Jamie laughed to himself. "There's always something more fucked up than the last thing," he muttered. A pleasant smile crept across his face. Most people couldn't smell what he did, but when your senses are far greater than any man's and you have a nasty smoking habit, you tend to pick up a few new scents. Jamie finally caught the scent of something familiar-a lighter. There was a skeleton holding it, and on the other hand was a really crusty old lighter. Jamie said, "God, that's a Sirloin Foxhole lighter. I'll take back what I said about you". These things were indestructible and almost time-proof.
The Foxhole lighter was a legendary piece of wartime gear, known for its resilience. Its outer casing was made from a durable, heat-resistant alloy that could withstand just about anything-mud, rain, or even the intense heat of an explosion. The internal mechanism was simple but genius, using a tightly wound coil of flint and a steel striker that could ignite even the most stubborn wick. As long as Jamie had a match, he could get it going.
Jamie opened a drawer that, ironically, another skeleton was reaching for. Knocking the bony hand out of the way, he searched inside and, to his luck, found a match. Walking over to the lighter, he picked it up and said, "Yes, fuck yes!" It was exactly what he was looking for. He struck the match, holding it to the lighter's wick. The Foxhole lighter sparked to life, its flame burning steadily. It was a small victory, but in a place like this, small victories were everything.
Jamie lit his cigarette, taking a long drag and savoring the moment. Usually, he could go a long time without one, but today was different. Today had been a hell of a day, even for him. Everything he'd gone through felt like a month's worth of work condensed into just one day. The persistent headache that had been nagging him finally eased, if only a little.
The bat creature fluttered near Jamie, examining his new lighter with curiosity. Jamie chuckled and said, "What you're looking at is a Foxhole lighter. You put it into this contraption, light your cigarette, and presto-you're safe from snipers. Try lighting a cigarette in the middle of a war zone with a regular lighter, and you're a dead man. But with this thing, you can enjoy your little smoke in peace."
The bat caught a whiff of Jamie's cigarette and recoiled, its face cringing and convulsing in distaste. It quickly kept its distance, clearly repelled by the smell. Jamie laughed, his face showing a hint of amusement, then he sighed and said, "Yeah, I know it's a bad habit. I need to stop, but..." He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face as he considered the creature. "I really need to give you a name."
He thought for a moment, then settled on one. "I'm going to call you Snickers."
The creature didn't quite understand what he had said, but whatever it was, it sounded like a dumb idea. It shot him a dirty look, one that clearly said, *Wow, you're stupid.*
Jamie glanced at Snickers and said, "Yeah, well, until you learn how to speak or become the leader of this pack, you're stuck with Snickers, you little shit." The creature hissed at him, then returned to scavenging for food.
Jamie found a sturdy workbench and cleared it of debris. He spread out the rifle pieces and began assembling them with practiced ease. Minutes ticked by as he meticulously put the rifle back together. Once he had reassembled the weapon, he realized he was missing ammunition. After finishing his cigarette, Jamie flicked the butt out of a shattered window and contemplated where he might find the needed ammo.
His answer arrived quickly: Snickers tackled a rat from a smaller stairway labeled "Attic" in Italian, with "Ammunition Upstairs" spray-painted on it. Jamie, despite his ironic skepticism of the supernatural, felt a chill at the sight. There was something unsettling about the attic that made his hair stand on end.
Jamie hesitated for a moment before heading toward the stairway. Each step creaked under his weight, the narrow staircase barely wide enough for him to maneuver. The dim light from below faded as he ascended, leaving only the faint glow from the cracks in the attic door ahead. He gripped his knife tighter, his senses on high alert as he drew closer to the top.
Jamie reached the top of the stairs, finding himself in a very stereotypical attic with mostly wooden surroundings. Compared to the rest of the building, nothing seemed out of the ordinary-just some old pictures and supplies, all very modest compared to what was downstairs. His eyes began to scan the room even more thoroughly, and then he spotted the ammunition crates. They were all pleasantly organized, each labeled with white tape and black marker, indicating the type of ammunition inside. Jamie ran his finger across the labels until he found what he was looking for: Sturmgewehr rounds.
He didn't have a crowbar, but he could tap into his strength just a little. His eyes briefly flooded black, and his teeth grew into fangs for a moment as he ripped the crate open, the lid flying off and landing haphazardly ten feet away from him. The ammunition inside was mostly gone, but, just his luck, there were a few magazines and a handful of bullets still in the box. Jamie picked up one and examined it, muttering to himself, "Well, other than the dust, you're still in working order."
As he gathered the ammunition, his attention was drawn to a small teddy bear with a tiny red ribbon. Jamie then cautiously looked up and saw, by the only window in the attic, the skeleton of a little girl slumped over a rifle.
Jamie was no stranger to the sight of the dead, including those who were very young. No matter how many times he saw it, he never truly got used to it. He walked over to her, murmuring a quiet prayer under his breath, and looked her in the eye-those empty, hollow sockets where life once sparkled. He briefly examined her and saw the bullet hole in her chest. His gaze shifted to the rifle she still clutched, remarkably well-preserved and likely still in working order.
