, now knowing that the enemy, that's shooting him, is sitting across the street. An armoured vehicle appears with a machine gun on it. Seconds later an old lady comes out of the side street corner and snitches the man's location. The marksman snatches his rifle and shoots the person behind the machine gun on the armoured vehicle once the gunner chose to pop his head out, stupidly, to talk to the old lady. The same old lady who is trying to flee into the side street but to ultimately fail and flop down into the gutter, dead. During his offensive kill streak, our expert marksman gets injured in the arm by the friendly sniper across the street. Fixing himself up and using his brain power he takes his cap and the rifle. In a perfectly executed, risky plan he fakes his demise by putting his cap on his rifle's barrel making it seems like it's his head. Putting on a show he lets his rifle fall down making the enemy sniper fall for it like hook and sinker or something. Popping his head out to check if his plan worked and luckily it did, and so he spotted his soon to be ex-arch-enemy as he decided to mercifully make him a human cheese with his pistol. The corpse flipped, flopped and then fell forward off the roof to become best buddies with the ground, lying still to never let go.
Our man of the hour with 3 kill streak stared at the corpse, shuddering. The battle lust dying down to make way for the glorious remorse. Sweating bullets, struggling to stand on his feeble legs, failing and falling forward.
Weakened by the "it is but just a flesh wound" and the long summer days of self-torturing called "fasting" his inner-beta jumped out filling him with remorse, revolting from the bloody, gory sight of the shattered piece of meat that once was his enemies. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody like a bitch.
The smoking cold-weapon in his hand, only for it to be "hurled" to the roof at his feet.
Karma nearly got him as the revolver shot due to impact, the bullet whizzing past his head. Suppressing his inner-beta from the shock.
Nerves steadied once again. Drinking his flask empty. After some internal monologue, he moves down towards the laneway, after picking up his revolver. Curiosity overcame him, questions about the identity of the enemy sniper. Wondering if he might, despite the low chances, know the ex-alive-but-now-dead-arch-enemy. Heavy firing surrounding the street he was in, darting from one side to the other as a machine gun inside a building rains bullet around him. Diving the last way and landing next to the sniper corpse, the corpse facing towards the ground. Rolling the corpse onto it's back, the result was unbelievable. It was his... To be continued, read on your own.