howdy.

In the back of his mind, he can hear the voice of his mother telling him to stop giving himself pity, stop giving himself excuses to avoid what needs to be done. If he doesn't get up, there won't be anyone to open the food for him and eat. Isn't this what he wanted? A life away from his mother, from the pain and the work that went on from sunrise to sunset?

Get up. Maybe his mother was right, he would never earn a place anywhere without her help. Look at him failing to provide for himself with the food he stole. Get up. All he has to do is get up, why can't he? Is that where he's at? Little more than a dying crop, unable to even move.

There is a sudden jolt of nausea that propels him forward and then he throws up. What did he even expel? The burning sensation all along his throat answers with no delay; pure and plain stomach acid. If he doesn't get up soon, he might not get up at all.

Spitting the rest of the bad taste in his mouth and with an herculean amount of will, he manages to stand up after not eating for four days. Nothing feels steady, what else is new? Staggering, he slides into a fairly narrow crack in the mountain that the perspective of it all hid pretty well between the shadows and comes back with a very small gas tank. He is, by all means, in no shape to manipulate what is more or less a bomb in inexperienced hands.

He looks up to the sky, intertwining his hands in a prayer; either for protection or a fast death, whatever his guardian angel felt would bring less pain. He lines up the things he would like to cook in order of priority; if the flame goes out, it would've been better if he was left with something substantial rather than some cake mix. He goes in and out of the crack in the middle of the mountain a few times; it's becoming painfully clear that's his house. Half of his belongings are out in the open now; a small metal pot, a wooden spoon, his notebook, the gas tank, the homemade stove and the provisions that could be warmed. He's getting cold, so he better hurry. Desert doesn't offer ceasefires.

In his first try to connect it to a (seemingly homemade) portable stove, there was a flash of light and then an audible whimper. But as he didn't have any time to lose, he bit his tongue to numb his pain receptors and tried again; the flame was alit but weak and flimsy. That'll do.

He jumps at the sound of vomiting. His mare remains still as her rider curls up slightly, shaking the image out of his mind. It was a sickening sound, one he'd never get used to hearing.

His friend was in a shape worse than he had thought. Perhaps he should've brought a medic... no, no. The doctor would've only scared off the Journalist. Sunset takes in a deep breath.

...

Javier was still moving. That was good. Sunset continues to observe, watching as the other entered a crack in the mountain. Was this one of the locations on the note? Sunset can't focus enough to remember, but it didn't matter.

Wanting to see a little better, Sunset decreased the distance between the two... just a tad, just a little. His scope could only do so much from this distance. He watches the other enter and exit, presumably carrying items?

He gets closer.

Bad move.

A light flashes, and his shadow is cast upon a tree, towering. His horse startles, jumping onto her rear legs with a whinny.

Sunset's breath stutters. He pulls himself towards her and tries to calm and quiet her down quickly, quietly whispering into her ears and holding her reigns back in an attempt to keep her from bolting.

Letting his grip on reality—both metaphorically and literally— costed him greatly: a can of chickpeas fell off his grip and the metallic scream woke him up from his handmade torment. He squeezed himself against a corner, sure of his imminent death. It was only fitting, he thought, to die as he came to the world; stealing from the better people.

And that might as well have been the case, had that day not have a particularly hard match, if engineer had stayed up later than usual, if Journalist had been a bit louder. It took him two hail mary(s) to realize he was not bleeding out yet. With a lot more caution, he slides into and out with help of the badly adjusted panel in the left corner. The cold air of the night reclaims its right to stick to his skin as soon as he steps outside. From his lips a prayer is born, carrying in his arms the provisions like one would guard a small child. If anyone had seen him, they would've rightfully assumed he was out of his mind. A wandering, scrawny man mumbling a prayer in the middle of the night.

“Ángel de mi guarda dulce compañía,

no me desampares ni de noche ni de día.

No me dejes sólo que sin ti me perdería. Amén.”

[Guardian angel, sweet companion, do not forsake me, neither night nor day. Do not leave me alone, for without you I would be lost. Amen.]

