The Long Kill

<a href="https://imgur.com/7fMUsCb"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/7fMUsCb.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> Mister lies prone in the scorching desert sun, his rifle playing guardian angel to a patrol performing a risky house to house search for an enemy sniper. The highly skilled soldier prepares to pull the trigger on a shot decades in the making; a bullet on a trajectory arcing far beyond the battlefield. ''Choose your experience:'' ''[[Sniper->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar i]]'' – Perform scope adjustment calculations and make impactful decisions that will change the course of many lives. Battle with the wind, the enemy, and cruel fate over the course of your mission. This is the most challenging and immersive experience. ''[[Spotter->SPOT: Outside Kandahar i]]'' – Make the big calls that can save or end lives. Your aim is true under all conditions. You alone control your fate; chance has no bearing on your mission. This is a moderately immersive experience, allowing you some control over events without the need to perform calculations or be denied by cruel luck. ''[[Civilian->CIV: Outside Kandahar i]]'' – Experience the mission without the need to perform calculations or make decisions. The mission moves linearly towards a single, pre-defined outcome. This is the most “on the rails” version of the experience.

{ <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> } <a href="https://imgur.com/FSlu8LU"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/FSlu8LU.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] “It’s the fucking dust.” His comment plants the tiny seed of a laugh, a snigger, that you immediately stamp out in an effort to keep your scope level with the bank of dishevelled houses on the far side of the square. After slowly scanning each window through the fizzing haze of the midday sun, you allow yourself a smile before moving onto the next building. At ground level a gaggle of barefoot children chase after a football under the supervision of a leathery old man pointlessly pushing a broom about his doorstep as the wind swirls said dust about him. Barkley doesn’t need to tear himself away from his own scope to read your reaction. “What? It fucking gets everywhere. In your toes, your mouth… Guarantee when we get back on base, regardless of how many layers we’re wearing, I’ll be showering it out of my crack tonight.” You ask what he’d expected when you were shipped out. You feel him shrug, the prone body in the dirt beside you disturbing the stifling air clinging to your arms and back. He draws in a sharp mouthful of air before replying. “Honestly, sand.” Sand? “Well, it is the fucking desert.” That little seed in your gut twists and germinates into a titter, a tiny snort of amused air that rushes up your windpipe and sneaks out of your nostrils. The milidots of your scope do a little jig over the open rooftop you were viewing as your rifle jostles up and down momentarily. You can feel his expression of mock-outrage. “Seriously, when they said we were flying out here I thought it’d be all dunes and camels.” Most deserts are hamada; bedrock and stone you tell him. Sandy deserts are a lot less common. The material of his fatigues rustles as he shakes his head. “I’m stuck here with desert-fucking-rat Lawrence of God-damned Arabia.” You force a frown in order to smother the smile pulling at the muscles of your face and inform him that Saudi Arabia is two thousand miles and a good stretch of water to his left. He clears his throat and swallows deeply. In the corner of your eye you see his shoulders shudder momentarily. “You know once we’ve killed this prick, I’m digging two graves.” You ask how he intends to do that in bedrock with just his hands. “I’m going to break off your fucking jaw and use it as a shovel.” The titter mutates into a full-bodied spasm that races up your spine. The house in your sights jumps up and down on the spot and your efforts to stifle it result in a dry, scratchy cough punching its way through your throat. “That was a laugh.” In the best monotone you can muster you deny it. He chuckles to himself and shakes his head once more. “Thank god you’re a better shot than you are a loser.” With a smile and a shake of the head, you politely inform him that he can go fuck himself. A woman appears to the left of the square, carrying two armfuls of blue plastic bags. One of the boys throws a little wave to her on his way past but she keeps her head down and ploughs on by towards a seemingly empty house. The old man doesn’t even look at her, looks away even. “You see all those bags?” You saw the bags. And the way the man blanked her. You ask Barkley what he thought about the way she moved. “It was all wrong man... That house has got to be the one.” You study the building intently, every brick and line from the broken green plastic chairs scattered about the flat tiled roof to the wiring running down the cracked, crumbling front wall from what you assume to be the upstairs bedrooms. The shooter won’t risk revealing himself until the very last moment. It’s a game of spot the difference, absorbing the scene now so that the tiny change, when it comes, sticks out like a sore thumb. Beside you Barkley tilts the arm holding his scope to reveal his watch and mutters something to himself. You guess that game time is approaching. [[“Damn right, convoy should be approaching in about fifteen… Eyes off.”->SNIPER: Isle of Dogs]]

<a href="https://imgur.com/w9dADd4"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/w9dADd4.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Isle of dogs, London 2015''] Windage is a great example. “Windage?” Stephens rocks back in his oversized leather chair and quickly brings his hands up to make a minute adjustment to his bright red tie before smoothing his lapels over his spotless white shirt. Skulking off to one side away from the desk, his assistant raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. You do what you can to avoid the dazzling glare of the low winter sun as it slices through the huge floor to ceiling window of the gleaming, spotless office. You explain that once a bullet has been fired a number of factors affect it’s trajectory; the density of air due to the ambient temperature, the type and speed of ammunition, gravity and the wind. For any particular combination of ammo and weapon each of these factors is given a numerical value called minute of angle. Stephens leans in a little and meets your gaze for the first time since the interview began. Your heart kicks up a notch and the back of your throat tingles a little. “Minute of angle?” You tell him the minutes are like notches from the centre of your crosshairs. You have to calculate the deviation, in MOA, from the centre for each given variable on the fly and then adjust the scope to account for it. For the scope on the old A3 you used in the army MOA, at a hundred metres, was point-two-five. You glance at the two sharply dressed men across the deep red wooden desk. They’re both now scrunching up their brows and nodding in the manner of people that are totally invested, probably to their own surprise, but struggling to follow. You make the decision to press your advantage, show them what you’ve got. Kicking off with a faux apology if this part is “sucking eggs”, you explain that the point-two-five means that, at one hundred metres, a single click of the scope’s towers will move the crosshairs and the path of the bullet point-two-five of an inch in your chosen direction. This then scales linearly, with a single click moving the scope half an inch at two hundred and a full inch each time at four hundred. So the faster the wind, the heavier the air or the further from the target you are, the more clicks are required to “zero in”. You stop to let a heavy silence fall over the office. For a good ten seconds nobody speaks, the curious Stephens continuing to lean in and work his jaw from side to side as he considers you. His assistant seems to shake off the interest he’d shown a minute ago, returning to sneering at the forest of glistening glass towers beyond the windows. Stephens taps his fingers on the desk and lets his lower lip hang for a moment before picking the interview back up. “But you have machines to make those calculations right?” You then delve into all the tech used in the field, the Kestrel hand held weather monitor that can give you the temp, air density and wind speed and the Mosquito laser range finder. Of course, everyone has a mobile phone with a calculator too. They’re all great bits of kit but the tech will fail. When it's old and battered, dropped into rivers or gummed up with sand you couldn’t trust it to tell you the time. Everyone was trained to take those kind of measurements, make those calculations in their heads. It was a point of pride between snipers. People often believe, wrongly you tell them, that sniping is about some kind of natural gift or a talent with weapons. In reality the best snipers are problem solving mathematicians. Number crunchers with a lot of patience and the ability to handle boredom and discomfort. “So, in answer to the question… yes you have a head for numbers?” An agreeable sound, a soft grunt, escapes your lungs. The assistant glances at his watch and clears his throat only to be waved off by Stephens. “We’re good, who’s next on the list anyway… some diversity candidate HR added last minute? Sod that, this is interesting. Right, one last question, if you’ll indulge me… so, without the gadgets and the tech, [[how do you go about calculating wind speed for instance?->SNIPER: Kent Downs i]]"

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] You keep the dusty, sunblasted terrace in sight and scan from window to window as he reaches into the kitbag on his left. The corner of your eye picks out the flash of the olive drab mobile shaped body of the weather meter. “Eyes back on… You ready to play?” You grunt in the affirmative. “Ok, let’s see how fucking sharp you are today. Wind?” You gently tilt the barrel upwards until your scope picks out a tattered bit of old rope strung up between two pieces of guttering as a washing line on the roof of the target house. Among the off-grey shirts and a dishdasha pegged at irregular intervals is a pillowcase poorly secured to the line from just one corner. The breeze is steady enough to lift the other end but only just. Its bottom end lurches back and forth as though trying to gently shake the rest of it into life. The top half above it hangs straight down, as gravity intended. YOU ESTIMATE THE WIND SPEED: [[6Kph->SNIPER: Wind speed T-b]] [[10Kph->SNIPER: Kandahar wind speed R]] [[15Kph->SNIPER: Wind speed T-a]]

<a href="https://imgur.com/EqHL4yP"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/EqHL4yP.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “The wind pushes the bullet to the side. Changes its path. That means we have to adjust the scope and send our bullet on the right trajectory.” Your numb little fingers tease the side turret of the scope. Out on the hillside, even lying down in the grass, the cold breeze is enough to turn your fingertips a deep rosy pink. The long unkempt strands of grass feel sharp as they beat and lash at the exposed bit of your face between the woollen hat and scarf your gran gave you for Christmas. Really you wanted money. You hadn’t any idea what to spend it on but the idea of having some cash in your hand made you feel powerful somehow. The look on her small, wrinkled old face as she watched you unwrap them; that huge warm smile. You couldn’t remember another time you’d seen her smile that way, it was like she knew deep down that she’d done a great job and you were going to love it. It wasn’t too hard to hide your disappointment. She hugged you like she really meant it that day. Had she been there, on that damp blustery hillside with you and Dad, she’d have been made up to see you wearing them. Out of the corner of your eye Dad’s hand rises to point out a plastic bag caught in the thorny, gnarled branches of an old tree. Each gust threatens to rip it right off the tree and send it flying off into the stratosphere. “We use our surroundings to work out how fast the wind is going. Something that moves in the wind like a flag.” Or one of those orange sock things by the road you tell him. His head bobs up and down. You keep your eyes forward, focussed on the bag, the twisted and stooping old leafless tree and beyond it the row of mostly empty beer bottles lined up on a crumbling stone wall in the distance. Even without looking though you can picture the little non-smile, that happy frown he does when you do or say something he likes. “Straight down, not moving is zero k. Right out to the side without falling is thirty k an hour… Any more than that, well, you’ll hit fuck all anyway.” He leaves a pause and turns his head to face you. You know full well that his silence is a question. You say that that the bag is going all the way up to the side but not all the time, so it’s probably a bit less than thirty. He hums in approval and nods his head once more. This time you catch a glimpse of that little satisfied scowl of his, the wild bristles of his chin and cheeks folding happily for a moment. “Yea, I’d say about twenty… now we’re quite close here, less than one hundred meters, so we don’t really have to adjust. If we were further though…” You tell him you’d need to adjust more clicks on the scope. [[“Yep… Good lad.”->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar ii]]

{(track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadeout', 5) } You tell him it’s about 10Kph. “Damn, Mister’s still got it, 11.1 Kph… Loving your work. Range?” You draw the scope down onto the flaking paint and exposed woodgrain of the door that opens onto to the same rooftop. The door looks fairly standard, so about 1.8m tall and appears about 3.5 MILS in your scope. You figure it’s a little over 500m away. To your left Barkley lifts and plays with the laser for a moment. “Five fifteen. You are fucking on it today mate… Well within super-sonic range in this weather.” They’ll never hear us coming you tell him before adjusting your sights: You set the range at 500 and turn the side turret two clicks, shifting the sight just over 3 inches to account for the wind. “Where’s your money?” Each house in the terrace looks the same, a beige wind-strewn brick box with bits of rebar jutting out of every corner like angular tufts of steel hair. The occasional flash of long since worn paint, red here or white there, is all that differentiates them. The old man leans against his broom now outside the second one, nodding on as the kids move their game onto penalties and take turns shooting against a bare wall to the left of the dusty square. Whilst you both heavily suspect Lieutenant Dickhead and his crew to be holed up in the third house from the left, the one the woman hauling a thousand bags of shopping disappeared into, you can’t rule anything out. Your sight lingers on the dark recess beyond an open window for a moment. A car, an old boxy Ford escort with a cracked passenger window and more dents than doors, rolls on by but doesn’t stop. God knows you tell him. The shooter’s a sneaky fucker. He’s managed to slip by three patrols as well as the other fire team. “That was the B team. This fucker is ours mate.” The squaddies pounding pavements out there would be beyond relieved if you did get a result. Whilst scouring this little clutch of concrete boxes for the Lieutenant, three men had caught bullets moving through the town square. One lad was never making it home. Arseholes were twitching, people were getting spooked. Hiding behind the families and children scattered through these blocks, Dickhead was smart enough to know there was no drone strike coming but not smart enough to figure that his guardian angel’s rifle would eventually draw someone sharp enough to sniff him out. Someone like you. “Hey, eyes off mate. Need a quick piss before kick-off.” You nod and keep your eyes glued to the buildings as he tilts his body up to one side and the sound of urine tickling the bedrock rings out to your left. He lets out an exasperated sigh. The corner of your mouth twitches sharply upwards. You don’t need him to tell you that a good portion of his stream trickled back along the ground into him, eagerly soaked up by his dry, dusty fatigues. You let him huff and puff about it for a moment without comment before his head bobs sharply up and down on the edge of your vision. [[“Game time brother.”->SNIPER: Margate seafront i]]

{ <script>A.track('A Womans Wisdom').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'A Womans Wisdom', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/LS5KSkx"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/LS5KSkx.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Fairground, Margate Seafront 2006''] “What do you say killer? Three shots for a fiver; one target gets you one of the small prizes, three targets gets you this here elephant for the lovely lady…” The carnie, a leather skinned hulk in a torn work shirt with a “Lesley” name tag sewn into the breast lofts a hirsute arm to twirl one of the giant stuffed elephant toys dangling from the ceiling of his stall. Strung along the steel rafters and beams keeping the place upright hang an array of far smaller plush toys that faintly, but not accurately enough to trouble a copyright lawyer, resemble a host of famous cartoon characters; ducks, dogs and little birds. Wild eyed, almost foaming at the mouth children smothered in quilted jackets and woollen layers drag shrugging and sighing parents about in all directions. Feet variously slap at and thud against the bare earth precariously held together by scraggly patches of grass underfoot. Screams and yelps from the waltzers somehow pierce through the trebly wall of sound pumped out by the battery of speakers perched on every junction, corner and stall of the shambolic travelling fair. “Come on lad, three for a fiver… win something for the Mrs?” You open your mouth to explain that Annie isn’t your girlfriend before she sharply elbows you in the ribs. The little patch of her freckled face visible between her bunched up fluffy scarf and bobbled woolly hat breaks into a toothy, beaming smile. Bouncing up and down and clasping her mittened hands together she gives you a nod and wink, letting out a musical little hum. “Let’s see what you’ve got, killer.” You hand over the money to a series of smug looking nods from “Lesley”. The two-two pellet gun feels light, much lighter than your Dad’s old rifle. Flimsy and hollow-stocked, the idea that it could do anyone harm feels almost laughable. Looking it over, its form is pretty standard except the rail and bracket for the scope has been removed. In lieu of a decent viewfinder is a set of match sights, two little black posts, at the rear of the rifle. The third notch that would normally sit between them at the front of the weapon is conspicuously absent. “Right, here’s your pellets… you just pull the barrel d-” You break the barrel and feed the first pellet into the breach before snapping it shut. “Ok Lee Harvey Oswald, three targets for the big prize.” He pulls a lever and a series of small metallic targets pop up at the back of the stall in front of the sandbags piled up to prevent rogue pellets escaping the temporary hut and taking out some poor kid’s eye. Each shaped like a tiny cowboy, the targets appear about two to three inches tall from your perspective. You kneel on the cold hard mud and plant your leading elbow into the little counter to form a stable tripod, raising the gun into a firing position and bearing down on the first little cowboy. Imagining a front post, you somehow paint the front sight into existence with your mind and line the target up between the two rear posts. You breathe out fully, letting the barrel drift up and down. The grating sounds of blasting music and screaming children fades to a low hum. You breathe in. The target sinks below the notches. Darkness starts to creep in from the edges of your vision. You slowly, carefully let half the air out of your lungs until the target lines up with your sights. [[All that exists is that little cowboy.->SNIPER: Outside kandahar iii]]

{ (track: 'A Womans Wisdom', 'fadeout', 5) <script>A.track('A Stranger Comes to Town').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'A Stranger Comes to Town', 'fadein', 2) } (text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] Barkley takes in the panorama, the hinges holding his spotter scope gently squeak as he draws his gaze to the right beyond the square and the houses. You stay focussed on the houses, soaking up every hairline crack and every fleck of sad looking paint. “Convoy incoming, two vehicles from the east. Sixty seconds.” A flash of moving shapes in your periphery catches your eye. The kids heard the convoy and bolted for cover. Doors slam and wispy trails of kicked up dust waltz down towards the baking earth. Their abandoned football lazily rolls towards the centre of the square. Misshapen and flat it just about manages to limp over without the aid of a good kick. The old man hasn’t made for the hills. Still leaning against the broom, he cranes his leathery head in the direction of the oncoming patrol. His eyeline fills in the blanks in Barkley’s narration, giving you a good idea of the bearing and distance of the convoy relative to the little round window of your scope. You chamber a round. “De-bussing… one section of te- eleven. Organising into file either side of the road about fifty meters east of the square.” You give each of the houses another pass: no movement. The open window remains empty, no alteration in the shadow or change in the outline. The rooftops, flapping laundry aside, remain empty. The old man is suddenly gone. You wonder how the hell he moved that fast. Perhaps he’s like a lizard, slowly charged up all day in the sun ready for one quick burst of movement. “They’re moving, twenty seconds to the square.” You ask where they’re going to begin their sweep. “Hopefully… where we can bloody see them.” It’s not them you need to see. Your scope catches a quick flash of movement, the dark open window is suddenly blocked by a set of wooden shutters. You scan the tiny gaps in between the slats looking for a shadow, a slight shift in the shades of grey and blue behind the window, anything that would give someone away. You wonder if you’re wrong about that house, if it’s just some big family; the mum and a thousand kids shivering under tables and muttering prayers as the men with the SA-80s and strange accents bear down on them. “Somethings up. Something’s changed.” You ask what he’s seen and place your thumb on the safety. He huffs and growls for a moment before letting out a sharp “fucked if I know… but it has.” You quickly scan the house once more: The washing hanging on the roof (three shirts, one dishdasha, one pillowcase. Had it always been three shirts?). The suddenly shuttered window on the top floor (was that the shadow of a person behind the slats?). The snaking cracks running beside the phone lines (between the upstairs windows, past the missing brick, and down towards the ground). The front door (was it open just a little crack?). “Where the fuck are you hiding?” Something nags at you as you flick the safety off with your thumb. Barkley is no fool. He’s right, something has changed. The game is on. You have to spot that difference before the shooter can spot- “Fuck, contact. That missing brick…” The sound of the gunshot reaches you before you can swing the rifle back up to the window. You spot the little puff of blue tinged smoke wafting gently on the wind through the gap. You ask if he hit anything. The tiny black gap, no more than a spot in the scope, becomes your whole world. “Standby…” You take a controlled, full breath in and slowly let it out halfway until the scope settles once more on the tiny black spot. You nudge the rifle a fraction to the west to allow for a rifle’s length beside the peephole. “It’s a negative. Patrol have gone to ground, I don’t see any wounded.” You thank him and tell him to get eyes on target. Gently you bring your trigger finger down on the first pressure of the trigger. “Eyes on. Shoot this fucking prick.” [[You squeeze the trigger.->SNIPER: Margate seafront ii]]

(text-style:"underline")[''Fairground, Margate Seafront 2006''] “Jesus fucking Christ Chris Kyle, am I being hustled here?” The carnie shakes his head and blows out his cheeks as the final target falls. Beside you Annie mockingly claps and lets out a cheery “yay” as she bounces up and down on the spot. “One grand prize coming right up for your lovely lady…” He reaches up towards the prizes, his fingers giving one of the soft grey toys a little twirl on its string. “…unless we have ourselves a gambling man here.” You don’t ask what he means out loud, but your expression seems enough to gee him on. “See, I have one last target, a special one for hustlers like you boy… I’ll give you the chance to go double or nothing, put it all on the line. One shot…” He hits another lever and an even smaller steel cowboy, a tiny rider on a shiny miniscule horse, pops up right at the back. Right at the back, so far as to be almost learning against the sandbags. From where you’re standing it looks barely an inch tall. Lesley smiles and theatrically digs a note out of his pocket. “Now you could take your elephant right now or… hit one more target for me and I’ll give you twenty pound. Twenty pounds out of my own pocket right now. You miss, you walk away with nothing.” You turn and look at Annie; rubbing her hands together and nuzzling her flushed freckled cheeks down into her warm, chunky scarf. She stamps her feet again and breathes down into her layers before curling the corners of her mouth up into a smile. The little space between her eyebrows curls into that wonderful little knot. “You’ve got this. It’s all you…” YOU: [[Take the shot->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar iv-a]] [[Take the elephant->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar iv-a]]

You turn the turret 3 clicks and bear down on the peephole once more. The space flashes white, as though the sun peeked through it for a split second. A storm of grey pock-marks and clouds of dust suddenly break out all over the wall. “Patrol’s returning fire. Can’t see any casualties.” You reset your breath and take the trigger’s first pressure. “Light him up Mister.” (link-goto: "You pull the trigger", (either: "SNIPER: Kandahar shot HIT-a", "SNIPER: Kandahar shot HIT-a2", "SNIPER: Kandahar shot HIT-a1", "SNIPER: Kandahar shot MISS-a"))

The second round tears another brick from the wall, doubling the size of the peephole. Both you and the patrol hold fire as though holding your breath for a second. A flash of flesh and white, a hand holding a bright handkerchief, haphazardly yanks to and fro through the gap. “Nothing but net. Another win for the dream team.” [[He playfully thumps you in the arm before patting you on the back.->SNIPER: Shorncliffe-a]]

{ (track: 'A Stranger Comes to Town', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('Hangover in Minor').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadein', 6) } <a href="https://imgur.com/9dBNIni"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/9dBNIni.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Ranges, Shorncliffe 2009''] “Cease fire… Cease fire! Pack it in you useless fucking cunts. Weapons safe.” As the last man lying somewhere to your right catches up and speeds through his NSP; applying the safety, the bolt lock and performing his checks, Sarge marches up behind you and gives your prone legs a not-insubstantial kick. Your SA80, still pointed safely down range at the heavy sand bank and row of battered old targets three hundred metres away, nudges side to side. You can feel the eyeballs of the whole range on you. Every man lying prone in line craning his neck to see you, every man in the huts off to the left of the range standing on tiptoes to see who the Sarge is talking to. “Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that boy?” You stutter the words “top shooter”, with a little shaky upward inflection to indicate that it’s a question. Sarge’s booming laugh somehow echoes off of the clear skies overhead. “Oh, fuck no kid… not even top ten.” He gives you another dig with his boot, this time more playfully. You try to shrug off your disappointment as Daniels to your left suppresses a titter. “But the grouping… fuck, that shit is tight. Couldn’t have made those holes any closer if I’d drawn them in marker.” You clear your throat and thank him in the manliest voice you can muster. You can hear whispers carrying over from up and down the row of shooters either side of you. Sarge crouches down to be better heard, softening his tone to the point of sounding conspiratorial. [[“Remind me to talk to you about the march and shoot team lad...”->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar v-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Let it bleed out->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] You tightly clutch Barkley's outstreached hand and clamber to your feet. It might be the bloody rule you tell him, but free beer is free beer. He explodes into a volley of percussive chuckles. "Cheap bastard." He laughs as you put on an exaggerated hangdog expression whilst hefting the long, heavy A3. After a few mock shakes and stretches he snatches up his much shorter and lighter shooter with a relaxed mock sigh before you both mosey down the hill towards the village. The Corporal leading the section practically sprints over the square to greet you with a hearty hand shake and a stream of “thank you”s so effusive you can feel your sunburnt cheeks somehow redden even further. Behind him the delighted patrol high-five each other and cheer as a prisoner is loaded into one of the two mastiffs they’d rode in on, the overfed beige off roader having been driven right up to the house once the area was cleared. Barkley finally catches up to you and gestures at the celebrating solders around the truck. [[“That party for us?” ->SNIPER: Housing unit Kandahar-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] You gently nudge his hand out of the way and clamber to your feet. It’s his bloody rule you tell him, and if he’d been firing today there’s not a chance in hell he’d be lugging that rifle. He laughs and puts on an exaggerated hangdog expression whilst trudging over to the long, heavy A3. After a few shakes and stretches you loft his much shorter and lighter shooter with a relaxed mock sigh and start moseying down the hill towards the village. The sound of Barkley hefting the 10Kg weapon over his shoulder somewhere behind you slaps a broad smile over your face. “Wanker.” The Corporal leading the section practically sprints over the square to greet you with a hearty hand shake and a stream of “thank you”s so effusive you can feel your sunburnt cheeks somehow redden even further. Behind him the delighted patrol high-five each other and cheer as a prisoner is loaded into one of the two mastiffs they’d rode in on, the overfed beige off roader having been driven right up to the house once the area was cleared. Barkley finally catches up to you and gestures at the celebrating solders around the truck. [[“That party for us?” ->SNIPER: Housing unit Kandahar-a1]]

<a href="https://imgur.com/YXlIGAt"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/YXlIGAt.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Housing unit, Kandahar 2011''] “Surprise! Happy fucking birthday mate.” You nearly jump right out of your boots as you come round the corner and Barkley lets off a party popper into your face. The little paper streamers and the feeling of hot air blast you in the face as you try to supress the violent shout of “Christ” surging up from your guts. He cackles and has to steady himself against the frame of your bed in order to prevent the “hilarity” of the situation knocking him flat out. “Fucking hell mate. Cool as a cucumber in the field but jittery as a nonce in a playground the moment you put that rifle down…” On the bed beside him is a stack of pirated DVDs, chocolate, Doritos and a case of beer. You ask what the hell this all is. He smiles and spreads his arms wide like Christ the Redeemer, like he’s revealing some glorious wonder of the world. For a moment he is, like the repurposed shipping container with fucked, unreliable wiring and a single, rattling plastic window could suddenly be somewhere else. “You think I didn’t know it was your birthday genius, think I couldn’t look that shit up?” Or ask someone else to look it up. He laughs and shakes his head. “Or ask someone else to look it up… Hey, I knew it was your big day and, well, you’re not calling home or nothing, so I called in some favours. You and I mate are no longer on watch tonight. We are sitting there, draining this whole damn crate and hate-watching some shit movies tonight.” You try to ask who is covering your watch. “Who fucking cares? They're doing it, that’s all that matters, and you are going to have some fucking fun if it fucking kills you mate.” [[He tears a can off the corner of the case of beer and tosses it your way.->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar vii-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] The section leader laughs and shakes his head. “You’d deserve more than some party- I mean, that shot through the little hole in the wall… Actually, they’re pumped because we bloody got him. Mission accomplished lads.” Lieutenant Dickhead? “No, no, no… Try Major… We've bagged Ahmadullah himself.” Besides you, Barkley lets out a low whistle. No shit. “No fucking shit mate. After you took out the sniper and they waved the white flag upstairs we breached. Two targets in the living room hadn’t got the message but the big man upstairs was good as gold. Got him in the back of the carrier now.” You tell them it was a job well done. “More than that mate. The hats back at HQ have been after this prick for months. We’ll all be flying home with some fresh tin pinned to our chests.” What was he doing here instead of the lieutenant? “Scheming mate. Fucking scheming… he had maps of patrols, Semtex and enough phones and wires to open a fucking Carphone Warehouse.” Barkley breaks into a hoarse cough instead of laughing. The Corporal pats him on the back. “I know… fucking dust, awful for your lungs.” He nods his thanks to the section chief. “Yea, this desert can go fuck itself.” The Corporal leans in slightly and lowers his voice as if divulging a secret. “You know, when they first told me I was shipping out here I thought it would be sandy, like the beach.” Barkley explodes into laughter at that, nodding and raising an eyebrow at you before returning the Corporal’s sympathetic pat on the back and sharing some "wisdom": “Did you know… most deserts are actually bedrock. They call it Hamada. Sand deserts are actually pretty rare.” You tell Barkley he’s a prick. [[The two of you laugh all the way over to your ride home.->SNIPER: En-route i-a]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… Obviously you've got the rifle there, but I know people sometimes swap it.” You: [[Tell him->SNIPER: Kitchen-a]] [[Keep it vague->SNIPER: Kitchen-b]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… your mate in the other truck, he’s got the rifle, was he the shooter?” You: [[Tell him->SNIPER: Kitchen c]] [[Keep it vague->SNIPER: Kitchen-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] You tell the baby-faced private that you took the shot, but it was Barkley that noticed the peephole and fed you the sight corrections that made the kill. “Fucking knew it, that’s why they call you Mister.” It’s just a name, the first shot wasn’t exactly a winner. The boy shrugs that off and jabs a bony little index finger at you. “Even that was closer than the other fire team ever got.” You feel your lips pull into a smile but tell him you just got lucky. If Barkley hadn’t seen that peephole, it could have gone down a lot differently. “But he did didn’t he… and you nailed that shot.” One of the other squaddies barks in a gruff Scottish accent for the lad to leave you “the fuck alone” and “climb right down” off of your “fucking piece”. “Big bollocks there has been face down in the dirt, shitting in a bag and letting the sun cook him since before you got up and sucked down your cornflakes this morning. Give the man a fucking break.” The lad squirms in his seat a little and nods before leaning in a little closer and lowering his voice. “It’s just impressive is all, cheers for the backup mate.” You give him a little wordless nod and turn your head to see Ahmadullah staring right at you from the far end of the truck. None of the squaddies seem to have noticed, either leaning back against the chassis with their eyes closed or lost in conversation. The van leaps in and out of a pothole, rocking as though gripped and shaken by some giant hand. The boy opposite almost drops his rifle in the rush to clutch his seat and stop himself falling. Bits of kit rattle about and a couple of loose rounds chink and chime their way across the bed of the truck. Major Dickhead’s gaze never breaks. His eyes search your own as though asking some kind of question. You don’t know why, but you shrug at him and flick your eyebrows upwards. He returns to gazing at his feet. You imagine that Barkley is holding court in the other truck; regaling the rest of the section about your exploits, talking up the kills the two of you have made, telling tall tales and laughing about the time you, battling through a savage hungover, got shit on your hands and nearly missed the target because you were busy trying to rub them clean with a handful of dirt. He always ends that story by making sure everyone knows that he took the rifle and made the killer adjustments for you whilst you moaned about your “dirty fucking paws”. You wonder whether you’d prefer that kind of embarrassment over the fawning questions of the private. Next time you’ll ride with Barkley you tell yourself. The radio up front screeches into life and the lads up front gesture and point at something ahead. The truck grinds to a halt. A few of the squaddies start to grumble before the big, red faced Scotsman barks for them all to “shut yer fucking noise” and asks the driver what’s up. “Lead truck’s stopped. Something in the road.” The atmosphere abruptly shifts. Knuckles get pale around weapons and feet drum at the floor. The inside of your mouth tastes bitter, as though the feeling in the air had a taste. Ahmadullah shakes his head and keeps his eyes down. The Scotsman scratches at his face for a moment before gesturing with his hands for everyone to settle down. The private opposite you closes his eyes and mutters something under his breath. The truck suddenly rumbles back into life. “All clear” shouts the driver, the entire vehicle exhales as one. The Mastiff inches forward as his feet search for the clutch’s bite point. You feel yourself melt back into your seat and lean against the searing metal chassis. The radio screeches, a panicked voice bathed in static shouts something. “Fuck!” A sound. More than a sound. The air is a chainsaw revving at full speed, jammed into your ears. You’re lifted up out of your seat, drifting as though carried by a warm tide. Screams, the twisting and tearing of metal and the thump of bodies against each other are all muffled under a high-pitched squeal. It sounds like a whole world of horror has been plunged underwater. The whole mastiff lazily spins around you in slow motion. Something hard, cold, and sharp punches you in the back of the head. [[Black.->SNIPER: Bedroom-a]]

<a href="https://imgur.com/f6BmcUc"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/f6BmcUc.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Kitchen, Cliffsend 2015''] “The interview team were very impressed with your skills and experience. They made a point of saying how much they’d like to work with you… but the decision has been made to go with an internal candidate. More detailed feedback can be provided at your request should you-” You cut her off, mumbling through a couple of false starts before you manage to cough up that you don’t need the detail, you just have one question. A tense silence holds the line for a moment. You hear a forceful, drawn-out exhale on the other end of the phone. “Of course, what can I do to help you?” You swallow deeply, shake your head and straighten your back as though talking to her in person. Did your discharge from the army have anything to do with the team’s decision? The voice stutters and mumbles for a second before hurriedly chirping that they don’t know what you mean. My medical discharge, you tell her. You open your mouth to give a little more context, colour in the lines a bit, but she cuts you off this time by stating that the company upholds the “finest standard” of integrity with regard to their hiring procedures and to exclude you as a candidate on such grounds would be unethical. “The team just felt the internal candidate would be a better fit for the role.” “We’ve no doubt at all that a candidate as strong as your self will have no trouble find-” You hang up and toss the phone onto the brand-new, still plastic wrapped, granite kitchen counter besides your open toolbox and get back to your bowl of overnight oats and protein powder. The runny, sweet mixture eases down your throat as you consider the to-do list for the day. With the tiles for the kitchen floor arriving that afternoon you’ll want to get the cabinets sanded down and the floors cleaned before you can even think about tiling, and you might be better off getting the varnish on the doors before you move onto that too. The waste from the sander’s dust bag and the last offcuts of wood from the pillars and frame you put in for the storage can all go on the bonfire you’ve started piling up in the back garden. You drop your empty bowl on the ceramic sink and draining board unit you recovered from a scrap site and glance through the plastic sheeting currently in place of the kitchen window. The old sofa and chairs you never sat on as a child and the rickety dining table you spent countless silent mealtimes at lie in a huge heap on the bare earth out back waiting for the old photo albums and bags of your Dad’s clothes that you liberated from what had been his room. Once the kitchen is done, the downstairs will be pretty much there. It’s almost a home now you hear yourself say. You shake your head and get back to work, dropping your arse to the bare concrete floor beside one of the unfinished corner pillars the counter is resting on. You loft the rented rotary sander, check the bag and the pad are securely fitted and lift your mask to cover your face. [[Taking aim you pull the trigger and ease the whirring blade into the wood.->SNIPER: En-route ii-a BL]]

(text-style:"underline")[''Bedroom, Cliffsend 2015''] A giant invisible hand grips you and presses straight down on your chest. The muscles between your ribs and either side of your spine burn with the effort of trying to force a gulp of air down. The sheets cling to your cold sopping skin, the bedframe stutters with each violent twitch of your spine. Under the slick layer of stinging sweat your skin itches as though trying to wrestle itself free of your bones. The walls parrot your shrill faltering attempts to catch breath back at you. Staccato wheezes and gasps leaping out of each black and navy corner of the half-finished bedroom. The roar of thunder rattles the windows and sends you into a bout of retching, jolting back and forth as bile burns and lashes its way up your oesophagus. You shut your eyes, try to focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out… Another blast from the skies, a flash of blinding white light and the explosion of collapsing air grips you like a hand around a dog toy. [[A small, pathetic yelp escapes your gritted teeth and tears flow freely as your body convulses violently.->SNIPER: Somewhere i-a]]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: Kill you-a]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: Kill you-a]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: Kill you-a]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “They wanted revenge. They wanted to kill the monster, the bogeyman… the one that never misses.” The smile, such as it was, fades into a solemn, mournful frown. “I also wanted to kill you. Wanted revenge… But this fame of yours, this name. The name is power. It is the name that keeps you and your friends alive.” You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “The men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SNIPER: McDonald's i-a]]

You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” He's not saying much to anyone these days. She reaches over to take your hand. Her vital, warm fingers only point out to you how cold yours have become. [["You're not doing this alone you know."->SNIPER: Somewhere ii-a]]

She snorts, an amused but defiant grunt accompanied by a scrunching up of her lovely freckled brow. "Nothing?" You manage to stutter a "well" and raise your shoulders to shrug before she cuts you off. "People care... I care about you. You've got friends, other family. You're a smart guy with loads going on." You wave a hand about you like a demented estate agent showing the empty down at heel restaurant off. Great you tell her. It's either the salad packing plant or this place. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” [[He can’t say anything anymore you tell her.->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere ii-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SNIPER: somewhere iii-a]] [[No->SNIPER: somewhere iii-a]] [[Go fuck yourself->SNIPER: somewhere iii-a]]

You open your mouth to speak, but the moment he twigs that the first syllable out of your mouth isn’t a yes he brings that hard bony rock of a right hand back down on your nose. Something inside your face gives and makes a crunch sound. You feel warm blood run down your chin. You taste metal in the back of your throat. Long beard barks something at United, who bears down on you with the old tools. He drops to the ground and sprawls at your feet, hammer in one hand and pliers in the other. Beard grunts something like “wee-heh” and grabs your thighs, pinning you even tighter to the chair. His body hides the boy beneath, but you can just about see United’s left elbow rising up at his side. The cold sharp nose of the pliers gropes and nudges at the edge of your right pinkie. They gently close like a set of cold scratchy teeth around the nail. “Wee-heh!” There’s a moist ripping sound, a gasp leaps into the air from deep in your lungs. Then comes the pain, an almost electrical burning sensation shooting along your foot and up the leg. It feels like they’d connected you to the mains and flipped the switch. You hear the hollow sound of your teeth grinding. “You teach shoot! Yes!” Spittle from the force of Longbeard’s roar flicks a thousand tiny spots of cold, sticky mucus over your upper legs and crotch. YOU: [[I can’t->SNIPER: Somewhere iv-a]] [[No->SNIPER: Somewhere iv-a]]

“P-Deh!” Cold, scratchy metal meets the flesh of your fourth toe. The space between the toes feels sticky and warm. “P-Deh!” The rip is louder the second time, the nail larger. Your jaw clenches so tightly you fear your teeth might explode. The walls in turn grit their teeth and make a horrid gurning sound back at you. “You teach shoot…” … Again, they drag you from the hole, hose you down and toss you a garment to dangle limply over the sharp angles of your withering frame. You can’t walk, your right foot a burning lump of misshapen blue clay, but Beardy tosses you over his shoulder and marches over the field to the big house before depositing you at the kitchen table. Ahmadullah sips once more from his tea and signals for a glass of cold water to be poured for you. He says nothing for a moment, just fixes his dead brown eyes right on your own. After another almost hesitant sip from his glass he sighs and addresses you. “Aarash tells me you are ready to reconsider.” Your head stutters up and down. The warlord nods, his face almost sad at the prospect. “The men will be pleased. The mighty Mister humbled… Ready to switch sides for the chance to spare his life. Even if your teaching does not bear fruit, if I am forced to slit your throat and leave you to bleed on the mountain, you have proved useful.” He places both hands on the table, straightens his back and looms over you. “But there will be fruit. You will continue to be useful.” You take the glass from the table in front of you and drain it in one go. “In the morning, Aarash will shoot ten rounds at one hundred meters… You will teach him. The next day his aim will be better.” You glance over your shoulder at longbeard, who silently nods to you. “If his aim is not better, I kill one of your friends. That gives you eight days. On day nine…” Eight men, plus you makes nine. That means at least five men died in the attack on the convoy if three were shot in the cells. You offer a guilty, silent prayer that Barkley wasn’t one of them. “If he gets better, learns your laser and your wind meter. If he can adjust the sight and kill like Mister… I let you all go free.” You cough and fail to suppress the laugh that comment ignites in you. He in turn sniggers, a dry chugging sound more like an engine turning over than a human laugh. “You laugh? You know so much of the gun and so little of the mind Mister... The story, this myth, has power over men. If I simply kill you all who will tell the story? How will these British know to fear me once again?” An angular mess tin of rice and some sort of cold, leathery meat is dropped in front of you by Aarash. Major Dickhead rises from his chair and nods to you. [[“Eat, you begin in the morning.”->SNIPER: Bellevue i-a]]

{(track: 'Monsters Lair', 'fadeout', 5) <script>A.track('Bitcrush Ballard').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Bitcrush Ballard', 'fadein', 5)} <a href="https://imgur.com/yAJY6Uq"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/yAJY6Uq.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] “Jesus fucking Christ. I’d heard you were back, but even seeing you… I still don’t believe it.” Letting your mouth drop open to speak, you manage to wrangle a lonely, breathy “hi” from somewhere deep within you. Her eyebrows leap upwards and that little crease above her nose curls up as though captioning the question mark implied by her silence. You watch your hands limply raise themselves in an effort to speak for you but simply hang there as the words fail to catch up with them. Annie’s face melts into a beaming smile as she lets her head drop to one side. She raises one open hand and wraps her palm against the series of taps at the bar one by one. “As talkative as ever… Let’s start with an easy one then. What can I get you?” You hear a chuckle tumble from your lips before clearing your throat and asking her for two Guinness. “Two of the black stuff coming right up…” She spins on her heels, sweeps two glasses from the rack and completes her pirouette by placing the first one under the tap in a single deft motion. Tilting the glass she eases the tap back absent-mindedly as the creamy fluid starts to surge up the inside of the glass. “Word has it you’re staying in your dad’s old place in Cliffsend. Fixing it up yourself?” You tell her you don’t have much else to be doing. Annie abruptly bursts into laughter so sharply that the rest of the bar drops what they’re doing and swivels to see what the hell is so funny. She plants the first full glass on the bar in front of you, the heavy weather in the glass swirling and shifting seemingly under its own power as the layers separate. “Still chatty as ever... I’ve driven by the place a few times, must be a hell of a job making it feel liveable again.” You tell her it’s just a few tiles and a coat of paint. She chews on that one for a moment, working her jaw from side to side as though about to say something. After considering it she shakes her head and smiles. [["So what brings you here then, meeting someone?"->SNIPER: Somewhere v-a]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: Don't know-a]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: Protect country-a]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: Don't know-a]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: Protect country-a]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “We invade your country? Missiles hitting London?” You shake your head and mention terrorist attacks. He laughs, craning his head towards the sky. "You think of Al-Qaeda, Saudis... here you fight Taliban." He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SNIPER: Bellevue ii BARKLEY-a]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SNIPER: Bellevue ii BARKLEY-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] The voice calls out form the opposite end of the bar. An older gent, maybe in his sixties or maybe only in his forties but wearing the beers badly raises his balding, spotted head from the sticky bar and shouts at least twice as loud as necessary to heard by you. "Hey, hey you're that guy. The sniper... that war hero." You apologise and tell him he's got the wrong guy. He shakes his head and splutters, a fine spray of stale beer errupting from his lips to coat the sticky wooden bar between you. "Fuck off, I saw it on the news. They gave you a medal for putting a bunch of holes in those fucking rag-heads." You turn your head to face him. You say you'd rather not talk about it. "Let me buy you a drink lad. We should all be grateful for your service..." Reading something in your expression Annie jumps to your defence. "Oh, shut your noise Geoff. You cant even afford that beer in front of you. Leave the nice man alone." Geoff nods and excuses himself. She sharply raises an eyebrow and turns to you, asking without asking. You nod. You tell her you did "some thing" out there and people made a fuss. It was nothing you assure her, just doing your job. “Seems you were able to make a difference after all.” You ask what about her, how did she end up working the bar? She smiles and shrugs for a moment before letting her sights settle somewhere far beyond the walls of the pub. “Things never really seem to work out the way you plan do they?” She shakes her head and meets your gaze again, the sparkle back in her eyes. “Still, it’s a living.” That raises a smile out of you as you dig in your pocket for your debit card. She waves your card away with a musical hum. “This one’s on me, welcome home.” ... You take a seat in a booth far from the bar and nurse your drinks as the world passes by the window. The world is full of faces you half recognise, places with new fronts new and names. The only thing that hasn't changed is that old familiar feeling in your gut. The feeling that something heavy, something dense, is moving through your insides. It never passes or makes it far, seemingly circling the same six inches of intestines over and over. You wonder, as you drain the first glass of bitter fluid, what happened to the bright, smiling girl about to set off for college all those years ago. A handful of As in her back pocket and the world at her feet. Whatever it was you can sense the change, the distance between you. [[It's a hell of a lot further than a C-17 flight to Afghan.->SNIPER: Somewhere vi-b]]

She smiles and shrugs for a moment before letting her sights settle somewhere far beyond the walls of the pub. “Things never really seem to work out the way you plan do they?” She shakes her head and meets your gaze again, the sparkle back in her eyes. “Still, it’s a living.” That raises a smile out of you as you dig in your pocket for your debit card. She waves your card away with a musical hum. “This one’s on me, don’t be a stranger Mister.” … “Did I tell you that you look fucking knackered mate?” You tell him he looks great too and take a small sip of the creamy foam capping your drink. Barkley fidgets on his stool and nudges his glass forward a fraction on the rough-hewn wooden table. “Seriously though, you ok? You look like a courtroom sketch of yourself right now.” YOU: [[Sleep is a bit of a struggle->SNIPER: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[It’s been a rough couple of months->SNIPER: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[Something’s very wrong->SNIPER: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]]

She smiles and shrugs for a moment before letting her sights settle somewhere far beyond the walls of the pub. “You always did.” She shakes her head and meets your gaze again, the sparkle back in her eyes. “Still, welcome home.” That raises a smile out of you as you dig in your pocket for your debit card. She waves your card away with a musical hum. “This one’s on me, call it a homecoming present.” … “Did I tell you that you look fucking knackered mate?” You tell Barkley he looks great too and take a small sip of the creamy foam capping your drink. Barkley fidgets on his stool and nudges his glass forward a fraction on the rough-hewn wooden table. “Seriously though, you ok? You look like a courtroom sketch of yourself right now.” YOU: [[Sleep is a bit of a struggle->SNIPER: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[It’s been a rough couple of months->SNIPER: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[Something’s very wrong->SNIPER: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]]

You fill your lungs and send the correct command from your brain, but somewhere a wire crosses or burns out. Your neurons and synapses play a game of telephone with each other until a weak, almost apologetic “I’m alright” leaks from your mouth. Barkley looks at you. Hard. The same way he’d stare down that spotter scope back when he had your back and you had his. “You know… It was fucking shit the way they treated you.” Shit happens. “No mate… well it does I guess, but they sent us there. They sent you there and put that fucking gun in your hand. Then, when it didn’t suit them anymore, they fucking binned you off and sent you packing. You needed a hand and instead… you got all this.” He waves his hands about the place. Glancing around, what had seemed like a bustling, welcoming seaside boozer very suddenly looks like a drab cage stalked by the local, beer swilling unemployed at half ten in the morning. “Look, I should have headed down sooner but… fuck knows. I guess I bottled it. I’m here now though. You show me this fucking house your building, put me up for a couple of nights and we’ll see what I can do for you.” You tell him you don’t need anything. “How about a proper job?” You can almost hear the skin on your forehead creasing up. “Look, a few of us on the team were doing some work with the British biathlon lot. The winter sports crew. I mentioned your name to them, told them about what you did for us back in-” You cut him off and tell him it wasn’t anything special. Going on about it isn’t going to do anyone any favours. Reading his disappointed, tired expression you mime for him to go on and ask what you’d be doing. Barkley smiles and takes a sip of his drink. [[“Oh, it wouldn’t be anything special.” ->SNIPER: Somewhere vi-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. With Ahmadullah watching you figure you dont have time for Aarash to get his eye in, your brain races to conjure an immediate scope adjustment. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: [[Top turret clockwise two clicks->SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT T]] [[Top turret clockwise three clicks->SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT T]] (link-goto: "Top turret clockwise four clicks", (either: "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS", "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-a1", "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-a2", "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT T"))

He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony hands. Just as United did the day before he runs right by you and hands it straight to Aarash, who thanks them and dusts himself off. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. [[The warlord nods, smiling to himself and pats Aarash on the shoulder.->SNIPER: Liberation-a]]

He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony claws. As united had the day before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boy's head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SNIPER: Liberation-b]]

{(track: 'A Stranger Comes to Town', 'fadeout', 8) } The sounds of panic, fast heavy footsteps and shallow breaths, snap you out of your stupor. Voices howl sharp, stabbing vowels that don’t come together into words. A humming sound, like a swarm of buzzing insects grows louder and louder. It becomes a heavy thumping sound that rattles the guttering and rafters of the old building. The first explosion rocks the walls of your cell. A loud concussive thump followed by a shrill squeal in your ear. The ground leaps up and down with the aftershock, the big iron door clangs and screeches against its hinges. Your mind screams to run, shouts it over and over, but trapped like a spider under a glass all you can do is push and scratch at the walls. The second blast is muted, as though happening somewhere underground. A piece of corrugated iron falls from above you and smashes into the floor. All the air leaps out of your lungs. Your skin is pricked all over by a thousand hot needles. Your bucket falls. Its payload of vicious, volatile piss sloshes about the floor. Voices cry out, British accents and Afghani alike. They’re not the voices of combat, deep authoritative commands being yelled over the sounds of battle. They are the shrill, cracking yelps of terror. Small arms, something fully automatic, roar back at the approaching helicopter momentarily before another explosion shakes the very earth beneath you. You hear bricks and beams collapsing somewhere beyond your cell. Tiny bits of brick and mortar scramble and scratch at the walls as they are shook free by the violent impact. A voice wails and weeps unintelligibly. There’s no telling what language or accent the voice is crying in. There are no words, just fear and hurt. More small arms fire. A heavy, thumping rhythm is hammered out like mechanised lightning from the sky. So loud and percussive as to be a feeling more than a sound. Likely a GPMG. Screams of pain somehow cut through the din. Another explosion, closer this time. Another section of the ceiling collapses in the corner to reveal the black night sky being sliced and diced by high powered searchlights and the trails of red tracer bullets. No matter how hard you try your lungs just can’t seem to suck in any air. Drowning you clutch at your chest and slump into the ground as your lungs pull tight enough to choke your heart. The gunfire, the explosions and the screams all start to fade. The walls dissolve into black. The last thing you hear is a voice sobbing “please” over and over again. [[“Please”.->SNIPER: Coastal trail CALL ANNIE-a]]

{ <script>A.track('Waves').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Waves', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/eAxTKNL"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/eAxTKNL.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"bold","underline")[''Coastal trail, Broadstairs 2015''] The wind buffets the sharp grasses and occasional, skeletal tree clinging to the cliffs high over the writhing, choppy seas below. The sun having recently dipped over the hills behind you the world is painted in watery greys and blues. The grit and chalk underfoot grinds and crunches underfoot as you hustle uphill, onwards towards the highest peak of the bluffs ahead. From the precipice you can see miles out to see. The huge, blocky steel mass of a cross channel ferry implausibly bobs up and down towards France on the rippling horizon. Below, explosions of silver and white are thrown into the air by the force of the tide slowly eating the monstrous landscape. Each bite part of a centuries long campaign to drag Britain back down into the sea below. You turn to catch a glimpse of the last sliver of red die, the sun's fire on the distant hills and buildings snuffed out by the falling blanket of darkness. The hikers and the dog walkers have long since departed for the warmth of a cooked meal and a seat by the fire. The sign reads “Coastal Erosion: Keep from edge”. Below the text is a small image of a landslide from a small black cliff. You place two hands on the fence and vault yourself over the top bar in one smooth movement. You take a seat on the grass. Each blade tempered and sharped by the wind's whetstone it stabs at the skin of your palms as you lower yourself to its cold damp surface. The wind picks up further into a series of aggressive, whip-like lashes against your cold sensitive skin. T-shirt alternatively thrust against and yanked from your torso, you can’t help yourself from looking down at it and estimating the wind speed at well over thirty KpH. You dig your phone out of your pocket for a moment and stare into the home screen. Its bright light stains your eyes, plunging the world around you into an inky darkness. There’s nothing beyond the cliffs now, over the jagged, spiked lip of grass and chalk lies an all-encompassing darkness. Scrolling through your phone book, you stab your thumb at Annie’s number. There’s a grumble and a little bit of distant coughing at the other end of the line before her voice crackles through your speaker. “Hey… you ok?” You ask if she’s got time to talk. She makes that lilting, musical uh-huh sound. [[“Sure thing love, you’ve got it.”->SNIPER: Coda A]]

{ <script>A.track('Waves').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Waves', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/eAxTKNL"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/eAxTKNL.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"bold","underline")[''Coastal trail, Broadstairs 2015''] The wind buffets the sharp grasses and occasional, skeletal tree clinging to the cliffs high over the writhing, choppy seas below. The sun having recently dipped over the hills behind you the world is painted in watery greys and blues. The grit and chalk underfoot grinds and crunches underfoot as you hustle uphill, onwards towards the highest peak of the bluffs ahead. From the precipice you can see miles out to see. The huge, blocky steel mass of a cross channel ferry implausibly bobs up and down towards France on the rippling horizon. Below, explosions of silver and white are thrown into the air by the force of the tide slowly eating the monstrous landscape. Each bite part of a centuries long campaign to drag Britain back down into the sea below. You turn to catch a glimpse of the last sliver of red die, the sun's fire on the distant hills and buildings snuffed out by the falling blanket of darkness. The hikers and the dog walkers have long since departed for the warmth of a cooked meal and a seat by the fire. The sign reads “Coastal Erosion: Keep from edge”. Below the text is a small image of a landslide from a small black cliff. You place two hands on the fence and vault yourself over the top bar in one smooth movement. You take a seat on the grass. Each blade tempered and sharped by the wind's whetstone it stabs at the skin of your palms as you lower yourself to its cold damp surface. The wind picks up further into a series of aggressive whip-like lashes against your cold sensitive skin. T-shirt alternatively thrust against and yanked from your torso, you can’t help yourself from look down at it and estimating the wind speed at well over thirty KpH. You dig your phone out of your pocket for a moment and stare into the home screen. Its bright light stains your eyes, plunging the world around you into an inky darkness. There’s nothing beyond the cliffs now, over the jagged, spiked lip of grass and chalk lies an all-encompassing darkness. Scrolling through your phone book, you stab your thumb at Barkley’s number. There’s a grumble and a little bit of distant coughing at the other end of the line before his voice crackles through your speaker. “Hey… you ok mate?” You ask if he’s got time to talk. His voice, clearer and immediately more purposeful, leaps up a good half octave. [["Of course mate, whatever you need."->SNIPER: Coda B]]

<a href="https://imgur.com/eAxTKNL"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/eAxTKNL.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"bold","underline")[''Coastal trail, Broadstairs 2015''] The wind buffets the sharp grasses and occasional, skeletal tree clinging to the cliffs high over the writhing, choppy seas below. The sun having recently dipped over the hills behind you the world is painted in watery greys and blues. The grit and chalk underfoot grinds and crunches underfoot as you hustle uphill, onwards towards the highest peak of the bluffs ahead. From the precipice you can see miles out to sea. The huge, blocky steel mass of a cross channel ferry implausibly bobs up and down towards France on the rippling horizon. Below, explosions of silver and white are thrown into the air by the force of the tide slowly eating the monstrous landscape. Each bite part of a centuries long campaign to drag Britain back down into the sea below. You turn to catch a glimpse of the last sliver of red die, the sun's fire on the distant hills and buildings snuffed out by the falling blanket of darkness. The hikers and the dog walkers have long since departed for the warmth of a cooked meal and a seat by the fire. The sign reads “Coastal Erosion: Keep from edge”. Below the text is a small image of a landslide from a small black cliff. You place two hands on the fence and vault yourself over the top bar in one smooth movement. You take a seat on the grass. Each blade tempered and sharped by the wind's whetstone it stabs at the skin of your palms as you lower yourself to its cold damp surface. The wind picks up further into a series of aggressive whip-like lashes against your cold sensitive skin. T-shirt alternatively thrust against and yanked from your torso, you can’t help yourself from looking down at it and estimating the wind speed at well over thirty KpH. You dig your phone out of your pocket for a moment and stare into the home screen. Its bright light stains your eyes, plunging the world around you into an inky darkness. There’s nothing beyond the cliffs now, over the jagged, spiked lip of grass and chalk lies an all-encompassing darkness. The phone glides over the edge as you toss it off the cliff, listening for the distant scuffle and scramble of the device skidding down the cliff face beyond. There's no splash. The phone seems to fall forever. (link: "You rise to your feet.")[(goto-url: 'https://jblair440.wixsite.com/writing')]

You turn the turret one more click and bear down on the peephole once more. The space flashes white, as though the sun peeked through it for a split second. A storm of grey pock-marks and clouds of dust suddenly break out all over the wall. “Patrol’s returning fire. Can’t see any casualties.” You reset your breath and take the trigger’s first pressure. “Light him up Mister.” [[You pull the trigger->SNIPER: Kandahar shot MISS-a]]

The second round tears another brick from the wall, doubling the size of the peephole. Both you and the patrol hold fire as though holding your breath for a second. The bright muzzle flash returns fire through the hole once more. "Fucking hell, one of our boys is down." You hurriedly work the lever, ejecting a case and chambering another round. "They've got him, dragging him to cover. Shit mate they're pretty exposed. You, as fast as you can, pump three more rounds into the house. Brick and mortar cracks and splits, a section of the wall tumbles into the upstairs room the shooter occupied. Your gun is hot to the touch, the metal practically hissing in the sun. A spent casing rolls under your stiff, poised body. Calm descends on the square. Both you and the patrol seemingly holding your breath. Suddenly in a quick flash of bright white, a hand holding a handkerchief haphazardly yanks to and fro through the hole in the wall. “Fucking hell that was close. Another win for the dream team.” You ask how the wounded is looking. "Looks like they got him back to the vehicle, without you he'd not be the only one." [[He playfully thumps you in the arm before patting you on the back.->SNIPER: Shorncliffe-a1]]

You turn the turret 3 clicks and bear down on the peephole once more. The space flashes white, as though the sun peeked through it for a split second. A storm of grey pock-marks and clouds of dust suddenly break out all over the wall. “Patrol’s returning fire. Can’t see any casualties.” You reset your breath and take the trigger’s first pressure. “Light him up Mister.” (link-goto: "You pull the trigger", (either: "SNIPER: NO ANNIE, Kandahar shot HIT-a", "SNIPER: NO ANNIE, Kandahar shot HIT-a1", "SNIPER: NO ANNIE, Kandahar shot HIT-a2", "SNIPER: NO ANNIE, Kandahar shot MISS-a"))

{ (track: 'A Stranger Comes to Town', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('Hangover in Minor').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadein', 6) } <a href="https://imgur.com/9dBNIni"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/9dBNIni.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Ranges, Shorncliffe 2009''] “Cease fire… Cease fire! Pack it in you useless fucking cunts. Weapons safe.” As the last man lying somewhere to your right catches up and speeds through his NSP; applying the safety, applying the bolt lock and performing his checks Sarge marches up behind you and gives your prone legs a not-insubstantial kick. Your SA80, still pointed safely down range at the heavy sand bank and row of battered old targets three hundred metres away, nudges side to side. You can feel the eyeballs of the whole range on you. Every man lying prone in line craning his neck to see you, every man in the huts off to the left of the range standing on tiptoes to see who the Sarge is talking to. “Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that boy?” You stutter the words “top shooter”, with a little shaky upward inflection to indicate that it’s a question. Sarge’s booming laugh somehow echoes off of the clear skies overhead. “Oh, fuck no kid… not even top ten.” He gives you another dig with his boot, this time more playfully. You try to shrug off your disappointment as Daniels to your left suppresses a titter. “But the grouping… fuck, that shit is tight. Couldn’t have made those holes any closer if I’d drawn them in marker.” You clear your throat and thank him in the manliest voice you can muster. You can hear whispers carrying over from up and down the row of shooters either side of you. Sarge crouches down to be better heard, softening his tone to the point of sounding conspiratorial. [[“Remind me to talk to you about the march and shoot team lad...”->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar v-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Let it bleed out->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] “Our boys are making entry now.” You pan down to see the patrol breach the front door, moving fast with weapons hot. Scanning the square as they pile through the door you start counting helmets. Three men missing. Barkley reads something in your body language. He tilts his body, rolling in the dirt to face you. "Hey, dont fucking do that to yourself. One guy caught a bullet and two more dragged him to the vehicle. Hell be... Anyway if you hadnt made that shot there'd be a fuckload more bodies with holes in them down there." You nod, seemingly unconvincingly. "Seriously, you just hit some cunt through the eye of a fucking needle. Every man on his feet down there owes his life to you... and when that poor bastard they dragged away comes round in medical he'll fucking say the same." Alright you tell him, alright. Lets get down there. Barkley fires up the radio with a sharp burst of static and informs the patrol that you’ll be making your way down to confirm and hitch a ride back to camp. He jumps to his feet and launches into a series of stretches, vigorously shaking his limbs out and jumping up and down. You gently drop the rifle to rest on its stock and bipod and roll onto you back. The sun tingles on your face, with your eyes closed it burns a thousand white spots into the darkness like stars in the night. Your face cools and the stars are extinguished by the spotter’s shadow looming over you. You open your eyes to see him offering you a hand to your feet. You thank him but tell him to get the rifle instead. Killers don’t carry you tell him. He nods and lets out a good, humoured snort. “Killers don’t carry… but it is over half a bloody K down there. How about I get the drinks in tonight instead?” You: [[Make him take the rifle->SNIPER: Kent Downs ii-a1]] [[Accept the free drinks->SNIPER: Kent Downs ii-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] “Our boys are making entry now.” You pan down to see the patrol breach the front door, moving fast with weapons hot. Scanning the square as they pile through the door you start counting helmets. Three men missing. Barkley reads something in your body language. He tilts his body, rolling in the dirt to face you. "Hey, dont fucking do that to yourself. One guy caught a bullet and two more dragged him to the vehicle. Hell be... Anyway if you hadnt made that shot there'd be a fuckload more bodies with holes in them down there." You nod, seemingly unconvincingly. "Seriously, you just hit some cunt through the eye of a fucking needle. Every man on his feet down there owes his life to you... and when that poor bastard they dragged away comes round in medical he'll fucking say the same." Alright you tell him, alright. Lets get down there. Barkley fires up the radio with a sharp burst of static and informs the patrol that you’ll be making your way down to confirm and hitch a ride back to camp. He jumps to his feet and launches into a series of stretches, vigorously shaking his limbs out and jumping up and down. You gently drop the rifle to rest on its stock and bipod and roll onto you back. The sun tingles on your face, with your eyes closed it burns a thousand white spots into the darkness like stars in the night. Your face cools and the stars are extinguished by the spotter’s shadow looming over you. You open your eyes to see him offering you a hand to your feet. You thank him but tell him to get the rifle instead. Killers don’t carry you tell him. He nods and lets out a good, humoured snort. “Killers don’t carry… but it is over half a bloody K down there. How about I get the drinks in tonight instead?” You: [[Make him take the rifle->SNIPER: NA, Kent Downs ii-a]] [[Accept the free drinks->SNIPER: NA, Kent Downs ii-b]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… Obviously you've got the rifle there, but I know people sometimes swap it. You: [[Tell him->SNIPER: NA, Kitchen-a]] [[Keep it vague->SNIPER: NA, Kitchen-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] You tell him that you took the shot, but it was Barkley that noticed the peephole and fed you the sight corrections that made the kill. “Fucking knew it, that’s why they call you Mister.” It’s just a name, the first shot wasn’t exactly a winner. The boy shrugs that off and jabs a bony little index finger at you. “Even that was closer than the other fire team ever got.” You feel your lips pull into a smile but tell him you just got lucky. If Barkley hadn’t seen that peephole, it could have gone down a lot differently. “But he did didn’t he… and you nailed that shot.” One of the other squaddies barks in a gruff Scottish accent for the lad to leave you “the fuck alone” and “climb right down” off of your “fucking piece”. “Big bollocks there has been face down in the dirt, shitting in a bag and letting the sun cook him since before you got up and sucked down your cornflakes this morning. Give the man a fucking break.” The lad squirms in his seat a little and nods before leaning in a little closer and lowering his voice. “It’s just impressive is all, cheers for the backup mate.” You give him a little wordless nod and turn your head to see Ahmadullah staring right at you from the far end of the truck. None of the squaddies seem to have noticed, either leaning back against the chassis with their eyes closed or lost in conversation. The van leaps in and out of a pothole, rocking as though gripped and shaken by some giant hand. The boy opposite almost drops his rifle in the rush to clutch his seat and stop himself falling. Bits of kit rattle about and a couple of loose rounds chink and chime their way across the bed of the truck. Major Dickhead’s gaze never breaks. His eyes search your own as though asking some kind of question. You don’t know why, but you shrug at him and flick your eyebrows upwards. He returns to gazing at his feet. You imagine that Barkley is holding court in the other truck; regaling the rest of the section about your exploits, talking up the kills the two of you had made, telling tall tales and laughing about the time you, battling through a savage hungover, got shit on your hands and nearly missed the target because you were busy trying to rub them clean with a handful of dirt. He always ends that story by making sure everyone knows that he took the rifle and made the killer adjustments for you whilst you moaned about your “dirty fucking paws”. You wonder whether you’d prefer that kind of embarrassment over the fawning questions of the private. Next time you’ll ride with Barkley you tell yourself. The radio up front screeches into life and the lads up front gesture and point at something ahead. The truck grinds to a halt. A few of the squaddies start to grumble before the big, red faced Scotsman barks for them all to “shut yer fucking noise” and asks the driver what’s up. “Lead truck’s stopped. Something in the road.” The atmosphere abruptly shifts. Knuckles get pale around weapons and feet drum at the floor. The inside of your mouth tastes bitter, as though the feeling in the air had a taste. Ahmadullah shakes his head and keeps his eyes down. The Scotsman scratches at his face for a moment before gesturing with his hands for everyone to settle down. The private opposite you closes his eyes and mutters something under his breath. The truck suddenly rumbles back into life. “All clear” shouts the driver, the entire vehicle exhales as one. The Mastiff inches forward as his feet search for the clutch’s bite point. You feel yourself melt back into your seat and lean against the searing metal chassis. The radio screeches, a panicked voice bathed in static shouts something. “Fuck!” A sound. More than a sound. The air is a chainsaw revving at full speed, jammed into your ears. You’re lifted up out of your seat, drifting as though carried by a warm tide. Screams, the twisting and tearing of metal and the thump of bodies against each other are all muffled under a high-pitched squeal. It sounds like a whole world of horror has been plunged underwater. The whole mastiff lazily spins around you in slow motion. Something hard, cold, and sharp punches you in the back of the head. [[Black.->SNIPER: NA, bedroom-a]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… your mate in the other truck, he’s got the rifle. Was he the shooter?” You: [[Tell him->SNIPER: NA, Kitchen-a]] [[Keep it vague->SNIPER: NA, Kitchen-b]]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: NA, Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: NA, Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: NA, Kill you-a]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: NA, Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: NA, Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: NA, Kill you-a]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: NA, Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: NA, Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: NA, Kill you-a]]

You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit, you always do this to yourself... That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” Well maybe he was right you tell her. Something changes in her eyes, the bright light behind them seems to fade. The piercing teal of each iris fading to a watery blue. [["Seems there's nothing stopping you."->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere ii-a]]

She snorts, an amused but defiant snort accompanied by a scrunching up of her lovely freckled brow. "Nothing?" You manage to stutter a "well" and raise your shoulders to shrug before she cuts you off. "People care... I care about you. You've got friends, other family. You're a smart guy with loads going on." You wave a hand about you like a demented estate agent showing the empty down at heel restaurant off. Great you tell her. It's either the salad packing plant or this place. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” Well maybe he was right you tell her. Something changes in her eyes, the bright light behind them seems to fade. The piercing teal of each iris fading to a watery blue. [["Seems there's nothing stopping you."->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere ii-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SNIPER: NA, somewhere iii-a]] [[No->SNIPER: NA, somewhere iii-a]] [[Go fuck yourself->SNIPER: NA, somewhere iii-a]]

{(track: 'Monsters Lair', 'fadeout', 5) <script>A.track('Bitcrush Ballard').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Bitcrush Ballard', 'fadein', 5)} <a href="https://imgur.com/yAJY6Uq"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/yAJY6Uq.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] “Jesus fucking Christ. It's like seeing a ghost.” Letting your mouth drop open to speak, you manage to wrangle a lonely, breathy “hi” from somewhere deep within you. With one eyebrow climbing into a high arch that little crease above her nose curls up as though captioning the question mark implied by her silence. You watch your hands limply raise themselves in an effort to speak for you but simply hang there as the words fail to catch up with them. Annie twitches into a lopsided half-smile as she lets her head drop to one side. She raises one open hand and wraps her palm against the series of taps at the bar one by one. “Wow, with chat like this it's like you never left… Let’s start with an easy one then. What can I get you?” You swallow the lump in your throat and ask her for two Guinness. “Two of the black stuff coming right up…” She spins on her heels, sweeps two glasses from the rack and completes her pirouette by placing the first one under the tap in a single deft motion. Tilting the glass she eases the tap back absent-mindedly as the creamy fluid starts to surge up the inside of the glass. She chews her lip for a moment, working her jaw from side to side as though about to say something. After considering it she shakes her head and presses her cheeks into a smile. [["So what brings you here then, meeting someone?"->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere v-a]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: NA, Dont know-a]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: NA, Protect country-a]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: NA, Dont know-a]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: NA, Protect country-a]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SNIPER: NA, Bellevue ii BARKLEY-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] The voice calls out form the opposite end of the bar. An older gent, maybe in his sixties or perhaps only in his forties but wearing the beers badly raises his balding, spotted head from the sticky bar and shouts at least twice as loud as necessary to heard by you. "Hey, hey you're that guy. The sniper... the war hero." You apologise and tell him he's got the wrong guy. He shakes his head and splutters, a fine spray of stale beer errupts from his mouth to coat the sticky wooden bar between you. "Fuck off, I saw it on the news. They gave you a medal for putting a bunch of holes in those fucking rag-heads." You turn your head to face him. You say you'd rather not talk about it. "Let me buy you a drink lad. We should all be grateful..." Reading something in your expression Annie jumps to your defence. "Oh, shut your noise Geoff. You cant even afford that beer in front of you. Leave the nice man alone." Geoff nods and excuses himself. She sharply raises an eyebrow and turns to you, asking without asking. You nod. You tell her you did "some thing" out there and people made a fuss. It was nothing you assure her, just doing your job. “You're not keen on the fuss then.” You exhale slowly and tell her it's not all its cracked up to be. She smiles and shrugs for a moment before letting her sights settle somewhere far beyond the walls of the pub. “Things never really seem to work out the way you plan do they?” That raises a smile out of you as you dig in your pocket for your debit card. She waves your card away with a little hum. “This one’s on me, welcome home.” ... You take a seat in a booth far from the bar and nurse your drinks as the world passes by the window. The world is full of faces you half recognise, places with new fronts new and names. The only thing that hasn't changed is that old familiar feeling in your gut. The feeling that something heavy, something dense, is moving through your insides. It never passes or makes it far, seemingly circling the same six inches of intestines over and over. You wonder, as you drain the first glass of bitter fluid, what happened to the bright, smiling girl about to set off for college all those years ago. A handful of As in her back pocket and the world at her feet. Whatever it was you can sense the change, the distance that has grown between you. [[It's a hell of a lot further than a C-17 flight to Afghan.->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere vi-b]]

“Did I tell you that you look fucking knackered mate?” You tell Barkley he looks great too and take a small sip of the creamy foam capping your drink. Barkley fidgets on his stool and nudges his glass forward a fraction on the rough-hewn wooden table. “Seriously though, you ok? You look like a courtroom sketch of yourself right now.” YOU: [[Sleep is a bit of a struggle->SNIPER: NA, Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[It’s been a rough couple of months->SNIPER: NA, Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[Something’s very wrong->SNIPER: NA, Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: [[Side turret forward two clicks->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT T-b]] [[Side turret forward three clicks->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT T-b]] (link-goto: "Top turret clockwise four clicks", (either: "SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS", "SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-a1", "SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-a2", "SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT T-b"))

He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony hands. As before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. [[The warlord nods, smiling to himself and pats Aarash on the shoulder.->SNIPER: NA, Liberation-a]]

He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... United sprints back with the target clutched between his skinny hands. As before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the boy. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash cautiously ambles over to him in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boys head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SNIPER: NA, Liberation-b]]

{ <script>A.track('Waves').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Waves', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/eAxTKNL"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/eAxTKNL.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"bold","underline")[''Coastal trail, Broadstairs 2015''] The wind buffets the sharp grasses and occasional, skeletal tree clinging to the cliffs high over the writhing, choppy seas below. The sun having recently dipped over the hills behind you the world is painted in watery greys and blues. The grit and chalk underfoot grinds and crunches underfoot as you hustle uphill, onwards towards the highest peak of the bluffs ahead. From the precipice you can see miles out to see. The huge, blocky steel mass of a cross channel ferry implausibly bobs up and down towards France on the rippling horizon. Below, explosions of silver and white are thrown into the air by the force of the tide slowly eating the monstrous landscape. Each bite part of a centuries long campaign to drag Britain back down into the sea below. You turn to catch a glimpse of the last sliver of red die, the sun's fire on the distant hills and buildings snuffed out by the falling blanket of darkness. The hikers and the dog walkers have long since departed for the warmth of a cooked meal and a seat by the fire. The sign reads “Coastal Erosion: Keep from edge”. Below the text is a small image of a landslide from a small black cliff. You place two hands on the fence and vault yourself over the top bar in one smooth movement. You take a seat on the grass. Each blade tempered and sharped by the wind's whetstone it stabs at the skin of your palms as you lower yourself to its cold damp surface. The wind picks up further into a series of aggressive whip-like lashes against your cold sensitive skin. T-shirt alternatively thrust against and yanked from your torso, you can’t help yourself from look down at it and estimating the wind speed at well over thirty KpH. You dig your phone out of your pocket for a moment and stare into the home screen. Its bright light stains your eyes, plunging the world around you into an inky darkness. There’s nothing beyond the cliffs now, over the jagged, spiked lip of grass and chalk lies an all-encompassing darkness. Scrolling through your phone book, you stab your thumb at Barkley’s number. There’s a grumble and a little bit of distant coughing at the other end of the line before his voice crackles through your speaker. “Hey… you ok mate?” You ask if he’s got time to talk. His voice, clearer and immediately more purposeful, leaps up a good half octave. (link: "“Of course mate, whatever you need.”")[(goto-url: 'https://jblair440.wixsite.com/writing')]

The second round tears another brick from the wall, doubling the size of the peephole. Both you and the patrol hold fire as though holding your breath for a second. A flash of flesh and white, a hand holding a bright handkerchief, haphazardly yanks to and fro through the gap. “Nothing but net. Another win for the dream team.” He playfully thumps you in the arm before patting you on the back.[[He playfully thumps you in the arm before patting you on the back.->SNIPER: Shorncliffe-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]] [[Let it bleed out->SNIPER: Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] The section leader laughs and shakes his head. “We bloody got him. Mission accomplished lads.” Lieutenant Dickhead? “No, no, no… Try Major… We've bagged Ahmadullah himself.” Besides you, Barkley lets out a low whistle. No shit. “No fucking shit mate. After you took out the sniper and they waved the white flag upstairs we breached. Two targets in the living room hadn’t got the message but the big man upstairs was good as gold. Got him in the back of the carrier now.” You tell them it was a job well done. “More than that mate. The hats back at HQ have been after this prick for months. We’ll all be flying home with some fresh tin pinned to our chests.” You ask about the lad that caught one and went down in the firefight. The Corporal nods and blows out his cheeks. We got fucking lucky there too. Bullet caught him in the helmet, knocked him clean out. Barring a concussion he'll be slurping ice cream and downing beers in the mess in no time. Barkley gives you a hearty slap on the back and gives out a deep approving grunt sound. You whisper a silent thanks to the skies before turning the conversation back to Dickhead. You ask what he'd been doing here instead of the lieutennant. The corporal leans in as though divulging a secret. “Scheming mate. Fucking scheming… he had maps of patrols, Semtex and enough phones and wires to open a fucking Carphone Warehouse.” Barkley breaks into a hoarse cough instead of laughing. The Corporal gives him a sympathetic nod. “I know… fucking dust, awful for the lungs.” He returns the nod in thanks to the section chief. “Yea, this desert can go fuck itself.” The Corporal smiles and casually rests his hands on his high slung weapon before shaking his head and looking about the place. “You know, when they first told me I was shipping out here I thought it would be sandy, like the beach.” Barkley explodes into laughter at that, nodding and raising an eyebrow at you before sharing some "wisdom" with the section head: “Did you know… most deserts are actually bedrock. They call it Hamada. Sand deserts are actually pretty rare.” You tell Barkley he’s a prick. [[The two of you laugh all the way over to your ride home.->SNIPER: En-route i-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] You try to wave the baby-faced private's question away, tell him that it was a team job. Sniper needs a spotter, spotter needs a sniper. "Someone's gotta pull the trigger though right?" You tell him someone has to do the maths, read the conditions. The boy shrugs that off and jabs a bony little index finger at you. “Still, that shot though the peephole... fucking hell." You feel your lips pull into a smile but tell him you all got lucky today. If nobody spotted that little hole it would have gone down a lot differently. “Which ever one of you it was, you fucking nailed it." One of the other squaddies barks in a gruff Scottish accent for the lad to leave you “the fuck alone” and “climb right down” off of your “fucking piece”. “Big bollocks there has been face down in the dirt, shitting in a bag and letting the sun cook him since before you got up and sucked down your cornflakes this morning. Give the man a fucking break.” The lad squirms in his seat a little and nods before leaning in a little closer and lowering his voice. “It’s just impressive is all, cheers for the backup mate.” You give him a little wordless nod and turn your head to see Ahmadullah staring right at you from the far end of the truck. None of the squaddies seem to have noticed, either leaning back against the chassis with their eyes closed or lost in conversation. The truck leaps in and out of a pothole, rocking as though gripped and shaken by some giant hand. The boy opposite almost drops his rifle in the rush to clutch his seat and stop himself falling. Bits of kit rattle about and a couple of loose rounds chink and chime their way across the bed of the truck. Major Dickhead’s gaze never breaks. His eyes search your own as though asking some kind of question. You don’t know why, but you shrug at him and flick your eyebrows upwards. He returns to gazing at his feet. You imagine that Barkley is holding court in the other truck; regaling the rest of the section about your exploits, talking up the kills the two of you have made, telling tall tales and laughing about the time you, battling through a savage hungover, got shit on your hands and nearly missed the target because you were busy trying to rub them clean with a handful of dirt. He always ends that story by making sure everyone knows that he took the rifle and made the killer adjustments for you whilst you moaned about your “dirty fucking paws”. You wonder whether you’d prefer that kind of embarrassment over the fawning questions of the private. Next time you’ll ride with Barkley you tell yourself. The radio up front screeches into life and the lads up front gesture and point at something ahead. The truck grinds to a halt. A few of the squaddies start to grumble before the big, red faced Scotsman barks for them all to “shut yer fucking noise” and asks the driver what’s up. “Lead truck’s stopped. Something in the road.” The atmosphere abruptly shifts. Knuckles get pale around weapons and feet drum at the floor. The inside of your mouth tastes bitter, as though the feeling in the air had a taste. Ahmadullah shakes his head and keeps his eyes down. The Scotsman scratches at his face for a moment before gesturing with his hands for everyone to settle down. The young private opposite you closes his eyes and mutters something under his breath. The truck suddenly rumbles back into life. “All clear” shouts the driver, the entire vehicle exhales as one. The Mastiff inches forward as his feet search for the clutch’s bite point. You feel yourself melt back into your seat and lean against the searing metal chassis. The radio screeches, a panicked voice bathed in static shouts something. “Fuck!” A sound. More than a sound. The air is a chainsaw revving at full speed, jammed into your ears. You’re lifted up out of your seat, drifting as though carried by a warm tide. Screams, the twisting and tearing of metal and the thump of bodies against each other are all muffled under a high-pitched squeal. It sounds like a whole world of horror has been plunged underwater. The whole mastiff lazily spins around you in slow motion. Something hard, cold, and sharp punches you in the back of the head. [[Black.->SNIPER: Bedroom-b]]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: Doing job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: Kill you-b]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: Doing job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: Kill you-b]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: Doing job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: Kill you-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper... We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SNIPER: McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SNIPER: McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He laughs and repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. Was not so brave as you. I should have known he couldn't have been the Mister we were looking for.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “All it took was a little... persuasion... He had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SNIPER: McDonald's i-b]]

You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” He's not saying much to anyone these days. She reaches over to take your hand. Her vital, warm fingers only point out to you how cold yours have become. [[“Nobody's telling you what to do anymore.”->SNIPER: Somewhere ii-b]]

{(track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadeout', 5) } You tell him it’s about fifteen Kph. “Ooh... ten. Close but no cigar my man. Mister might just be losing his touch." You feel your teeth come together hard and order your neck to not allow your head to drop or shake. Barkley reads something in your response that you'd desperately tried to hide. "Alright, how about we go double or nothing on the range? What are you thinking” You draw the scope down onto the flaking paint and exposed woodgrain of the door that opens onto to the same rooftop. The door looks fairly standard, so about 1.8m tall and appears about 3.5 MILS in your scope. You figure it’s a little over 500m away. To your left Barkley lifts and plays with the laser for a moment. “Five fifteen. You are fucking on it today mate… Well within super-sonic range in this weather.” They’ll never hear us coming you tell him before adjusting your sights: You set the range at 500 and turn the side turret two clicks, shifting the sight just over 3 inches to account for the wind. “Where’s your money?” Each house in the terrace looks the same, a beige wind-strewn brick box with bits of rebar jutting out of every corner like angular tufts of steel hair. The occasional flash of long since worn paint, red here or white there, is all that differentiates them. The old man leans against his broom now outside the second one, nodding on as the kids move their game onto penalties and take turns shooting against a bare wall to the left of the dusty square. Whilst you both heavily suspect Lieutenant Dickhead and his crew to be holed up in the third house from the left, the one the woman hauling a thousand bags of shopping disappeared into, you can’t rule anything out. Your sight lingers on the dark recess beyond an open window for a moment. A car, an old boxy Ford escort with a cracked passenger window and more dents than doors, rolls on by but doesn’t stop. God knows you tell him. The shooter’s a sneaky fucker. He’s managed to slip by three patrols as well as the other fire team. “That was the B team. This fucker is ours mate.” The squaddies pounding pavements out there would be beyond relieved if you did get a result. Whilst scouring this little clutch of concrete boxes for the Lieutenant, three men had caught bullets moving through the town square. One lad was never making it home. Arseholes were twitching, people were getting spooked. Hiding behind the families and children scattered through these blocks, Dickhead was smart enough to know there was no drone strike coming but not smart enough to figure that his guardian angel’s rifle would eventually draw someone sharp enough to sniff him out. Someone like you. “Hey, eyes off mate. Need a quick piss before kick-off.” You nod and keep your eyes glued to the buildings as he tilts his body up to one side and the sound of urine tickling the bedrock rings out to your left. He lets out an exasperated sigh. The corner of your mouth twitches sharply upwards. You don’t need him to tell you that a good portion of his stream trickled back along the ground into him, eagerly soaked up by his dry, dusty fatigues. You let him huff and puff about it for a moment without comment before his head bobs sharply up and down on the edge of your vision. [[“Game time brother.”->SNIPER: Margate seafront i]]

{(track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadeout', 5) } You tell him it’s about six Kph. “Ooh... it was ten. Close but no cigar my man. Mister might just be losing his touch." You feel your teeth come together hard and order your neck to not allow your head to drop or shake. Barkley reads something in your response that you'd desperately tried to hide. "Alright, how about we go double or nothing on the range? What are you thinking” You draw the scope down onto the flaking paint and exposed woodgrain of the door that opens onto to the same rooftop. The door looks fairly standard, so about 1.8m tall and appears about 3.5 MILS in your scope. You figure it’s a little over 500m away. To your left Barkley lifts and plays with the laser for a moment. “Five fifteen. You are fucking on it today mate… Well within super-sonic range in this weather.” They’ll never hear us coming you tell him before adjusting your sights: You set the range at 500 and turn the side turret two clicks, shifting the sight just over 3 inches to account for the wind. “Where’s your money?” Each house in the terrace looks the same, a beige wind-strewn brick box with bits of rebar jutting out of every corner like angular tufts of steel hair. The occasional flash of long since worn paint, red here or white there, is all that differentiates them. The old man leans against his broom now outside the second one, nodding on as the kids move their game onto penalties and take turns shooting against a bare wall to the left of the dusty square. Whilst you both heavily suspect Lieutenant Dickhead and his crew to be holed up in the third house from the left, the one the woman hauling a thousand bags of shopping disappeared into, you can’t rule anything out. Your sight lingers on the dark recess beyond an open window for a moment. A car, an old boxy Ford escort with a cracked passenger window and more dents than doors, rolls on by but doesn’t stop. God knows you tell him. The shooter’s a sneaky fucker. He’s managed to slip by three patrols as well as the other fire team. “That was the B team. This fucker is ours mate.” The squaddies pounding pavements out there would be beyond relieved if you did get a result. Whilst scouring this little clutch of concrete boxes for the Lieutenant, three men had caught bullets moving through the town square. One lad was never making it home. Arseholes were twitching, people were getting spooked. Hiding behind the families and children scattered through these blocks, Dickhead was smart enough to know there was no drone strike coming but not smart enough to figure that his guardian angel’s rifle would eventually draw someone sharp enough to sniff him out. Someone like you. “Hey, eyes off mate. Need a quick piss before kick-off.” You nod and keep your eyes glued to the buildings as he tilts his body up to one side and the sound of urine tickling the bedrock rings out to your left. He lets out an exasperated sigh. The corner of your mouth twitches sharply upwards. You don’t need him to tell you that a good portion of his stream trickled back along the ground into him, eagerly soaked up by his dry, dusty fatigues. You let him huff and puff about it for a moment without comment before his head bobs sharply up and down on the edge of your vision. [[“Game time brother.”->SNIPER: Margate seafront i]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SNIPER: somewhere iii-b]] [[No->SNIPER: somewhere iii-b]] [[Go fuck yourself->SNIPER: somewhere iii-b]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: Don't know-b]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: Protect country-b]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: Don't know-b]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: Protect country-b]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SNIPER: Bellevue ii ALONE-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. With Ahmadullah watching you figure you dont have time for Aarash to get his eye in, your brain races to conjure an immediate scope adjustment. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: [[Top turret clockwise two clicks->SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT T-b]] [[Top turret clockwise three clicks->SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT T-b]] (link-goto: "Top turret clockwise four clicks", (either: "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-b", "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-b1", "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-b2", "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT FAILURE-b"))

He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony claws. As united had the day before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boy's head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SNIPER: Liberation-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar vi BD-b]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar vi BD-b]] [[Let it bleed out->SNIPER: NA Outside Kandahar vi BD-b]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: NA Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: NA, Doing Job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: NA, Kill You-b]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: NA Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: NA, Doing Job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: NA, Kill You-b]]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SNIPER: NA Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SNIPER: NA, Doing Job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SNIPER: NA, Kill You-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper... We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SNIPER: NA, McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SNIPER: NA, McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He laughs and repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. Was not so brave as you. I should have known he couldn't have been the Mister we were looking for.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “All it took was a little... persuasion... He had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SNIPER: NA, McDonald's i-b]]

You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” He's not saying much to anyone these days. She reaches over to take your hand. Her vital, warm fingers only point out to you how cold yours have become. [[“Nobody's telling you what to do anymore.”->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere ii-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SNIPER: NA, somewhere iii-b]] [[No->SNIPER: NA, somewhere iii-b]] [[Go fuck yourself->SNIPER: NA, somewhere iii-b]]

{(track: 'Monsters Lair', 'fadeout', 5) <script>A.track('Bitcrush Ballard').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Bitcrush Ballard', 'fadein', 5)} <a href="https://imgur.com/yAJY6Uq"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/yAJY6Uq.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] “Jesus fucking Christ. It's like seeing a ghost.” Letting your mouth drop open to speak, you manage to wrangle a lonely, breathy “hi” from somewhere deep within you. With one eyebrow climbing into a high arch that little crease above her nose curls up as though captioning the question mark implied by her silence. You watch your hands limply raise themselves in an effort to speak for you but simply hang there as the words fail to catch up with them. Annie twitches into a lopsided half-smile as she lets her head drop to one side. She raises one open hand and wraps her palm against the series of taps at the bar one by one. “Wow, with chat like this it's like you never left… Let’s start with an easy one then. What can I get you?” You swallow the lump in your throat and ask her for two Guinness. “Two of the black stuff coming right up…” She spins on her heels, sweeps two glasses from the rack and completes her pirouette by placing the first one under the tap in a single deft motion. Tilting the glass she eases the tap back absent-mindedly as the creamy fluid starts to surge up the inside of the glass. She chews her lip for a moment, working her jaw from side to side as though about to say something. After considering it she shakes her head and presses her cheeks into a smile. [["So what brings you here then, meeting someone?"->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere v-b]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you, or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too, but over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: NA, Dont know-b]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: NA, Protect country-b]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SNIPER: NA, Dont know-b]] [[Protect my country->SNIPER: NA, Protect country-b]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SNIPER: NA, Bellevue ii ALONE-a]]

He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony hands. As before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. [[The warlord nods, smiling to himself and pats Aarash on the shoulder.->SNIPER: NA, Liberation-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. With Ahmadullah watching you figure you dont have time for Aarash to get his eye in, your brain races to conjure an immediate scope adjustment. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: [[Top turret clockwise two clicks->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT T]] [[Top turret clockwise three clicks->SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT T]] (link-goto: "Top turret clockwise four clicks", (either: "SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-b", "SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-b2", "SNIPER: NA, Somewhere SHOOT SUCCESS-b3", "SNIPER: Somewhere SHOOT FAILURE"))

He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony claws. As united had the day before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boy's head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SNIPER: NA, Liberation-d]]

{ <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> } <a href="https://imgur.com/FSlu8LU"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/FSlu8LU.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] “It’s the fucking dust.” His comment plants the tiny seed of a laugh, a snigger, that you immediately stamp out in an effort to keep your scope level with the bank of dishevelled houses on the far side of the square. After slowly scanning each window through the fizzing haze of the midday sun, you allow yourself a smile before moving onto the next building. At ground level a gaggle of barefoot children chase after a football under the supervision of a leathery old man pointlessly pushing a broom about his doorstep as the wind swirls said dust about him. Barkley doesn’t need to tear himself away from his own scope to read your reaction. “What? It fucking gets everywhere. In your toes, your mouth… Guarantee when we get back on base, regardless of how many layers we’re wearing, I’ll be showering it out of my crack tonight.” You ask what he’d expected when you were shipped out. You feel him shrug, the prone body in the dirt beside you disturbing the stifling air clinging to your arms and back. He draws in a sharp mouthful of air before replying. “Honestly, sand.” Sand? “Well, it is the fucking desert.” That little seed in your gut twists and germinates into a titter, a tiny snort of amused air that rushes up your windpipe and sneaks out of your nostrils. The milidots of your scope do a little jig over the open rooftop you were viewing as your rifle jostles up and down momentarily. You can feel his expression of mock-outrage. “Seriously, when they said we were flying out here I thought it’d be all dunes and camels.” Most deserts are hamada; bedrock and stone you tell him. Sandy deserts are a lot less common. The material of his fatigues rustles as he shakes his head. “I’m stuck here with desert-fucking-rat Lawrence of God-damned Arabia.” You force a frown in order to smother the smile pulling at the muscles of your face and inform him that Saudi Arabia is two thousand miles and a good stretch of water to his left. He clears his throat and swallows deeply. In the corner of your eye you see his shoulders shudder momentarily. “You know once we’ve killed this prick, I’m digging two graves.” You ask how he intends to do that in bedrock with just his hands. “I’m going to break off your fucking jaw and use it as a shovel.” The titter mutates into a full-bodied spasm that races up your spine. The house in your sights jumps up and down on the spot and your efforts to stifle it result in a dry, scratchy cough punching its way through your throat. “That was a laugh.” In the best monotone you can muster you deny it. He chuckles to himself and shakes his head once more. “Thank god you’re a better shot than you are a loser.” With a smile and a shake of the head, you politely inform him that he can go fuck himself. A woman appears to the left of the square, carrying two armfuls of blue plastic bags. One of the boys throws a little wave to her on his way past but she keeps her head down and ploughs on by towards a seemingly empty house. The old man doesn’t even look at her, looks away even. “You see all those bags?” You saw the bags. And the way the man blanked her. You ask Barkley what he thought about the way she moved. “It was all wrong man... That house has got to be the one.” You study the building intently, every brick and line from the broken green plastic chairs scattered about the flat tiled roof to the wiring running down the cracked, crumbling front wall from what you assume to be the upstairs bedrooms. The shooter won’t risk revealing himself until the very last moment. It’s a game of spot the difference, absorbing the scene now so that the tiny change, when it comes, sticks out like a sore thumb. Beside you Barkley tilts the arm holding his scope to reveal his watch and mutters something to himself. You guess that game time is approaching. “Damn right, convoy should be approaching in about fifteen…”[[“Damn right, convoy should be approaching in about fifteen…”->CIV: Isle Of Dogs]]

{(track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadeout', 8) } (text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] You keep the dusty, sunblasted terrace in sight and scan from window to window as he reaches into the kitbag on his left. The corner of your eye picks out the flash of the olive drab mobile shaped body of the weather meter. “Eyes back on… You ready to play?” You grunt in the affirmative. “Ok, let’s see how fucking sharp you are today. Wind?” You gently tilt the barrel upwards until your scope picks out a tattered bit of old rope strung up between two pieces of guttering as a washing line on the roof of the target house. Among the off-grey shirts and a dishdasha pegged at irregular intervals is a pillowcase poorly secured to the line from just one corner. The breeze is steady enough to lift the other end but only just. Its bottom end lurches back and forth as though trying to gently shake the rest of it into life. The top half above it hangs straight down, as gravity intended. You tell him it’s about 10Kph. “Damn, Mister’s still got it, 11.1 Kph… Loving your work. Range?” You draw the scope down onto the flaking paint and exposed woodgrain of the door that opens onto to the same rooftop. The door looks fairly standard, so about 1.8m tall and appears about 3.5 MILS in your scope. You figure it’s a little over 500m away. To your left Barkley lifts and plays with the laser for a moment. “Five fifteen. You are fucking on it today mate… Well within super-sonic range in this weather.” They’ll never hear us coming you tell him before adjusting your sights: You set the range at 500 and turn the side turret two clicks, shifting the sight just over 3 inches to account for the wind. “Where’s your money?” Each house in the terrace looks the same, a beige wind-strewn brick box with bits of rebar jutting out of every corner like angular tufts of steel hair. The occasional flash of long since worn paint, red here or white there, is all that differentiates them. The old man leans against his broom now outside the second one, nodding on as the kids move their game onto penalties and take turns shooting against a bare wall to the left of the dusty square. Whilst you both heavily suspect Lieutenant Dickhead and his crew to be holed up in the third house from the left, the one the woman hauling a thousand bags of shopping disappeared into, you can’t rule anything out. Your sight lingers on the dark recess beyond an open window for a moment. A car, an old boxy Ford escort with a cracked passenger window and more dents than doors, rolls on by but doesn’t stop. God knows you tell him. The shooter’s a sneaky fucker. He’s managed to slip by three patrols as well as the other fire team. “That was the B team. This fucker is ours mate.” The squaddies pounding pavements out there would be beyond relieved if you did get a result. Whilst scouring this little clutch of concrete boxes for the Lieutenant, three men had caught bullets moving through the town square. One lad was never making it home. Arseholes were twitching, people were getting spooked. Hiding behind the families and children scattered through these blocks, Dickhead was smart enough to know there was no drone strike coming but not smart enough to figure that his guardian angel’s rifle would eventually draw someone sharp enough to sniff him out. Someone like you. “Hey, eyes off mate. Need a quick piss before kick-off.” You nod and keep your eyes glued to the buildings as he tilts his body up to one side and the sound of urine tickling the bedrock rings out to your left. He lets out an exasperated sigh. The corner of your mouth twitches sharply upwards. You don’t need him to tell you that a good portion of his stream trickled back along the ground into him, eagerly soaked up by his dry, dusty fatigues. You let him huff and puff about it for a moment without comment before his head bobs sharply up and down on the edge of your vision. [[“Game time brother.”->CIV: Margate Seafront]]

{ <script>A.track('A Womans Wisdom').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'A Womans Wisdom', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/LS5KSkx"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/LS5KSkx.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Fairground, Margate Seafront 2006''] “What do you say killer? Three shots for a fiver; one target gets you one of the small prizes, three targets gets you this here elephant for the lovely lady…” The carnie, a leather skinned hulk in a torn work shirt with a “Lesley” name tag sewn into the breast lofts a hirsute arm to twirl one of the giant stuffed elephant toys dangling from the ceiling of his stall. Strung along the steel rafters and beams keeping the place upright hang an array of far smaller plush toys that faintly, but not accurately enough to trouble a copyright lawyer, resemble a host of famous cartoon characters; ducks, dogs and little birds. Wild eyed, almost foaming at the mouth children smothered in quilted jackets and woollen layers drag shrugging and sighing parents about in all directions. Feet variously slap at and thud against the bare earth precariously held together by scraggly patches of grass underfoot. Screams and yelps from the waltzers somehow pierce through the blanket of trebly sound pumped out by the battery of speakers perched on every junction, corner and stall of the shambolic travelling fair. “Come on lad, three for a fiver… win something for the Mrs?” You open your mouth to explain that Annie isn’t your girlfriend before she sharply elbows you in the ribs. The little patch of her freckled face visible between her bunched up fluffy scarf and bobbled woolly hat breaks into a toothy, beaming smile. Bouncing up and down and clasping her mittened hands together she gives you a nod and wink, letting out a musical little hum. “Let’s see what you’ve got, killer.” You hand over the money to a series of smug looking nods from “Lesley”. The two-two pellet gun feels light, much lighter than your Dad’s old rifle. Flimsy and hollow-stocked, the idea that it could do anyone harm feels almost laughable. Looking it over, its form is pretty standard except the rail and bracket for the scope has been removed. In lieu of a decent viewfinder is a set of match sights, two little black posts, at the rear of the rifle. The third notch that would normally sit between them at the front of the weapon is conspicuously absent. “Right, here’s your pellets… you just pull the barrel d-” You break the barrel and feed the first pellet into the breach before snapping it shut. “Ok Lee Harvey Oswald, three targets for the big prize.” He pulls a lever and a series of small metallic targets pop up at the back of the stall in front of the sandbags piled up to prevent rogue pellets escaping the temporary hut and taking out some poor kid’s eye. Each shaped like a tiny cowboy, the targets appear about two to three inches tall from your perspective. You kneel on the cold hard mud and plant your leading elbow into the little counter to form a stable tripod, raising the gun into a firing position and bearing down on the first little cowboy. Imagining a front post, you somehow paint the front sight into existence with your mind and line the target up between the two rear posts. You breathe out fully, letting the barrel drift up and down. The grating sounds of blasting music and screaming children fades to a low hum. You breathe in. The target sinks below the notches. Darkness starts to creep in from the edges of your vision. You slowly, carefully let half the air out of your lungs until the target lines up with your sights. [[All that exists is that little cowboy.->CIV: Outside Kandahar iii]]

(text-style:"underline")[''Fairground, Margate Seafront 2006''] “Jesus fucking Christ Chris Kyle, am I being hustled here?” The carnie shakes his head and blows out his cheeks as the final target falls. Beside you Annie mockingly claps and lets out a cheery “yay” as she bounces up and down on the spot. “One grand prize coming right up for your lovely lady…” He reaches up towards the prizes, his fingers giving one of the soft grey toys a little twirl on its string. “…unless we have ourselves a gambling man here.” You don’t ask what he means out loud, but your expression seems enough to gee him on. “See, I have one last target, a special one for hustlers like you boy… I’ll give you the chance to go double or nothing, put it all on the line. One shot…” He hits another lever and an even smaller steel cowboy, a tiny rider on a shiny miniscule horse, pops up right at the back. Right at the back, so far as to be almost learning against the sandbags. From where you’re standing it looks barely an inch tall. Lesley smiles and theatrically digs a note out of his pocket. “Now you could take your elephant right now or… hit one more target for me and I’ll give you twenty pound. Twenty pounds out of my own pocket right now. You miss, you walk away with nothing.” You turn and look at Annie; rubbing her hands together and nuzzling her flushed freckled cheeks down into her warm, chunky scarf. She stamps her feet again and breathes down into her layers before curling the corners of her mouth up into a smile. The little space between her eyebrows curls into that wonderful little knot. “You’ve got this. It’s all you…” [[You tell him you'll take the elephant.->CIV: Outside Kandahar iv]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] The gun roars murder into your ears. The heat of the barrel, even in the searing desert sun, beats across your face. The house leaps up and down in your scope, your body rocks back and forth in the dirt before the house settles again in your sights. The spent shell thumps into the ground beside you. Smoothly you slide the bolt back and forth to chamber the next round. “Ooh, pretty near the mark. About four inches high mate.” You turn the turret 3 clicks and bear down on the peephole once more. The space flashes white, as though the sun peeked through it for a split second. A storm of grey pock-marks and clouds of dust suddenly break out all over the wall. “Patrol’s returning fire. Can’t see any casualties.” You reset your breath and take the trigger’s first pressure. “Light him up Mister.” The second round tears another brick from the wall, doubling the size of the peephole. Both you and the patrol hold fire as though holding your breath for a second. A flash of flesh and white, a hand holding a bright handkerchief, haphazardly yanks to and fro through the gap. “Nothing but net. Another win for the dream team.” [[He playfully thumps you in the arm before patting you on the back->CIV: Shorncliffe]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. [[“Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.”->CIV: Outside Kandahar vi]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] You gently nudge his hand out of the way and clamber to your feet. It’s his bloody rule you tell him, and if he’d been firing there’s not a chance in hell he’d be lugging that rifle. He laughs and puts on an exaggerated hangdog expression whilst trudging over to the long, heavy A3. After a few shakes and stretches you loft his much shorter and lighter shooter with a relaxed mock sigh and start moseying down the hill towards the village. The sound of Barkley hefting the 10Kg weapon over his shoulder somewhere behind you slaps a broad smile over your face. “Wanker.” The Corporal leading the section practically sprints over the square to greet you with a hearty hand shake and a stream of “thank you”s so effusive you can feel your sunburnt cheeks somehow redden even further. Behind him the delighted patrol high-five each other and cheer as a prisoner is loaded into one of the two mastiffs they’d rode in on, the overfed beige off roader having been driven right up to the house once the area was cleared. Barkley finally catches up to you and gestures at the celebrating solders around the truck. [[“That party for us?”->CIV: Housing Unit Kandahar]]

<a href="https://imgur.com/YXlIGAt"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/YXlIGAt.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Housing unit, Kandahar 2011''] “Surprise! Happy fucking birthday mate.” You nearly jump right out of your boots as you come round the corner and Barkley lets off a party popper into your face. The little paper streamers and the feeling of hot air blast you in the face as you try to supress the violent shout of “Christ” surging up from your guts. He cackles and has to steady himself against the frame of your bed in order to prevent the “hilarity” of the situation knocking him flat out. “Fucking hell mate. Cool as a cucumber in the field but jittery as a nonce in a playground the moment you put that rifle down…” On the bed beside him is a stack of pirated DVDs, chocolate, Doritos and a case of beer. You ask what the hell this all is. He smiles and spreads his arms wide like Christ the Redeemer, like he’s revealing some glorious wonder of the world. For a moment he is, like the repurposed shipping container with fucked, unreliable wiring and a single, rattling plastic window could suddenly be somewhere else. “You think I didn’t know it was your birthday genius, think I couldn’t look that shit up?” Or ask someone else to look it up. He laughs and shakes his head. “Or ask someone else to look it up… Hey, I knew it was your big day and, well, you’re not calling home or nothing, so I called in some favours. You and I mate are no longer on watch tonight. We are sitting there, draining this whole damn crate and hate-watching some shit movies tonight.” You try to ask who is covering your watch. “Who fucking cares? They're doing it, that’s all that matters, and you are going to have some fucking fun if it fucking kills you mate.” He tears a can off the corner of the case of beer and tosses it your way.[[He tears a can off the corner of the case of beer and tosses it your way.->CIV: Outside Kandahar vii]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… Obviously you've got the rifle there, but I know people sometimes swap it.” [[You blow out your cheeks and give him an exaggerated shrug.->CIV: Kitchen]]

{ (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadeout', 6) <script>A.track('Monsters Lair').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Monsters Lair', 'fadein', 8) } <a href="https://imgur.com/xA73ee4"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/xA73ee4.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The sharp, staccato growl of “Ub-bah” snaps you to attention. You flop over onto your belly and slither across slimy, cracked tiles towards the small hatch. The little iron letter box at what would be shin height to a standing person drops open with a clang and a hand clumsily plants a small wooden beaker of water on the shelf like flap. You snatch at the cup and fight with yourself to take small sips, the dry patch of rancid, fly-strewn vomit in the corner a warning not to let your thirst carry you away. Gritty, stale water swirls around your aching, stinging cheeks. You nearly gag as your throat stalls with the effort of swallowing. Barely halfway through the beaker the voice barks and a heavy baton starts banging on the metal door. Necking the rest of the fluid you place the little cup back on the shelf before it's snatched away and the hatch locked once more. You return to your habitual slumping spot opposite the door, as far as possible from the now baked-in smear of sick and the plastic catering tub that serves as the toilet in there. The first time you shit in the bucket you retched and gagged. Now you haven’t had to use it in days. You drift in and out of a fitful state of near-sleep. Every aching sinew and bone desperately weeps for some rest, but dropping to sleep seems to require some kind of physical effort or reserve that you just don’t have in you anymore. Over and over it happens, your world shrinks down like your brain is slowly switching aspect ratios from widescreen to a little letterbox. Just as your thoughts get fuzzy and distant your brain stalls and you’re back in the pit, face down on the sweating tiles and steeped in the pungent stench of shit. That pattern is only interrupted at intervals by the little cups of water. For maybe the first week or so there were beatings too, or the piercing screams and percussive subwoofer thumps of other people getting beaten. Twice there were gunshots. They seemed to stop beating you at the point you just became a mute sack of bones. By that stage you had passed out the moment they hit you, coming round as ever, face down in the drying blood and filth on the floor of your cell. If you knew anything, you’d have told them. If they wanted something, you’d have done it. But they never asked. That black iron door only budges for water, bread or a beating. They even stopped coming to check the bucket the moment they realised you’d stopped shitting. You close your eyes and try to shut the world out once more. Thunderous banging on the metal door lurches your eyelids open. Keys grind the lock and the mechanism clunks and turns over. You roll into the foetal position in preparation for the oncoming kicking. The feeling of hands ripping you onto your feet is even more terrifying than the thud of batons. Your heart races, your lungs spasm and stutter in their efforts to suck in enough air to fuel your burning muscles. Manacles are clamped around your feet and a pistol, unmistakably a British Browning, is forcefully pressed against the side of your face. Rough hands and a couple of heavy slaps to the back of the head keep you upright as you are shuffled out into the blinding, burning sun. Your vision burns like old film stock exposed to sunlight. The world is bleached into an unintelligible mess of ghostly shapes. The rags are torn from your back and a hose, so cold as to burn like a blowtorch, blasts you off your feet and into a trembling, sobbing mess on the floor. The man with the stolen British weapon stands over you. He’s wiry, strong in that kind of rock climber way where every little muscle and the lines of his bones can be seen moving and working beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his sweaty fatigues. A black, well-shaped beret covers his clean-shaven head, odd given that the Taliban fighters didn’t typically wear such uniform, and a wild, greying beard dominates his face beneath two small black eyes. He tosses a black dishdasha on the ground and grunts a command you don’t need translated before dragging you across a bare patch of earth towards a small house. It’s the first time you’ve been taken from your cell and the soldier in you, the forgotten downtrodden machine somewhere inside, suddenly comes to life. You snatch glimpses of your surroundings in an effort to divine your location or some means of escape. You scan the buildings in an effort to find your bearings. The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “They wanted revenge. They wanted to kill the monster, the bogeyman… the one that never misses.” The smile, such as it was, fades into a solemn, mournful frown. “I also wanted to kill you. Wanted revenge… But this fame of yours, this name. The name is power. It is the name that keeps you and your friends alive.” You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “The men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->CIV: McDonalds i]]

<a href="https://imgur.com/9JOJujV"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/9JOJujV.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''McDonald’s, Margate 2007''] “The army… seriously?” She plants her freckle dusted hands on the curved lip of the shiny, plastic table and pushes herself to attention. The harsh white overheads seem to spotlight her and plant shimmering streaks in her hair as she cocks her head to the left and considers you. You shrug. She hums and bites her lip for a second before shaking her head and taking a short sip from her milkshake. The shadow of sluggish flavour smoothly slides up the straw, turning the bright plastic stripes from day to night. “Wouldn’t have… What made you think of it?” You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” He's not saying much to anyone these days. She reaches over to take your hand. Her vital, warm fingers only point out to you how cold yours have become. [["You're not doing this alone you know."->Civ: Somewhere ii]]

{(track: 'Monsters Lair', 'fadein', 2)} (text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” You open your mouth to speak, but the moment he twigs that the first syllable out of your mouth isn’t a yes he brings that hard bony rock of a right hand back down on your nose. Something inside your face gives and makes a crunch sound. You feel warm blood run down your chin. You taste metal in the back of your throat. Long beard barks something at United, who bears down on you with the old tools. He drops to the ground and sprawls at your feet, hammer in one hand and pliers in the other. Beard grunts something like “wee-heh” and grabs your thighs, pinning you even tighter to the chair. His body hides the boy beneath, but you can just about see United’s left elbow rising up at his side. The cold sharp nose of the pliers gropes and nudges at the edge of your right pinkie. They gently close like a set of cold scratchy teeth around the nail. “Wee-heh!” There’s a moist ripping sound, a gasp leaps into the air from deep in your lungs. Then comes the pain, an almost electrical burning sensation shooting along your foot and up the leg. It feels like they’d connected you to the mains and flipped the switch. You hear the hollow sound of your teeth grinding. “You teach shoot! Yes!” Spittle from the force of Longbeard’s roar flicks a thousand tiny spots of cold, sticky mucus over your upper legs and crotch. A tiny, distant croak emerges from your lips. You can't. “P-Deh!” Cold, scratchy metal meets the flesh of your fourth toe. The space between the toes feels sticky and warm. “P-Deh!” The rip is louder the second time, the nail larger. Your jaw clenches so tightly you fear your teeth might explode. The walls in turn grit their teeth and make a horrid gurning sound back at you. “You teach shoot…” … Again, they drag you from the hole, hose you down and toss you a garment to dangle limply over the sharp angles of your withering frame. You can’t walk, your right foot a burning lump of misshapen blue clay, but Beardy tosses you over his shoulder and marches over the field to the big house before depositing you at the kitchen table. Ahmadullah sips once more from his tea and signals for a glass of cold water to be poured for you. He says nothing for a moment, just fixes his dead brown eyes right on your own. After another almost hesitant sip from his glass he sighs and addresses you. “Aarash tells me you are ready to reconsider.” Your head stutters up and down. The warlord nods, his face almost sad at the prospect. “The men will be pleased. The mighty Mister humbled… Ready to switch sides for the chance to spare his life. Even if your teaching does not bear fruit, if I am forced to slit your throat and leave you to bleed on the mountain, you have proved useful.” He places both hands on the table, straightens his back and looms over you. “But there will be fruit. You will continue to be useful.” You take the glass from the table in front of you and drain it in one go. “In the morning, Aarash will shoot ten rounds at one hundred meters… You will teach him. The next day his aim will be better.” You glance over your shoulder at longbeard, who silently nods to you. “If his aim is not better, I kill one of your friends. That gives you eight days. On day nine…” Eight men, plus you makes nine. That means at least five men died in the attack on the convoy if three were shot in the cells. You offer a guilty, silent prayer that Barkley wasn’t one of them. “If he gets better, learns your laser and your wind meter. If he can adjust the sight and kill like Mister… I let you all go free.” You cough and fail to suppress the laugh that comment ignites in you. He in turn sniggers, a dry chugging sound more like an engine turning over than a human laugh. “You laugh? You know so much of the gun and so little of the mind Mister... The story, this myth, has power over men. If I simply kill you all who will tell the story? How will these British know to fear me once again?” An angular mess tin of rice and some sort of cold, leathery meat is dropped in front of you by Aarash. Major Dickhead rises from his chair and nods to you. [[“Eat, you begin in the morning.”->Civ: Bellevue i]]

{(track: 'Bitcrush Ballard', 'fadeout', 5) <script>A.track('A Stranger Comes to Town').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'A Stranger Comes to Town', 'fadein', 4) } (text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The final gunshot rips through the bristling desert air, a cloud of arid dust leaping in the air beyond the target just before the lifeless red hills scream in reply. The old wooden-stocked rifle rocks Aarash’s body, his shoulder and torso absorbing the blow well before he smoothly slides the bolt back and ejects the casing. He is decent. You struggle to decide if that’s a positive or a negative for you. His body position is strong, prone with one knee cocked and the butt of the gun buried nicely in his shoulder. He made a quick, but inaccurate, sight adjustment after his first two shots drifted wide and clearly understands the mechanics of the gun. His target as of yet unseen, you determine that he needs some guidance on breathing and calculating minute of angle. You don’t waste a second deciding which of those is the quickest fix. Aarash carefully lets the butt down to allow the weapon rest on its tripod before covering it with a faded old rug and barking something at United who takes off at a run across the valley floor towards the target; a hand drawn series of concentric circles on a piece of flipchart paper stapled to a piece of board wedged into the earth. “Good?” He rises to a sit, removes his beret and brings a dry, dusty hand up to wipe his forehead. You tell him it was good, but there's work to do. He gives you a look for a moment, eyeing you up and down before nodding and replacing and adjusting his beret. United returns with the target, running right by you and handing it to Aarash who allows himself a flicker of a smile before climbing to his feet and handing you the sheet. The top left corner of the sheet has been torn away by a glancing blow, too light to score. It’s likely an early shot before he adjusted the sights. Four other rounds have hit the target: two just outside the ten ring, another clipping the five off to the left and a final shot again falling away into the four ring in the bottom left corner. You inform Aarash that he’s scored twenty-six. “Twenty-seven. This is five.” Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” To protect your country you tell him. He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “We invade your country? Missiles hitting London?” You shake your head and mention terrorist attacks. He laughs, craning his head towards the sky. "You think of Al-Qaeda, Saudis... here you fight Taliban." He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army... I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->Civ: Bellevue ii]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] A heavy hand slaps you on the back and Barkley slides up to the bar beside you. “Fucking hell Mister. You weren’t wrong when you said there were sights to see round here.” You hadn’t told him that. Annie lets out the kind of snort that often passes for laughter. “Mister?” It’s a nickname you tell her. “Mister… never misses. You know because it sounds like-” She shakes head and rolls her eyes. “Yea I get it… clever.” Barkley leaps to your defence gesturing wildly with his arms like a footballer appealing for a foul. “Seriously though, your man here-” You’re not her man, you tell him. “Mister here, could knock the white off rice from a mile away. They gave him the fucking military medal for saving a bunch of lives.” She sharply raises an eyebrow and turns to you, asking without asking. You nod. He wraps an arm around you and hugs you tight. “Saved my life, eight of us wouldn’t have got home without him.” You shrug. “Anyway, I had some leave and heard my boy here was doing up some house at the seaside. Thought I’d pay him a visit and check out this area of outstanding beauty.” Handing him a pint, you tell him he can fuck off back to the table. He laughs and saunters off, taking a deep sip of his still settling drink. You spin back to the bar just as Annie plants the second one in front of you. “Seems you were able to make a difference after all.” You bat her question away with a quick shake of your head, instead asking what's happening with her. She smiles and shrugs for a moment before letting her sights settle somewhere far beyond the walls of the pub. “Things never really seem to work out the way you plan do they?” She shakes her head and meets your gaze again, the sparkle back in her eyes. “Still, it’s a living.” That raises a smile out of you as you dig in your pocket for your debit card. She waves your card away with a musical hum. “This one’s on me, don’t be a stranger Mister.” … “Did I tell you that you look fucking knackered mate?” You tell him he looks great too and take a small sip of the creamy foam capping your drink. Barkley fidgets on his stool and nudges his glass forward a fraction on the rough-hewn wooden table. “Seriously though, you ok? You look like a courtroom sketch of yourself right now.” You fill your lungs and send the correct command from your brain, but somewhere a wire crosses or burns out. Your neurons and synapses play a game of telephone with each other until a weak, almost apologetic “I’m alright” leaks from your mouth. Barkley looks at you. Hard. The same way he’d stare down that spotter scope back when he had your back and you had his. “You know… It was fucking shit the way they treated you.” Shit happens. “No mate… well it does I guess, but they sent us there. They sent you there and put that fucking gun in your hand. Then, when it didn’t suit them anymore, they fucking binned you off and send you packing. You needed a hand and instead… you got all this.” He waves his hands about the place. Glancing around, what had seemed like a bustling, welcoming seaside boozer very suddenly looks like a drab cage stalked by the local, beer swilling unemployed at half ten in the morning. “Look, I should have headed down sooner but… fuck knows. I guess I bottled it. I’m here now though. You show me this fucking house your building, put me up for a couple of nights and we’ll see what I can do for you.” You tell him you don’t need anything. “How about a proper job?” You can almost hear the skin on your forehead creasing up. “Look, a few of us on the team were doing some work with the British biathlon lot. The winter sports crew. I mentioned your name to them, told them about what you did for us back in-” You cut him off and tell him it wasn’t anything special. Going on about it isn’t going to do anyone any favours. Reading his disappointed, tired expression you mime for him to go on and ask what you’d be doing. Barkley smiles and takes a sip of his drink. [[“Oh, it wouldn’t be anything special.”->Civ: Somewhere iv]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. With Ahmadullah watching you figure you dont have time for Aarash to get his eye in, your brain races to conjure an immediate scope adjustment. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You tell him to turn the top turret clockwise four clicks. He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony hands. Just as United did the day before he runs right by you and hands it straight to Aarash, who thanks them and dusts himself off. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. [[The warlord nods, smiling to himself and pats Aarash on the shoulder.->Civ: Liberation]]

{ <script>A.track('Waves').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Waves', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/eAxTKNL"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/eAxTKNL.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"bold","underline")[''Coastal trail, Broadstairs 2015''] The wind buffets the sharp grasses and occasional, skeletal tree clinging to the cliffs high over the writhing, choppy seas below. The sun having recently dipped over the hills behind you the world is painted in watery greys and blues. The grit and chalk underfoot grinds and crunches underfoot as you hustle uphill, onwards towards the highest peak of the bluffs ahead. From the precipice you can see miles out to see. The huge, blocky steel mass of a cross channel ferry implausibly bobs up and down towards France on the rippling horizon. Below, explosions of silver and white are thrown into the air by the force of the tide slowly eating the monstrous landscape. Each bite part of a centuries long campaign to drag Britain back down into the sea below. You turn to catch a glimpse of the last sliver of red die, the sun's fire on the distant hills and buildings snuffed out by the falling blanket of darkness. The hikers and the dog walkers have long since departed for the warmth of a cooked meal and a seat by the fire. The sign reads “Coastal Erosion: Keep from edge”. Below the text is a small image of a landslide from a small black cliff. You place two hands on the fence and vault yourself over the top bar in one smooth movement. You take a seat on the grass. Each blade tempered and sharped by the wind's whetstone it stabs at the skin of your palms as you lower yourself to its cold damp surface. The wind picks up further into a series of aggressive, whip-like lashes against your cold sensitive skin. T-shirt alternatively thrust against and yanked from your torso, you can’t help yourself from looking down at it and estimating the wind speed at well over thirty KpH. You dig your phone out of your pocket for a moment and stare into the home screen. Its bright light stains your eyes, plunging the world around you into an inky darkness. There’s nothing beyond the cliffs now, over the jagged, spiked lip of grass and chalk lies an all-encompassing darkness. Scrolling through your phone book, you stab your thumb at Annie’s number. There’s a grumble and a little bit of distant coughing at the other end of the line before her voice crackles through your speaker. “Hey… you ok?” You ask if she’s got time to talk. She makes that lilting, musical uh-huh sound. (link: "“Sure thing love, you've got it.”")[(goto-url: 'https://jblair440.wixsite.com/writing')]

You tell him it’s about six Kph. “Ooh... it was ten. Close but no cigar my man. Mister might just be losing his touch." You feel your teeth come together hard and order your neck to not allow your head to drop or shake. Barkley reads something in your response that you'd desperately tried to hide. "Alright, how about we go double or nothing on the range? What are you thinking” You draw the scope down onto the flaking paint and exposed woodgrain of the door that opens onto to the same rooftop. The door looks fairly standard, so about 1.8m tall and appears about 3.5 MILS in your scope. You figure it’s a little over 500m away. To your left Barkley lifts and plays with the laser for a moment. “Five fifteen. You are fucking on it today mate… Well within super-sonic range in this weather.” They’ll never hear us coming you tell him before adjusting your sights: You set the range at 500 and turn the side turret two clicks, shifting the sight just over 3 inches to account for the wind. “Where’s your money?” Each house in the terrace looks the same, a beige wind-strewn brick box with bits of rebar jutting out of every corner like angular tufts of steel hair. The occasional flash of long since worn paint, red here or white there, is all that differentiates them. The old man leans against his broom now outside the second one, nodding on as the kids move their game onto penalties and take turns shooting against a bare wall to the left of the dusty square. Whilst you both heavily suspect Lieutenant Dickhead and his crew to be holed up in the third house from the left, the one the woman hauling a thousand bags of shopping disappeared into, you can’t rule anything out. Your sight lingers on the dark recess beyond an open window for a moment. A car, an old boxy Ford escort with a cracked passenger window and more dents than doors, rolls on by but doesn’t stop. God knows you tell him. The shooter’s a sneaky fucker. He’s managed to slip by three patrols as well as the other fire team. “That was the B team. This fucker is ours mate.” The squaddies pounding pavements out there would be beyond relieved if you did get a result. Whilst scouring this little clutch of concrete boxes for the Lieutenant, three men had caught bullets moving through the town square. One lad was never making it home. Arseholes were twitching, people were getting spooked. Hiding behind the families and children scattered through these blocks, Dickhead was smart enough to know there was no drone strike coming but not smart enough to figure that his guardian angel’s rifle would eventually draw someone sharp enough to sniff him out. Someone like you. “Hey, eyes off mate. Need a quick piss before kick-off.” You nod and keep your eyes glued to the buildings as he tilts his body up to one side and the sound of urine tickling the bedrock rings out to your left. He lets out an exasperated sigh. The corner of your mouth twitches sharply upwards. You don’t need him to tell you that a good portion of his stream trickled back along the ground into him, eagerly soaked up by his dry, dusty fatigues. You let him huff and puff about it for a moment without comment before his head bobs sharply up and down on the edge of your vision. [[“Game time brother.”->SPOT: Margate seafront i]]

You tell him it’s about 10Kph. “Damn, Mister’s still got it, 11.1 Kph… Loving your work. Range?” You draw the scope down onto the flaking paint and exposed woodgrain of the door that opens onto to the same rooftop. The door looks fairly standard, so about 1.8m tall and appears about 3.5 MILS in your scope. You figure it’s a little over 500m away. To your left Barkley lifts and plays with the laser for a moment. “Five fifteen. You are fucking on it today mate… Well within super-sonic range in this weather.” They’ll never hear us coming you tell him before adjusting your sights: You set the range at 500 and turn the side turret two clicks, shifting the sight just over 3 inches to account for the wind. “Where’s your money?” Each house in the terrace looks the same, a beige wind-strewn brick box with bits of rebar jutting out of every corner like angular tufts of steel hair. The occasional flash of long since worn paint, red here or white there, is all that differentiates them. The old man leans against his broom now outside the second one, nodding on as the kids move their game onto penalties and take turns shooting against a bare wall to the left of the dusty square. Whilst you both heavily suspect Lieutenant Dickhead and his crew to be holed up in the third house from the left, the one the woman hauling a thousand bags of shopping disappeared into, you can’t rule anything out. Your sight lingers on the dark recess beyond an open window for a moment. A car, an old boxy Ford escort with a cracked passenger window and more dents than doors, rolls on by but doesn’t stop. God knows you tell him. The shooter’s a sneaky fucker. He’s managed to slip by three patrols as well as the other fire team. “That was the B team. This fucker is ours mate.” The squaddies pounding pavements out there would be beyond relieved if you did get a result. Whilst scouring this little clutch of concrete boxes for the Lieutenant, three men had caught bullets moving through the town square. One lad was never making it home. Arseholes were twitching, people were getting spooked. Hiding behind the families and children scattered through these blocks, Dickhead was smart enough to know there was no drone strike coming but not smart enough to figure that his guardian angel’s rifle would eventually draw someone sharp enough to sniff him out. Someone like you. “Hey, eyes off mate. Need a quick piss before kick-off.” You nod and keep your eyes glued to the buildings as he tilts his body up to one side and the sound of urine tickling the bedrock rings out to your left. He lets out an exasperated sigh. The corner of your mouth twitches sharply upwards. You don’t need him to tell you that a good portion of his stream trickled back along the ground into him, eagerly soaked up by his dry, dusty fatigues. You let him huff and puff about it for a moment without comment before his head bobs sharply up and down on the edge of your vision. [[“Game time brother.”->SPOT: Margate seafront i]]

You tell him it’s about fifteen Kph. “Ooh... ten. Close but no cigar my man. Mister might just be losing his touch." You feel your teeth come together hard and order your neck to not allow your head to drop or shake. Barkley reads something in your response that you'd desperately tried to hide. "Alright, how about we go double or nothing on the range? What are you thinking” You draw the scope down onto the flaking paint and exposed woodgrain of the door that opens onto to the same rooftop. The door looks fairly standard, so about 1.8m tall and appears about 3.5 MILS in your scope. You figure it’s a little over 500m away. To your left Barkley lifts and plays with the laser for a moment. “Five fifteen. You are fucking on it today mate… Well within super-sonic range in this weather.” They’ll never hear us coming you tell him before adjusting your sights: You set the range at 500 and turn the side turret two clicks, shifting the sight just over 3 inches to account for the wind. “Where’s your money?” Each house in the terrace looks the same, a beige wind-strewn brick box with bits of rebar jutting out of every corner like angular tufts of steel hair. The occasional flash of long since worn paint, red here or white there, is all that differentiates them. The old man leans against his broom now outside the second one, nodding on as the kids move their game onto penalties and take turns shooting against a bare wall to the left of the dusty square. Whilst you both heavily suspect Lieutenant Dickhead and his crew to be holed up in the third house from the left, the one the woman hauling a thousand bags of shopping disappeared into, you can’t rule anything out. Your sight lingers on the dark recess beyond an open window for a moment. A car, an old boxy Ford escort with a cracked passenger window and more dents than doors, rolls on by but doesn’t stop. God knows you tell him. The shooter’s a sneaky fucker. He’s managed to slip by three patrols as well as the other fire team. “That was the B team. This fucker is ours mate.” The squaddies pounding pavements out there would be beyond relieved if you did get a result. Whilst scouring this little clutch of concrete boxes for the Lieutenant, three men had caught bullets moving through the town square. One lad was never making it home. Arseholes were twitching, people were getting spooked. Hiding behind the families and children scattered through these blocks, Dickhead was smart enough to know there was no drone strike coming but not smart enough to figure that his guardian angel’s rifle would eventually draw someone sharp enough to sniff him out. Someone like you. “Hey, eyes off mate. Need a quick piss before kick-off.” You nod and keep your eyes glued to the buildings as he tilts his body up to one side and the sound of urine tickling the bedrock rings out to your left. He lets out an exasperated sigh. The corner of your mouth twitches sharply upwards. You don’t need him to tell you that a good portion of his stream trickled back along the ground into him, eagerly soaked up by his dry, dusty fatigues. You let him huff and puff about it for a moment without comment before his head bobs sharply up and down on the edge of your vision. [[“Game time brother.”->SPOT: Margate seafront i]]

{ <script>A.track('A Womans Wisdom').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'A Womans Wisdom', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/LS5KSkx"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/LS5KSkx.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Fairground, Margate Seafront 2006''] “What do you say killer? Three shots for a fiver; one target gets you one of the small prizes, three targets gets you this here elephant for the lovely lady…” The carnie, a leather skinned hulk in a torn work shirt with a “Lesley” name tag sewn into the breast lofts a hirsute arm to twirl one of the giant stuffed elephant toys dangling from the ceiling of his stall. Strung along the steel rafters and beams keeping the place upright hang an array of far smaller plush toys that faintly, but not accurately enough to trouble a copyright lawyer, resemble a host of famous cartoon characters; ducks, dogs and little birds. Wild eyed, almost foaming at the mouth children smothered in quilted jackets and woollen layers drag shrugging and sighing parents about in all directions. Feet variously slap at and thud against the bare earth precariously held together by scraggly patches of grass underfoot. Screams and yelps from the waltzers somehow pierce through the blanket of trebly sound pumped out by the battery of speakers perched on every junction, corner and stall of the shambolic travelling fair. “Come on lad, three for a fiver… win something for the Mrs?” You open your mouth to explain that Annie isn’t your girlfriend before she sharply elbows you in the ribs. The little patch of her freckled face visible between her bunched up fluffy scarf and bobbled woolly hat breaks into a toothy, beaming smile. Bouncing up and down and clasping her mittened hands together she gives you a nod and wink, letting out a musical little hum. “Let’s see what you’ve got, killer.” You hand over the money to a series of smug looking nods from “Lesley”. The two-two pellet gun feels light, much lighter than your Dad’s old rifle. Flimsy and hollow-stocked, the idea that it could do anyone harm feels almost laughable. Looking it over, its form is pretty standard except the rail and bracket for the scope has been removed. In lieu of a decent viewfinder is a set of match sights, two little black posts, at the rear of the rifle. The third notch that would normally sit between them at the front of the weapon is conspicuously absent. “Right, here’s your pellets… you just pull the barrel d-” You break the barrel and feed the first pellet into the breach before snapping it shut. “Ok Lee Harvey Oswald, three targets for the big prize.” He pulls a lever and a series of small metallic targets pop up at the back of the stall in front of the sandbags piled up to prevent rogue pellets escaping the temporary hut and taking out some poor kid’s eye. Each shaped like a tiny cowboy, the targets appear about two to three inches tall from your perspective. You kneel on the cold hard mud and plant your leading elbow into the little counter to form a stable tripod, raising the gun into a firing position and bearing down on the first little cowboy. Imagining a front post, you somehow paint the front sight into existence with your mind and line the target up between the two rear posts. You breathe out fully, letting the barrel drift up and down. The grating sounds of blasting music and screaming children fades to a low hum. You breathe in. The target sinks below the notches. Darkness starts to creep in from the edges of your vision. You slowly, carefully let half the air out of your lungs until the target lines up with your sights. [[All that exists is that little cowboy.->SPOT: Outside kandahar iii]]

(text-style:"underline")[''Fairground, Margate Seafront 2006''] “Jesus fucking Christ Chris Kyle, am I being hustled here?” The carnie shakes his head and blows out his cheeks as the final target falls. Beside you Annie mockingly claps and lets out a cheery “yay” as she bounces up and down on the spot. “One grand prize coming right up for your lovely lady…” He reaches up towards the prizes, his fingers giving one of the soft grey toys a little twirl on its string. “…unless we have ourselves a gambling man here.” You don’t ask what he means out loud, but your expression seems enough to gee him on. “See, I have one last target, a special one for hustlers like you boy… I’ll give you the chance to go double or nothing, put it all on the line. One shot…” He hits another lever and an even smaller steel cowboy, a tiny rider on a shiny miniscule horse, pops up right at the back. Right at the back, so far as to be almost learning against the sandbags. From where you’re standing it looks barely an inch tall. Lesley smiles and theatrically digs a note out of his pocket. “Now you could take your elephant right now or… hit one more target for me and I’ll give you twenty pound. Twenty pounds out of my own pocket right now. You miss, you walk away with nothing.” You turn and look at Annie; rubbing her hands together and nuzzling her flushed freckled cheeks down into her warm, chunky scarf. She stamps her feet again and breathes down into her layers before curling the corners of her mouth up into a smile. The little space between her eyebrows curls into that wonderful little knot. “You’ve got this. It’s all you…” YOU: [[Take the shot->SPOT: NA Outside Kandahar iv-a]] [[Take the elephant->SPOT: Outside Kandahar iv-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] The gun roars murder into your ears. The heat of the barrel, even in the searing desert sun, beats across your face. The house leaps up and down in your scope, your body rocks back and forth in the dirt before the house settles again in your sights. The single spent shell thumps into the ground beside you. Smoothly you slide the bolt back and forth to chamber the next round. “Ooh, pretty near the mark. About four inches high mate.” You turn the turret 3 clicks and bear down on the peephole once more. The space flashes white, as though the sun peeked through it for a split second. A storm of grey pock-marks and clouds of dust suddenly break out all over the wall. “Patrol’s returning fire. Can’t see any casualties.” You reset your breath and take the trigger’s first pressure. [[“Light him up Mister.”->SPOT: NO ANNIE, Kandahar shot HIT-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SPOT: Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SPOT: Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]] [[Let it bleed out->SPOT: Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SPOT: Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SPOT: Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Let it bleed out->SPOT: Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… Obviously you've got the rifle there, but I know people sometimes swap it.” You: [[Tell him->SPOT: Kitchen-a]] [[Keep it vague->SPOT: Kitchen-b]]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: Kill you-a]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: Kill you-a]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: Doing job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: Kill you-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SPOT: somewhere iii-a]] [[No->SPOT: somewhere iii-a]] [[Go fuck yourself->SPOT: somewhere iii-a]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you, or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too, but over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: Don't know-a]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: Protect country-a]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: Don't know-a]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: Protect country-a]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SPOT: Bellevue ii BARKLEY-a]]

She smiles and shrugs for a moment before letting her sights settle somewhere far beyond the walls of the pub. “You always did.” She shakes her head and meets your gaze again, the sparkle back in her eyes. “Still, welcome home.” That raises a smile out of you as you dig in your pocket for your debit card. She waves your card away with a musical hum. “This one’s on me, call it a homecoming present.” … “Did I tell you that you look fucking knackered mate?” You tell Barkley he looks great too and take a small sip of the creamy foam capping your drink. Barkley fidgets on his stool and nudges his glass forward a fraction on the rough-hewn wooden table. “Seriously though, you ok? You look like a courtroom sketch of yourself right now.” YOU: [[Sleep is a bit of a struggle->SPOT: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[It’s been a rough couple of months->SPOT: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[Something’s very wrong->SPOT: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]]

She smiles and shrugs for a moment before letting her sights settle somewhere far beyond the walls of the pub. “Things never really seem to work out the way you plan do they?” She shakes her head and meets your gaze again, the sparkle back in her eyes. “Still, it’s a living.” That raises a smile out of you as you dig in your pocket for your debit card. She waves your card away with a musical hum. “This one’s on me, don’t be a stranger Mister.” … “Did I tell you that you look fucking knackered mate?” You tell him he looks great too and take a small sip of the creamy foam capping your drink. Barkley fidgets on his stool and nudges his glass forward a fraction on the rough-hewn wooden table. “Seriously though, you ok? You look like a courtroom sketch of yourself right now.” YOU: [[Sleep is a bit of a struggle->SPOT: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[It’s been a rough couple of months->SPOT: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[Something’s very wrong->SPOT: Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. With Ahmadullah watching you figure you dont have time for Aarash to get his eye in, your brain races to conjure an immediate scope adjustment. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: Top turret clockwise four clicks. He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony claws. As united had the day before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boy's head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SPOT: Liberation-b]]

{ <script>A.track('Waves').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Waves', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/eAxTKNL"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/eAxTKNL.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"bold","underline")[''Coastal trail, Broadstairs 2015''] The wind buffets the sharp grasses and occasional, skeletal tree clinging to the cliffs high over the writhing, choppy seas below. The sun having recently dipped over the hills behind you the world is painted in watery greys and blues. The grit and chalk underfoot grinds and crunches underfoot as you hustle uphill, onwards towards the highest peak of the bluffs ahead. From the precipice you can see miles out to see. The huge, blocky steel mass of a cross channel ferry implausibly bobs up and down towards France on the rippling horizon. Below, explosions of silver and white are thrown into the air by the force of the tide slowly eating the monstrous landscape. Each bite part of a centuries long campaign to drag Britain back down into the sea below. You turn to catch a glimpse of the last sliver of red die, the sun's fire on the distant hills and buildings snuffed out by the falling blanket of darkness. The hikers and the dog walkers have long since departed for the warmth of a cooked meal and a seat by the fire. The sign reads “Coastal Erosion: Keep from edge”. Below the text is a small image of a landslide from a small black cliff. You place two hands on the fence and vault yourself over the top bar in one smooth movement. You take a seat on the grass. Each blade tempered and sharped by the wind's whetstone it stabs at the skin of your palms as you lower yourself to its cold damp surface. The wind picks up further into a series of aggressive, whip-like lashes against your cold sensitive skin. T-shirt alternatively thrust against and yanked from your torso, you can’t help yourself from looking down at it and estimating the wind speed at well over thirty KpH. You dig your phone out of your pocket for a moment and stare into the home screen. Its bright light stains your eyes, plunging the world around you into an inky darkness. There’s nothing beyond the cliffs now, over the jagged, spiked lip of grass and chalk lies an all-encompassing darkness. Scrolling through your phone book, you stab your thumb at Annie’s number. There’s a grumble and a little bit of distant coughing at the other end of the line before her voice crackles through your speaker. “Hey… you ok?” You ask if she’s got time to talk. She makes that lilting, musical uh-huh sound. (link: "“Sure thing love, you've got it.”")[(goto-url: 'https://jblair440.wixsite.com/writing')]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SPOT: NA Outside Kandahar vi BD-b]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SPOT: NA Outside Kandahar vi BD-b]] [[Let it bleed out->SPOT: NA Outside Kandahar vi BD-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SPOT: NA Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SPOT: NA Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]] [[Let it bleed out->SPOT: NA Outside Kandahar vi BL-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''20 miles outside of Kandahar, 2012''] You tightly clutch Barkley's outstreached hand clamber to your feet. It might be the bloody rule you tell him, but free beer is free beer. He explodes into a volley of percussive chuckles. "Cheap bastard." He laughs as you put on an exaggerated hangdog expression whilst hefting the long, heavy A3. After a few mock shakes and stretches he snatches up his much shorter and lighter shooter with a relaxed mock sigh before you both mosey down the hill towards the village. The Corporal leading the section practically sprints over the square to greet you with a hearty hand shake and a stream of “thank you”s so effusive you can feel your sunburnt cheeks somehow redden even further. Behind him the delighted patrol high-five each other and cheer as a prisoner is loaded into one of the two mastiffs they’d rode in on, the overfed beige off roader having been driven right up to the house once the area was cleared. Barkley finally catches up to you and gestures at the celebrating solders around the truck. [[“That party for us?”->SPOT: NA, Housing unit Kandahar-a]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… Obviously you've got the rifle there, but I know people sometimes swap it. You: [[Tell him->SPOT: NA, Kitchen-a]] [[Keep it vague->SPOT: NA, Kitchen-b]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… your mate in the other truck, he’s got the rifle. Was he the shooter?” You: [[Tell him->SPOT: NA, Kitchen-a]] [[Keep it vague->SPOT: NA, Kitchen-b]]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: NA Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: NA, Doing Job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: NA, Kill You-a]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: NA Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: NA, Doing Job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: NA, Kill You-a]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: NA Wrong guy-a]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: NA, Doing Job-a]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: NA, Kill You-a]]

You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit, you always do this to yourself... That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” Well maybe he was right you tell her. Something changes in her eyes, the bright light behind them seems to fade. The piercing teal of each iris fading to a watery blue. [["Seems there's nothing stopping you."->SPOT: NA, Somewhere ii-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SPOT: NA, somewhere iii-a]] [[No->SPOT: NA, somewhere iii-a]] [[Go fuck yourself->SPOT: NA, somewhere iii-a]]

You open your mouth to speak, but the moment he twigs that the first syllable out of your mouth isn’t a yes he brings that hard bony rock of a right hand back down on your nose. Something inside your face gives and makes a crunch sound. You feel warm blood run down your chin. You taste metal in the back of your throat. Long beard barks something at United, who bears down on you with the old tools. He drops to the ground and sprawls at your feet, hammer in one hand and pliers in the other. Beard grunts something like “wee-heh” and grabs your thighs, pinning you even tighter to the chair. His body hides the boy beneath, but you can just about see United’s left elbow rising up at his side. The cold sharp nose of the pliers gropes and nudges at the edge of your right pinkie. They gently close like a set of cold scratchy teeth around the nail. “Wee-heh!” There’s a moist ripping sound, a gasp leaps into the air from deep in your lungs. Then comes the pain, an almost electrical burning sensation shooting along your foot and up the leg. It feels like they’d connected you to the mains and flipped the switch. You hear the hollow sound of your teeth grinding. “You teach shoot! Yes!” Spittle from the force of Longbeard’s roar flicks a thousand tiny spots of cold, sticky mucus over your upper legs and crotch. YOU: [[I can’t->SPOT: NA, Somewhere iv-a]] [[No->SPOT: NA, Somewhere iv-a]]

{(track: 'Monsters Lair', 'fadeout', 5) <script>A.track('Bitcrush Ballard').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Bitcrush Ballard', 'fadein', 5)} <a href="https://imgur.com/yAJY6Uq"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/yAJY6Uq.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] “Jesus fucking Christ. It's like seeing a ghost.” Letting your mouth drop open to speak, you manage to wrangle a lonely, breathy “hi” from somewhere deep within you. With one eyebrow climbing into a high arch that little crease above her nose curls up as though captioning the question mark implied by her silence. You watch your hands limply raise themselves in an effort to speak for you but simply hang there as the words fail to catch up with them. Annie twitches into a lopsided half-smile as she lets her head drop to one side. She raises one open hand and wraps her palm against the series of taps at the bar one by one. “Wow, with chat like this it's like you never left… Let’s start with an easy one then. What can I get you?” You swallow the lump in your throat and ask her for two Guinness. “Two of the black stuff coming right up…” She spins on her heels, sweeps two glasses from the rack and completes her pirouette by placing the first one under the tap in a single deft motion. Tilting the glass she eases the tap back absent-mindedly as the creamy fluid starts to surge up the inside of the glass. She chews her lip for a moment, working her jaw from side to side as though about to say something. After considering it she shakes her head and presses her cheeks into a smile. [["So what brings you here then, meeting someone?"->SPOT: NA, Somewhere v-a]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you, or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back to the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too, but over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: NA, Dont know-a]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: NA, Protect country-a]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: NA, Dont know-a]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: NA, Protect country-a]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SPOT: NA, Bellevue ii BARKLEY-a]]

“Did I tell you that you look fucking knackered mate?” You tell Barkley he looks great too and take a small sip of the creamy foam capping your drink. Barkley fidgets on his stool and nudges his glass forward a fraction on the rough-hewn wooden table. “Seriously though, you ok? You look like a courtroom sketch of yourself right now.” YOU: [[Sleep is a bit of a struggle->SPOT: NA, Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[It’s been a rough couple of months->SPOT: NA, Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]] [[Something’s very wrong->SPOT: NA, Bellevue iii BARKLEY-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: Top turret clockwise four clicks. He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony hands. As before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boy's head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SPOT: NA, Liberation-a]]

{ <script>A.track('Waves').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Waves', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/eAxTKNL"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/eAxTKNL.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"bold","underline")[''Coastal trail, Broadstairs 2015''] The wind buffets the sharp grasses and occasional, skeletal tree clinging to the cliffs high over the writhing, choppy seas below. The sun having recently dipped over the hills behind you the world is painted in watery greys and blues. The grit and chalk underfoot grinds and crunches underfoot as you hustle uphill, onwards towards the highest peak of the bluffs ahead. From the precipice you can see miles out to see. The huge, blocky steel mass of a cross channel ferry implausibly bobs up and down towards France on the rippling horizon. Below, explosions of silver and white are thrown into the air by the force of the tide slowly eating the monstrous landscape. Each bite part of a centuries long campaign to drag Britain back down into the sea below. You turn to catch a glimpse of the last sliver of red die, the sun's fire on the distant hills and buildings snuffed out by the falling blanket of darkness. The hikers and the dog walkers have long since departed for the warmth of a cooked meal and a seat by the fire. The sign reads “Coastal Erosion: Keep from edge”. Below the text is a small image of a landslide from a small black cliff. You place two hands on the fence and vault yourself over the top bar in one smooth movement. You take a seat on the grass. Each blade tempered and sharped by the wind's whetstone it stabs at the skin of your palms as you lower yourself to its cold damp surface. The wind picks up further into a series of aggressive whip-like lashes against your cold sensitive skin. T-shirt alternatively thrust against and yanked from your torso, you can’t help yourself from look down at it and estimating the wind speed at well over thirty KpH. You dig your phone out of your pocket for a moment and stare into the home screen. Its bright light stains your eyes, plunging the world around you into an inky darkness. There’s nothing beyond the cliffs now, over the jagged, spiked lip of grass and chalk lies an all-encompassing darkness. Scrolling through your phone book, you stab your thumb at Barkley’s number. There’s a grumble and a little bit of distant coughing at the other end of the line before his voice crackles through your speaker. “Hey… you ok mate?” You ask if he’s got time to talk. His voice, clearer and immediately more purposeful, leaps up a good half octave. (link: "“Of course mate, whatever you need.”")[(goto-url: 'https://jblair440.wixsite.com/writing')]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: NA Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: NA, Doing Job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: NA, Kill You-b]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: NA Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: NA, Doing Job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: NA, Kill You-b]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: NA Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: NA, Doing Job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: NA, Kill You-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper... We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SPOT: NA, McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SPOT: NA, McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He laughs and repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. Was not so brave as you. I should have known he couldn't have been the Mister we were looking for.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “All it took was a little... persuasion... He had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SPOT: NA, McDonald's i-b]]

You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” He's not saying much to anyone these days. She reaches over to take your hand. Her vital, warm fingers only point out to you how cold yours have become. [[“Nobody's telling you what to do anymore.”->SPOT: NA, Somewhere ii-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SPOT: NA, somewhere iii-b]] [[No->SPOT: NA, somewhere iii-b]] [[Go fuck yourself->SPOT: NA, somewhere iii-b]]

You open your mouth to speak, but the moment he twigs that the first syllable out of your mouth isn’t a yes he brings that hard bony rock of a right hand back down on your nose. Something inside your face gives and makes a crunch sound. You feel warm blood run down your chin. You taste metal in the back of your throat. Long beard barks something at United, who bears down on you with the old tools. He drops to the ground and sprawls at your feet, hammer in one hand and pliers in the other. Beard grunts something like “wee-heh” and grabs your thighs, pinning you even tighter to the chair. His body hides the boy beneath, but you can just about see United’s left elbow rising up at his side. The cold sharp nose of the pliers gropes and nudges at the edge of your right pinkie. They gently close like a set of cold scratchy teeth around the nail. “Wee-heh!” There’s a moist ripping sound, a gasp leaps into the air from deep in your lungs. Then comes the pain, an almost electrical burning sensation shooting along your foot and up the leg. It feels like they’d connected you to the mains and flipped the switch. You hear the hollow sound of your teeth grinding. “You teach shoot! Yes!” Spittle from the force of Longbeard’s roar flicks a thousand tiny spots of cold, sticky mucus over your upper legs and crotch. YOU: [[I can’t->SPOT: NA, Somewhere iv-b]] [[No->SPOT: NA, Somewhere iv-b]]

{(track: 'Monsters Lair', 'fadeout', 5) <script>A.track('Bitcrush Ballard').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'Bitcrush Ballard', 'fadein', 5)} <a href="https://imgur.com/yAJY6Uq"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/yAJY6Uq.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''The Bellevue, Margate 2015''] “Jesus fucking Christ. It's like seeing a ghost.” Letting your mouth drop open to speak, you manage to wrangle a lonely, breathy “hi” from somewhere deep within you. With one eyebrow climbing into a high arch that little crease above her nose curls up as though captioning the question mark implied by her silence. You watch your hands limply raise themselves in an effort to speak for you but simply hang there as the words fail to catch up with them. Annie twitches into a lopsided half-smile as she lets her head drop to one side. She raises one open hand and wraps her palm against the series of taps at the bar one by one. “Wow, with chat like this it's like you never left… Let’s start with an easy one then. What can I get you?” You swallow the lump in your throat and ask her for two Guinness. “Two of the black stuff coming right up…” She spins on her heels, sweeps two glasses from the rack and completes her pirouette by placing the first one under the tap in a single deft motion. Tilting the glass she eases the tap back absent-mindedly as the creamy fluid starts to surge up the inside of the glass. She chews her lip for a moment, working her jaw from side to side as though about to say something. After considering it she shakes her head and presses her cheeks into a smile. [["So what brings you here then, meeting someone?"->SPOT: NA, Somewhere v-b]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: NA, Dont know-b]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: NA, Protect country-b]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: NA, Dont know-b]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: NA, Protect country-b]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SPOT: NA, Bellevue ii ALONE-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. With Ahmadullah watching you figure you dont have time for Aarash to get his eye in, your brain races to conjure an immediate scope adjustment. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: Top turret clockwise four clicks. He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony hands. As before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boy's head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SPOT: NA, Liberation-b]]

{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… your mate in the other truck, he’s got the rifle, was he the shooter?” You: [[Tell him->SPOT: Kitchen-a]] [[Keep it vague->SPOT: Kitchen-b]]

The property seems to be converted from some kind of farm. The fields long since withered, murdered by the savage sun, and the buildings give every appearance of being derelict from the outside. The cells are fashioned from what looked like a set of old stables, or at least what your born and bred city boy brain imagines stables to look like. The outer shell of the decrepit building had been covertly fitted with a series of concrete and iron boxes so as to disguise its purpose. Appearing equally abandoned, the house had cracked boards over the windows and a great bloody hole in the roof. Anyone viewing the place via satellite would assume it belonged to the cockroaches now. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: Doing job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: Kill you-b]]

Your heart sinks as you clock the horizon, hills and steep bluff on all sides. No sign of life or civilisation in any direction. Not a building, light or even a plume of smoke in any direction. Just rock, fucking dust and the haze of air screaming in the sunlight. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: Doing job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: Kill you-b]]

On the assumption that you’ll be brought back the same way you clock the position of the hazy, baking sun to at least give you some idea of your main compass points on the return leg. It sits high in the sky, almost directly above you. So direct in fact that neither you, the decaying old stables you've been dragged from or the bare rocky hills beyond the farmhouse ahead seem to cast much of a shadow at all. On your way out, and shift at all from this position realtive to the two buildings will at least give you a compass bearing, a direction in which to break should the chance to escape present itself. Shoved roughly through the empty frame that once housed a front door the change in light level renders you momentarily blind. Something solid, something wooden, catches your feet and you tumble to the ground. Your well bearded minder finds this hilarious and gives you a sharp kick in the ribs to punctuate the punchline. By the scruff of the neck he drags you through to a bare, disused kitchen. The floor is a patchwork of cracked and missing terra cotta tiles, each of the empty units missing doors. The appliances have long since been ripped out and replaced by heavy, dust laden cobwebs. “We meet again Mister.” Sat at the head of a rickety wooden table, in a spotless black thobe and grey headscarf, sits Ahmadullah. He leans back into the chair quite casually and sips on a glass of red tea. Your guide thrusts you into a wobbly wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. Your captor looks you up and down, hums to himself and takes another protracted sip of his drink. “My men… they asked many times to kill you. You are famous no?” YOU: [[You’ve got the wrong guy->SPOT: Wrong guy-b]] [[I just did my job->SPOT: Doing job-b]] [[I’m going to kill you->SPOT: Kill you-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper... We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SPOT: McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. We thought he was you at first. Told us the same thing.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “But when we asked a little... harder... he had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SPOT: McDonald's i-b]]

His lips and cheeks pull into a smile, the skin around his eyes breaks into a series of fine lines and cracks. His eyes don’t get the message though, they stay flat and cold. Unblinking. He laughs and repeats your words several times in a dry monotone voice. “It's funny...” he says flatly. “Your friend, this other sniper. Was not so brave as you. I should have known he couldn't have been the Mister we were looking for.” You try not to look at him, try to keep your features flat and emotionless. “All it took was a little... persuasion... He had no problem pointing you out. Begged to be spared, gave you up. Now it is up to you, Mister, to convince me to spare the others.” It feels like your chair is slowly sinking into concrete. Pressure builds behind your eyes as every empty space in your skull prepares to leak. Your lungs become sticky and wet, they flap loosely in your chest without actually clutching at any oxygen. You try to deny him the emotion, your brain screams commands at your muscles and face, ordering them to hold still. Major Dickhead hums to himself and nods, one corner of his mouth turning up. “My men fear you. Every patrol, every mission, they prey the one called Mister isn’t watching, waiting for them… Once it was the drones bringing fire down from the sky while your pilots sit thousands of miles away. Now it is you they fear, the ghost that hides in the hills, snatches life away without warning.” He gestures to beardy with an open hand and a clean glass of fresh, clear water is placed in front of you. Seeing your hesitation, he rolls his eyes and tuts. You clutch at the glass and slowly, carefully let a portion of the cool, soothing water flow into your mouth. You become giddy, almost get a brain freeze, as the chill of the liquid immediately gets into your bones. You pause, gasping for air as the life-giving fluid goes down. It takes a great deal of will not to neck the whole glass in one go. Your captor nods approvingly. “This fear is a powerful weapon, a weapon I also possessed until recently.” You think on that missing brick in the wall, the twitchy patrols frightened to head out of Kandahar. The three men shot on the very square you’d been dispatched to on that last mission. “It is a power you will grant me once again.” Whatever your face says, it prompts that same sad scowl from Ahmadullah. “Oh, you will.” A plastic bag is suddenly pulled over your head. You kick and scream, reaching upwards to clutch at it but are no match for the strong hands gripping you from behind. The chair gives way and the ground leaps up to smack you in the back of the head. The bag turns from white to a greenish purple. Everything moves in slow motion. [[A fire starts in your lungs. Your arms and legs start to twitch.->SPOT: McDonald's i-b]]

You explain that you need to get paid somehow. The army can pay and stick a roof over your head. “There’s already a roof over your head.” You don’t tell her it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t tell her that the place hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Instead, you just shrug again. She squints and the skin just above the bridge of her nose folds into that little curl she gets when she’s thinking. The lights flicker off and on for a moment, plunging the deserted restaurant into darkness before it explodes again into almost painful whites and pale greens. “Is this about the college thing?” You deny it. “You’ve had a shit year, with everything…” She stops for a moment and draws her bottom lip in as though catching the words on her tongue and bolting the barn door on them. “You could defer a year, retake a few tests and absolutely smash those applications. You’re smart you know.” Not as smart as her. She lifts her taught, open hands from the table as if gripping some invisible pillow in front of her. “Bullshit. That’s not you talking.” You say you’re looking for some kind of purpose, a mission. In the army you can make a difference and do something important. “That’s him talking again.” He's not saying much to anyone these days. She reaches over to take your hand. Her vital, warm fingers only point out to you how cold yours have become. [[“Nobody's telling you what to do anymore.”->SPOT: Somewhere ii-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] The manacles and cuffs have so little room to move that they barely chink when you try to pull on them. Besides the chains threaded through the legs of the chair your chest is also clutched by two cargo straps pulled tight against the back of the chair. The robe you’d been wearing for your meeting with Major Dickhead long gone, you sit there naked as long beard mutters to a young confederate in an old Manchester United shirt. The boy clutches a ball hammer and a rusty set of needle nose pliers. Beardy nods, grunts something to United and walks across the empty room towards you. He halts at your feet, clears his throat, and punches you square in the nose. His fist hits you with the force of a mule. Your head rocks back to take in the old, beamed ceiling before dropping to meet his tiny black eyes again. “Teach to shoot yes?” YOU: [[I can’t->SPOT: somewhere iii-b]] [[No->SPOT: somewhere iii-b]] [[Go fuck yourself->SPOT: somewhere iii-b]]

Aarash gives you a quizzical look. You explain that in sniper training, the lines of the target don't count as "in". If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. You hold the target out and trace a finger around the clipped five line Doesn't matter you tell him. All that matters is that he improves. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too but, over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: Don't know-b]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: Protect country-b]]

You hold the target out and trace a finger around the five line. If the line is broken, the shot is outside you tell him. He folds his face into a scowl and shakes his head. “The line is in.” The line counts in basic training, but this isn’t basic. He nods and says something like “shabu-weesha” to United, handing him the sheet. The boy then bolts back over the hill, the sheet flailing wildly in his clasped hand. “What must I do, what do I need?” His face changes, the eyes rounding slightly and his brow softening under the hard, sculpted line of his beret. It occurs to you that he looks afraid. You stretch your back and adjust the old wooden crutch under your arm before telling him that today you’ll focus on his breathing. When the body moves, the gun moves. If the body is steady, the gun is steady. He repeats it after you, nodding slowly with each word. “Body steady, gun steady.” You demonstrate your breathing technique to him. … “The army teach you this breathing?” Aarash lifts himself into a half lying, lounging position on the dusty bedrock in order to meet your gaze. You explain that your dad actually taught you that. The army instructors had similar techniques but you have always used your own. He crumples his brow and works his hirsute jaw from side to side for a moment. “You ignore them… They let you do your way?” Sometimes an instructor would question it you tell him, but then they’d see the target and change their mind. He nods and curls one corner of his mouth up slightly. “The one that never misses.” You have him lie back down in the dirt with the rifle and demonstrate the breathing one more time. He holds his body tightly, shoulders and back rising and falling slowly with the half breaths you instructed him to take. Aarash is a fast learner. The rifle barely moves and holds perfectly steady as he holds his breath and takes up the first pressure of the unloaded old rifle’s trigger. You can’t help but picture him secreted away in the dark, controlling his breathing in the shadows as some poor British lad, weeks out of school and fresh out of basic, wanders into his crosshairs. A skinny, idealistic fool that thinks he’s protecting his country, fighting for freedom or something as the sun sears his pasty face with a force he’s never known, and his kit threatens to drag him down into the earth. He'll never even hear the crack of Aarash’s gun. If he’s lucky. You shake your head and shove that thought deep down into a dark place you hope you can’t reach. There are eight men. Good men, starved, beaten to a pulp and cowering in their own filth, that need your help. Ahmadullah won’t hesitate to take a knife to their throats or to put a bullet in their heads. In the end Aarash is going to learn one way or another, the only question being how many people are going to die before that happens. If Barkley is going to die before that happens. “Come, we must go. Your American satellites, they come over in less than hour.” With the rifle slung over one rock-hard, sinewy shoulder and the other nestled under your own Aarash slowly helps you hobble up the mountain pass back towards the old farm. “Why do you fight in my country?” Aarash, as far as you can tell from your position slumped against him, doesn’t look up at you, or even take his gaze away from the trail for a moment. He steadily marches on with you slumped against his shoulder on your way back across the training field in the valley below the farm. Where his body meets the arm you have braced against him you are slick, soaked through with sweat. However uncomfortable the feel of his sticky, hot body is against yours you’ll take it all day every day over trying to walk unaided. Your battered foot feels hot, even out of the sun and the toes have swollen to the point where you couldn’t even get one of the flip flops Aarash offered you onto it. It probably smells too, but over the rest of you, nobody was ever going to notice. You tell him that the army sent you, you didn’t choose to be there. He snorts and shakes his head at that, making the kind of face you’d make after smelling off-milk. “Why do you join army?” YOU: [[I don’t know->SPOT: Don't know-b]] [[Protect my country->SPOT: Protect country-b]]

He stops and tilts his head slightly in your direction. The moment you stop moving it’s like the wind halts with you, leaving the sun to bear down on your bare neck and head unimpeded. His dark pupil squeezes into the corner of his squinting eye in order to consider yours for a moment. “You know… You know. Not ready to say.” He picks up pace again, dragging you and your swollen, leaden foot down the track. You ask why he joined the army, why he is fighting. He sighs and shrugs, his powerful shoulder thrusting the arm you have slumped over him up and down sharply. “Ahmadullah’s men come to my house. He says I join army. I join army.” You don’t ask what might have happened if he hadn’t agreed to join, instead you ask if his boss will be watching tomorrow’s practice. He nods, dropping into a gravelly, scratchy tone. [[“No practice. Tomorrow real.”->SPOT: Bellevue ii ALONE-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''“K’nan-dah” 2012''] From some distance you clock the two men sitting in the front of the battered old Toyota parked meters from the spot Aarash shot from the day before. As you slowly approach the first man, a rangy lad with the lengthy, angular build of a praying mantis leaps out and uses a small spade to dig a hole in which to secure a large parasol. The shade in the ground and up he then unfolds the kind of metal chair wrestlers pretend to hit each other with and plants it right in the sweet spot out of the sun. Once Aarash helps drag you to the shooting spot your captor in chief emerges from the passenger side of the car, strolls around the front of the vehicle and eases himself into the chair. He brings his hand, and the matt-black browning high power pistol gently gripped in it, into his lap. Ahmadullah gestures with his free hand to Mantis, who grabs the old bolt action rifle and a target from the car. He hastily hands Aarash the rifle and ammo, tucks the target under his arm and limply jogs towards the far end of the valley bed to plant the target pretty much where it was yesterday. In your estimation, judging by the way the lanky Mantis shrinks into the distance, its roughly one hundred metres away, perhaps very slightly longer. “Good of you to join us Mister. I hear Aarash here did well yesterday. Twenty-five… or was it twenty-six?” You don’t answer the question, instead saying that he did a good job. Mantis arrives back from setting up the target only to be redirected by another casual, open handed gesture by Ahmadullah. He picks up pace and runs to the back of the truck. “He will do better today I think.” The boot opens and mantis reaches in to haul a mute, skeletal tangle of awkward looking limbs from the vehicle. Two sharp blue eyes stare unblinkingly into the dirt, too broken to even glance up and look at you. His back and legs are covered in almost green hued bruises and deep red lashes. Each step forward stutters as though planting his feet causes some kind of shooting pain through his entire body. You can relate. The poor boy, the lad so full of life and questions in the back of the Mastiff on that fateful trip to Kandahar, allows himself to be awkwardly herded like cattle, wearing only the cuts and bruises given to him, from the truck to sit in the dirt at the feet of the passive, almost bored looking Major Dickhead. “So Mister. You show me better today. Better than this twenty-six.” He taps the gun against his lap impatiently as you give Aarash the range. He nods, adjusts his beret and asks if he should adjust the sight. With Ahmadullah watching you figure you dont have time for Aarash to get his eye in, your brain races to conjure an immediate scope adjustment. You think back to the previous day’s shoot and conjure and image of the target United ran back for you: The upper left corner blown away, a couple of shots scattered in the bottom left of the target and two good ones just left of centre. Fuck knows where the others landed. His elevation was decent in the main, but his windage had been awful. The middle of the bunch was probably two inches wide of the mark. You call out the adjustment to him: Top turret clockwise four clicks. He nods and makes the adjustment before dropping into his solid prone position on the floor. His hands smoothly slide the bolt open and push a round into the breech. You watch the barrel rise as he lets all the air out of his lungs before slowly filling them right back up and then letting a careful, controlled half breath out. The nose of the gun settles square with his body. His finger takes up the first pressure of the trigger. You try not to so much as glance at the poor, battered boy sitting before Ahmadullah. ... Mantis sprints back with the target clutched between his bony claws. As united had the day before he runs right by you and hands it to Aarash, who dusts himself off and thanks the lad. You want to ask, need to, but keep your mouth shut. You watch his face passively scan the target before marching over to Ahmadullah and handing it over. Aarash almost stands to attention in anticipation. You can barely breathe, rooted to the spot. The warlord nods and pats Aarash on the shoulder. He raises the pistol to the poor boy's head, as calmly as if pointing a remote at the telly. The young private closes his eyes and mumbles to himself, snot and saliva streaming down his trembling face. [[Your scream is drowned by the sound of the gunshot.->SPOT: NA, Liberation-d]]

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{ (track: 'Hangover in Minor', 'fadeout', 4) <script>A.track('All is Not Well').loop(true).playWhenPossible();</script> (track: 'All is Not Well', 'fadein', 4) } <a href="https://imgur.com/58Swiqj"><img src="https://i.imgur.com/58Swiqj.png" title="source: imgur.com" /></a> (text-style:"underline")[''Enroute to Kandahar, 2012''] Even hidden from the sun in the back of the truck the heat is stifling. A couple of fans strung up about the place limply push dry stinging air about the place. You tell yourself that a shower and a cold one is waiting at the end of the road, and maybe a few days rest before the next mission comes in. A cracking, effeminate voice cuts through the rumble and rattle of the vehicle. “Was it you… you know, who took the shot?” The private couldn’t be any older than eighteen, and he looks a good punt younger than that. His helmet, likely the smallest size they did, barely clings onto his tiny pin head and you’re amazed he can even stand in his full kit. His big blue eyes stare over at you like a pair of googly eyes slapped onto one of those little posable mannequins artists use. Every bounce and lurch of the vehicle threatens to launch him out of his seat and straight into the air. A quick glance up and down the truck reveals three other sets of eyes trained on you as the whole vehicle earwigs the conversation. The fourth, the only set ignoring you, belongs to the cuffed Major Dickhead. He calmly gazes at his feet as though the conversation wasn’t even happening. You tell him that snipers work as a team. It takes two to do the job. “Yea I know, the spotter and the shooter… your mate in the other truck, he’s got the rifle, was he the shooter?” You: [[Tell him->SNIPER: Kitchen c]] [[Keep it vague->SNIPER: Kitchen-b]]

(text-style:"underline")[''The Kent downs, 2002''] “Feels different to the bottles doesn’t it?” The poor creature writhes on the ground, kicking its fluffy back legs in the air and blinking rapidly. The wind out on the hillside seems to have died for a moment, making the tiny yelps and gasps of the animal bleeding out on the grass unmistakable. One of its eyes is a deep, opaque scarlet. The back of its head is torn, a dark brown gash cleaving the grey fur just below its long rigid ears. It rolls and kicks blindly, leaving a horrible bloody smear on the grass beneath it. Dad jabs a finger at it before giving it a gentle dig with the tip of his old worn boot. “This is why we move in to confirm the kill. Your shot was decent, but the job isn’t done.” You ask him if it will die anyway. It’s badly injured. He grunts, something like a chuckle. “No kind of man lets it go out like that. Kinder to finish him quickly.” It makes a bubbly, garbled squeal sound. “Get on with it boy.” You loft the barrel, line it up with the rabbit’s now openly bleeding eye. He pushes the barrel back down towards the ground. “Don’t waste the ammo... Hit it.” YOU: [[Kick the rabbit->SNIPER: BL MISS Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]] [[Use the butt of the gun->SNIPER: BL MISS Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]] [[Let it bleed out->SNIPER: BL MISS Outside Kandahar vi BD-a]]

(text-style:"underline")[''McDonald’s, Later...''] Annie's eyelids bulge with the weight of water building up behind them. She hasnt spoken in what seems like hours, just nodded and let out the occasional gasp or hum as you went on. It's tough to even look at her, as though a glance from those two gentle blue pools could somehow damage something precious deep inside you. Instead, eyes cast down to the old yellowed plastic table, you press on with the story. The events, the times and places come tumbling out more as a rough collage than a coherent narrative. She doesnt pull you up on the details or the timeline. She doesnt ask any questions or attempt to change the subject. When the words slow to a trickle and stop she exhales and wipes her sticky, freckled cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket. The distant sound of something being put in the frier fills the space between you for a moment. She raises her hands, making as though to reach over, but stops herself. