#redheadrecon

He had mentioned someone related to him by that name, and had expounded on the subject, stating that she was an excellent fighter. Owen had been at Coldfront long enough to know just who was worth fighting during scheduled matches, and just who was worth passing up. If someone was worth fighting, he took the time to attempt to take them down. If they weren’t, he ignored them completely, or just plugged them full of arrows and called it a day. If they weren’t worth the time of day, he wouldn’t give it to them.

But this sniper... she sounded different. She sounded new and exciting. It was refreshing to hear of such a challenging opponent. 

He was made aware that she was a RED. This... could make it a bit easier when it came to inviting her to battle. Teams were often quite competitive, and if a random BLU was challenging a RED? Most took the offer up just to try to prove which side was better. All about mind games and pissing grounds. All about keeping one’s territory theirs. All about seeing who was better at the end of the day.

Owen wasn’t too keen about that. He just loved a good, adrenaline pumping battle. Enough said. 

He found out the woman’s room number, and he snuck into RED. Leaving the note outside her door, he hoped he could rouse her inner combative spirit.

In bold, stark print, a letter lay on the ground, partially slid under the sniper’s door. It was written with a semi-clear handwriting, each word printed out deliberately, with a random line or two over certain letters. The lines, of course, seemed to be a mistake, for a few they attempted to scribble out. It was unknown as to why this was done at all but, all considering, the short note was easy enough to decipher.

To the sniper in this room,

I was told ābout you. You don’t know me and maybe that’s a good thing. A soldier named Kāiron told me a lot about your skills as a sniper, and I want to challenge you. I’m a sniper on BLU, and I’ve been waiting for a worthy opponent.

Let me know if you want to fight me.

Kia tūpato.

-O.R.

At the bottom of the note was a date and time. If she so accepted it, they’d be there, waiting for her. A short notice, for sure, it was a little daunting that they had already picked out a time and day for such a battle. They were either far too sure of himself... or truly passionate about battle.

Though it was summer for a good portion of the world, for Coldfront it wasn’t exactly so. They didn’t really experience a ‘summer’ like the rest of the ManCo owned-and-operated bases. Of course this didn’t mean the mercenaries were never blessed with a warm day in their dog-eat-dog-life. The base, nestled deep within the heart of the mountainous alpine range, never really saw ‘warm days’. The base suffered from the Alpine climate. There were months filled with bitter snow, plummeting temperatures and dangerous ice. But there were also months where the snow thawed a little, giving way to sparse patches of almost tundra-like foliage and brush for the local fauna to eat. Being so high up in the mountains wasn’t a benefit when other areas of the mountain range got to see warm and sunny days, filled with comfortable temperatures and deep, blue, endless skies.

Coldfront was bad news from start to finish. It was a curse, and a blight, upon the MannCo business. The building contracts and the documents of purchase should have never existed. This should be an inhospitable place for anyone, let alone mercenaries.

But to those who lived there, worked there, either stumbled, made do, or thrived.

Aldous Haswell thrived. And he thrived on the thrill of battle. Today he was fulfilling a deal he made-- a pact, perhaps, with a devil like himself-- with a Sniper on his same team. A friendly spar, this was of no doubt. He had had friendly spars before. Spars with fellow REDs, and enemy BLUs (mostly his twin brother). He felt that small sparring matches in between skirmishes kept him fresh and ‘up to date’ with things.

Stepping out onto the grounds of Coldfront, he looked about him. It was a clear day. Perfect, really, for a little ‘harmless’ bloodshed. Paint the thin layer of snow-skiff on the ground with a little blush. Liven the place up a little with the ravages of death. After all, this base was a base of life and death, that thin, veneer line that many of them danced across, two-and-fro, back-and-forth every day.

Squinting at the light cresting over the highest peaks of the surrounding mountains, he bowed his head a little, letting the brim of his hat block out most of the rays. He tightened his grip on the vita-saw hanging from his belt. He had brought his default-weapon, his beloved, cherished instrument of inhumane torture. That needle? Magnificent. Caused some of the newer greenhorns to piss themselves just at the sight of it. He also brought his Crusader’s Crossbow as well. He took immense delight in shooting syringes into quivering flesh. Schadenfreude, pure and simple.

He refused, however, to bring his Kritzkrieg with him. It wouldn’t be fair, in his opinion, if he had a method of healing and his opponent, Theresa, didn’t. There were always ways to heal oneself. There were always stashed medkits strewn about the grounds, just in case something ‘happened’.

Pressed against the wall of the derelict remains of a shed, he held his breath, knowing, full well, he was dealing with a sniper. A sniper of excellent skill, he already predetermined. He could tell of her skill back when she talked with him, just... yesterday, in fact. Yesterday.

The blackish-red fabric of his uniform blended in quite well with the charred, rotted remains of that shed wall. He continued to hold his breath, waiting for any noise, any indication that he was being watched. Fighting a sniper, he had to be smart... be crafty. He had to perform the first bit of action. He had to move his first chess piece. He--

Wait a moment.

That was it!

- -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - -  - - 

Among the bland swath of snow and ruined building, the scattered crates and the fenced off areas lying just beyond the key checkpoints... a figure appeared to be hunched behind a crate. The material they wore were dark of nature, but the hat was unmistakable. 

Wild crows and other such corvids were nestled in the trees all around, squabbling about in excitement. A few took to the air, lazily wheeling about in the sky like drunken ballet dancers.