And so, he started the walk to the insides of the mountain. The terrain was completely and utterly wild; no trace of humanity had found itself desperate enough to try and habit it, except for him. If one looked closely, there even was a faint path where wild plants didn't grow on anymore, but one that could easily be confused for an animal's. How could a home be built in such harsh terrain? It couldn't be, one could only use the mountain itself as a home. And so, after roughly a thirty minute walk, Journalist let himself fall against a small aperture on the rocks. As he tries to catch his breath, he opens one of the packets of sugar he stole, putting just a bit on his mouth, seemingly to avoid passing out. His breathing is heavy and harsh; he hasn't had water in a while.

CLANG!

His hands shot up to block his ears a moment too late, the ringing a painful jab in his skull. In the quiet, the clatter of the can might as well have been a grenade next to his skull. But Sunset says nothing, makes no noise, remaining as still as his job required him to be. He noted the mirrored silence in the room.

A fear he knew all too well.

The marksman waits until there were absolutely no sounds within the room— even if a certain few noises had hinted at Journalist's obvious exit— before entering. He made his way over to where he had seen the man lingering and rummaging about, reaching out and moving some items himself— both in an effort to tidy up the space as well as cover up what tracks Javier had left behind. The team may not be all that observant, but Sunset would rather be safe than sorry.

With that done, he gives the room one more glance around to try and track down where Journalist had slipped out of. A gap in the wall answered his questions, and he pries it open to peek in.

...Looks like he's getting Dinner out the stables...

It took a couple minutes to fetch his rather nocturnal horse, and an extra couple minutes to fetch some nighttime gear. Carrying a sniper rifle on his back and equipped with night vision goggles, Sunset proceeds on his rather pacifistic hunt. The time difference between the Journalist leaving and him starting his chase (which was more like a walk, to be honest) should've left him far behind in the dust, but thanks to a very well-behaved mare, the sniper found himself being the one to slow down instead as he followed Javier 'home'.

...Yep, don't think about how creepy you're being right now.

The night had gotten late enough to hide his form without any need of cover, so Sunset was able to get surprisingly close and remain hidden. Then Javier collapses onto a rock, and he too, stops his horse with a small tug of the reigns.

He watches Javier quietly. He can't hear him from this distance but... he doesn't look too good. Should he come over and offer some supplies? Does Javier have water? Sunset debates over his next course of action, absentmindedly rubbing Dinner's reigns.

The all-black mare wonders when she'll get a snack. She's not hungry, but she does get greedy...

[Opener for @sniped-at-sundown ]

Hunger was a life sentence since coyote's evolved fangs and spiders developed poison; it can reduce the finest human into a mere instrument for instinct. The first humans didn't had knifes, they ripped apart deer carcasses with nothing but teeth, nails and sweat. Hunger, real hunger, hurts you. The acid in your stomach, where all of your rage is stored, starts to eat you from the inside. That rage crawls in your muscles, it seeps into your blood and infects your mind; conscience is for animals who don't have to worry about starving. Hunger will hurt you from deep inside, it will start by making itself into a deafening pain that will keep you clutching yourself for days, it will then start to creep into your thoughts, it will make you have the most violent, depraved and unspeakable dreams about everything that surrounds you. The birds that fly in the sky, how dare they waste all the energy you're not allowed to have. Hunger will poison you. And it will make you do whatever it takes to get it silent again. And the hunger always, always comes back. Sometimes, Journalist hunger is just his sins carving him out from the inside until he's hollow enough to be filled with all the beautiful things he was born to accomplish and was never able to. Maybe this hunger can reform him; maybe this is what forgiveness is. He remembers being told of men of God, who purposely starved to show their devotion. That's the problem with him; he's the coward who backs off from suffering before it can evolve into change. That's why he always ends up stealing again; that's why he always ends up hungry again. His sins make a pile taller than his ambitions.

It's been three days, or so he thinks. Maybe four, once the sun settles and his headache allows him to think again. He opens his eyes, propelling himself up with energy he doesn't have. You start to learn tricks to awaken yourself if you're in constant fear of starvation long enough; he shakes his head so nausea overpowers weakness and then presses his head against the cold piece of mirror he keeps in his bag. The cold usually helps. It's dark all around, did the sun settle already? The sunshine felt closer in his sleep.

He needs food. The pit that forms in his stomach ceases to be merely hunger; it's a half fear and half nausea. The rations are deep inside the base and the terrain seems eager to hurt him every night. There are sharp stones, coyotes and thorns everywhere and so if he falls he isn't sure he'll get up. He always does this, hope food will fall from the sky before he has to fetch it. It never does; no God would bother keeping him alive.

His hands shake as he turns his bag around, dumping all of his belongings on the ground to make more space for canned goods. Nobody would sacrifice space and speed to rob him; he has almost nothing of value.

The mountain seems to extend and extend and extend below his feet. The sounds that keep him company are less than soothing; the occasional howl and a rabbit's cautious step. There are no lights on the mountain, since fire is still free and happy in the wild, so he knows when he sees the base because even the precarious illumination feels like a lighthouse. He's being less than cautious, but the ringing on his ears doesn't let him register how much noise he makes as he forces open the recently repaired gap between two panels of the buildings.

He slides inside the provisions room, ignoring all for the fruit (he can't keep it fresh, it will leave a trail, why bother? It's been years since he had a banana). The cans start to clank against each other as the bag fills up; even though he usually makes an effort to take as little as possible, today common sense is out the window. He's become the reckless young fox who, upon his first hunt, chokes on the bones of his prey trying to drown the pain of an empty stomach.

🗞️—····│. ₊˚.˚✧ ﾟ

Curiosity kills the cat, they say… The latter part did not apply to him, but it was still true. Watching people without their consent for a prolonged period of time tends to be socially unacceptable, even more so if you're actively following them around. If he were to justify himself, it would be with the fact that there should not be anyone wandering around outside in the night. His current teammates were all accounted for, so that left… BLU and outsiders.

Sunset leaves the nest he had stuck himself in for most of the day, following the shadowy intruder a small distance away— rounding behind corners and hiding his silhouette behind random objects. He couldn't see much, not even with the regular scope of a sniper rifle since it was dark, so he had to rely on sound. If he couldn't do that much then he wouldn't be alive here today.

He watches as the figure enters the provisions room. A concept of a worst case scenario bleeds into his mind— someone is attempting to poison RED? Is the lead-ridden water not enough?

Against his cowardice, he peeks into the room. Instantly, the worry he had was replaced with a new one.

Javier was stealing.

The stealing itself wasn't an issue, rather…

He was stealing from a mercenary group. Which had a fondness for blowing up anything that so much as breathed. And wore no gear. Nothing. He didn't even seem to be in good shape; wilted and deflated as if he hadn't eaten in days. Sunset watched as the man shovelled cans into his bag, forgoing anything fresh. It didn't paint a very nice picture. Sunset did not want to pity people, it was an insult to their capabilities (or so his mum had said), but in this moment he felt pretty sorry for the Journalist. And worried. Did he even have a plan if any of the mercs found him? Does he secretly have a teleporter to whisk him out of danger?

…Judging by their last meeting, Sunset truly doubts it. And even without that, he'd rather not lose a…. a friend. (He didn't deserve to call Javier that after doing so little, but he didn't have any other word to describe him.)

As he continued watching, he went over his options. Should he leave Javier be and pretend he saw nothing? Should he help? Should he approach him and ask if he needed help? All very reasonable options, surprisingly.

Alas, every single one brought forth a flurry of illogical and irrational objections. The choice he ended up making?

…

Of course, being a very normal person and stalking the Journalist until he reached his final destination— hopefully being a hiding place— safe and sound!

…

Sunset, hiding around a corner while waiting for Javier to leave, covers his face in shame. He is such a creep. He's a creep listening to someone trying to grab necessities to survive and planning to follow said someone back to a 'home' of some sort. Good job, you weirdo. Good job, really.

He gives a short laugh before realizing that was a bit weird on what he said.

"Sorry! Uhm..."

He looks so fucking embarrassed and shifts his eyes to the side.

"Imma just... go try and look for food now..."

Sunset stiffly nods. He doesn't find anything that the ghost had said strange- seeing as he WAS a hitman- but he wasn't sure what he should be doing or saying in this situation.

The sniper quietly gestures off in the direction of the kitchen to help the ghost a little, before folding his arms and awkwardly trying to get back to napping. He wasn't going to succeed, but... the thought counts, maybe?

"Shouldn't you nap inside? It's blazing hot out here...."

Sunset said nothing, but eventually... he shook his head. He liked the heat, even if it was scalding hot and boiling him like a frog.

Another day another walk in the desert. He didn't know where he was but he didn't mind. Humming a soft tune that soon died on his lips as he saw the sleeping Sniper.

Well he didn't think he was sleeping, he thought the guy was dead or something with how still he was. Not to mention the lack of reaction if he saw the ghost.

The sudden shift in temperature startled him awake, but luckily, his first instinct is to not make a move nor a sound. Sunset had always been a light sleeper- after all, constant chaos required him to be ready to jump up onto his feet in a matter of seconds.

The air was strangely cold, he registered. As if it were about to rain over him- and only over him. He lifted his gaze from the floor in search of soemthing supernatural and startles a second time at the sight of a stranger looking at him.

Sunset decided to pretend he was still asleep, shutting his eyes and hoping the ghost would leave.

Sunset stands up, his clothes and forced steadiness reminding Javier of a mountain. He looks up as Sunset starts to dust off all of the sand that nested into the crevices and folds of the poncho. An urge is born into the bottom of his stomach, threetening to take over his body and make him jump over the untold rules of outlaw socializing; don't leave a mark on people. Your bones should remain undiscovered.

The thoughts pile up in his head, swirling around not unlike the patterns the water forms on the inside of the flask. He suddenly finds himself wishing he was born into a fly; that his wishes were contained on the same ten kilometers from wet where he was born, that his life lasted two weeks and that every desire of his was melting primal; he wished that his lifespan didn't give him time for sin. It all comes down to love, at the end. Unlike other better off animals, the main human survival skills are boil down to the love you can give others (food, shelter, warmth) and the love others can provide back. Sharing resources is, undeniably, an act of love, not necessarily at the person you share to, but to yourself, your family, your values and the world you see if you aid someone, anyone.

Javier hasn't doubted for a day in his life that he'll go to hell. Maybe that's pushing it. Javier hasn't doubted he will go to hell since he was six years old and he asked for second to his mother's face. There is more than a reason for his certainty of his demise, of course, but none as persistent and real as his greed. He always wanted more, more play time, more food, more water, more clothes. He always wanted more of his mother's attention, less prayer, more years before he got married and complied to the only destiny he should've ever aspired to. His mortal wants don't stop accumulating day to day, he always wishes he had more. A warm house. Bedding. A bed, even! He asks and asks for more; he should've known that his sins wouldn't be indulgent no matter how much he prayed.

And so, the flask in his hand asked the impossible of him; sink deeper into greed, steal from the other to see if this will feed your earthly desires, or go back to ignoring the metallic an putrid taste of water.

And by God he wants that fresh water. Perhaps he's been nothing but a leech wearing a human face all of this time; it would make sense. Is eternity in the devil's cradle really worth alleviating thirst? The thirst will come back, your soul won't. Hunger will come back, your soul won't. The cold will come back, your soul won't.

God, he really is the animal everyone told him he was back home. Animals back at home, Tapirs...Tapirs! He's been thinking far too long. God, how awfully rude that must've looked like. There is a subtle tension in the air as he stands up, is the desert itself conspiring against human connection?

He's been too much, he can tell by the way Sunset's shoes seem to want to run for the hills. He takes one last look at Sunset, gives the most sincere smile he has embodied all week. He takes out his notebook, scrambling directions to some of his hiding spots on rushed handwriting, a weak attempt of extending back his hand and sensibilities in the same way he felt trusted when Sunset shared water with him. He hands him the note, ashamed like a middle school boy who has to speak in front of the classroom. If there is nothing prohibited here, why does it feel so abrasive? 📽️ ❞₊˚✧ ﾟ

“ Ya can find me 'ere. Resting with ya was nothin' but a rest for da heart. You're a nice chat, even without all the words. ”

...He's writing something.

Sunset waits, ever so patient, as Javier rushes to write as if the wolves are on his tail. Then, the sniper was presented with a note. A quick glance is enough to tell they were directions of some kind, and- upon accepting it and giving it a second look-over, Sunset tenses slightly.

Hiding places? But... this is sensitive information, isn't it? Would this not be dangerous for Javier, should they be exposed? Sunset immediately folds up the note and tucks it into his vest, making sure it has no chance of slipping out. He's not sure whether to feel flattered and grateful for the great amount of trust, or horror at the responsibility of keeping someone else's personal informstion safe. Maybe it meant nothing to Javier- skies above, Sunset hoped it meant little. Putting the other at risk was not something the sharpshooter ever wanted to consider, much less do.

Then the other spoke.

Sunset's eyes turned from a strained squint off into the ground, to a surprised blink. He lifts his gaze slightly, looking at the Journalist's hands... then up to his chin. The gaze remained for a moment before he turns it away.

One last note gets written down... then held out for Javier to take. Sunset doesn't wait for a response, tipoing his hat in a polite goodbye and walking off- trying his best not to slouch.

Please stay safe. I hope we meet again. Thank you for this.

He didn't know what else to say. It didn't feel enough.

Sunset's thoughts clash as the distance between them grows. He liked the conversation, he did. He felt normal, even for a moment. He wanted that feeling again, but...

...He'd ruin it eventually, wouldn't he? He tires too quickly. He turns the air bitter with just a simple shift in attitude. It never works out, not long term.

What should he do..?

It's... a thought for another time.

ORIGINAL: Sunset Sniper

"..."

He's already walking away from the conversation he isn't interested in having.

[TF2 OC AU] “SUNSHINE” (he/none) | VIBESWAP AU of SUNSET SNIPER | can be interacted with through @sniped-at-sundown if mentioned specifically

Swapped Vibes AU for Sunset and Dan :3c Some facts below that may change...

Sunset -> Sunshine & Rainbows

Still RED's backup Sniper.

Very trigger-happy. No chill. Very paranoid (type of person to shoot holes in the walls thinking someone is in them.)

Demoted from a higher-ranking team after murdering two teammates and going MIA. Kept in the company because a) justified reasons for murder even if a bit extreme and b) very good at murder

Does not like being indoors.

His mum is dead. Dad is alive. Has hidden him away somewhere for safety reasons.

Trusts not a single soul except his dad.

Name was given as a joke by old teammates. Usually goes by "Sniper" or "Sunny".

Tries to keep an eye on every single person in a room at all times.

Burned his fingerprints off.

Daniel Fitzgerald, Supply Runner -> [REDACTED], Respawn 'Specialist'

Remembers his real name and past life. Took a while to accept the fact that he's a clone. Devastated by the loss of his life but he copes.

Helps with supply checks sometimes, but main 'role' is to monitor and fix the respawn machine.

No knowledge of engineering or anything of the sort, but he personally knows and can communicate with the machine, somehow. Can tell when something's wrong and exactly how to fix it.

Does not like being near the respawn machine.

A smiley guy. Has a laugh/giggle response when he gets nervous or upset.

No sharp teeth bc he does not file his teeth sharp here.

Still unstable physically but is looking for a way to fix that. Terrified of dying permanently and that is the only reason he hasn't quit.

Has manic episodes, and times when he's very disconnected with himself and distressed knowing he isn't Jeremy anymore. Ignores these feelings until he cannot anymore.