"You did good, kid," Jamie said respectfully, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think they're ever coming back. But I'm gonna need that rifle." With deliberate care, he slowly took the rifle from her hands, then gently moved her away from the window, setting her aside. He picked up the teddy bear lying nearby and placed it in her lap, as if trying to offer some comfort, even in death.
Jamie looked into the skeleton's eye sockets, those two black voids staring back at him, devoid of any emotion. He quickly averted his gaze, finding a rag and beginning to clean the rifle. As he worked, his hands methodically wiping away the grime and dust, he started speaking to her, his voice soft, almost as if he were having a conversation with an old friend.
Jamie said, "That's an Italian 0x47, Seventh Generation. They don't make too many of those anymore-too expensive, too much material-but damn, it's a sturdy, well-built rifle. Could stay buried in mud for a hundred years, and with a little bit of cleaning, you can get it back in working order."
He paused, his hands stilling as he considered his words. Then he added, "There's the soldier in me. It always comes out when I'm doing something difficult, when I'm scared or frustrated-it's the first thing that always surfaces. Maybe this is one of those strange situations where I shouldn't be one."
Frustration flashed in his eyes as he grabbed the rag more tightly, muttering to himself, "I was probably younger than you when I killed my first man."
He resumed cleaning, his voice taking on a more reflective tone. "We were fighting the Asian Syndicate Alliance, stuck somewhere in the Korean mountains. Back then, I was just a busboy, carrying ammunition and weapons, basically doing chores while the rest of the men in my tribe fought the enemy. My uncle, though-he had a second talent, other than just being an asshole." Jamie paused briefly, a hint of a smile crossing his face before he continued, "Sorry, I probably shouldn't swear around you, but it probably doesn't matter now."
He picked up a bullet and began to reload the rifle. "He was a hell of a sniper. We were picking off spotters, the people who'd alert the enemy if the main force showed up. The place we were in was cold, unforgiving. We were well-hidden, but this poor bastard we were watching... I couldn't tell if he was Korean, Chinese, or something else. The Syndicate didn't care either, just put a uniform on them and threw them to the front lines. We watched him for about half an hour, struggling to make a fire. Despite how stupid that was in the high mountains, he kept at it. My uncle said, 'You need to put him out of his misery, kid. He's going to freeze to death.'"
Jamie punched the table in frustration, the gun jumping, bullets rattling across the surface. "For a long time, I hated him for it, but I get why he made me do it. As a werewolf, most of my kills are going to be very up close and personal. So, he wanted me to get this off my chest, get used to it. For many years, I held that against my uncle. But then I realized that the reason he made me do it was because it was the only time I could kill someone and not feel completely guilty about it. Life was never going to be easy for me-life still hasn't got easy for me-but at least the bullet I put through that man ended one of our suffering."
Jamie began reloading the rifle as he continued, "I know what it's like to have your life stolen from you-to have everything taken from you. To have the best years of your life thrown into nothing but violence. Always being jealous of people who live the life you never could, people who take everything they have for granted."
He found an old quiver and slung the rifles onto his back, positioning the sniper rifle in his hands. Spotting a white blanket nearby, he paused and then continued his story. "That armband you're wearing-you had a purpose, a place to go back to. You had a world that made sense to you."
Jamie walked over to the skeleton and knelt down to eye level. "I never did. I'm not mad, and I'm not jealous-I'm proud of you for what you did. You did what most grown men aren't willing to do: you were willing to die for something. Most people would just lay down, live in fear, and stay on their knees rather than die on their feet. I never found my home or my reason. Violence is all I've ever really known. I don't know if I can change my life , but I guess, like you, I'll die trying."
With a gentle movement, Jamie covered her with the blanket, offering what little comfort he could in this desolate place.
Jamie couldn't bear to look at her anymore, so he walked away. While he was up there, he thought he might as well take a look through the window with his new rifle. He positioned himself by the window and saw that the street below was untouched, unlike the others. Jamie surveyed the area and found it mostly the same-everything was dead and destroyed, with no real changes.
He looked around until he matched the girl's perch position before she died, aligning it with the rifle. When he looked through the scope, he saw the skeleton of a dead German commander slumped over a tank, his head completely caved in from a bullet. Jamie double-checked the position, almost in disbelief. She had taken him out before she passed away.
A smile spread across Jamie's face. *Way to go, girl. You got him,* he thought, giving her one last look.
He stepped outside and soaked in the night sky. The moon always made werewolves feel especially good, and this was the first time in a long while that he wasn't fighting to the death or involved in some operation. It had been so long since he could simply appreciate it. For once, he felt good knowing there weren't any snipers around. And even if there were, he was at least going to have a smoke in peace with his new lighter.
Before pursuing his uncle, whose scent was still in the air, Jamie decided to give the area one last look with his rifle. He checked the path he was going to walk, and everything seemed normal-except for an owl. The owl was hooting hysterically, which annoyed Jamie, but he chose to ignore it. The owl was quite large, with nice brown feathers and big yellow eyes. As Jamie examined it further, he noticed something else: an arrow had pierced the owl, impaling it against the wall, despite its involuntary piercing the bird was still twitching.
Now very curious, Jamie looked to the left where the arrow came from and spotted Talo with the ambassador and a small group of survivors.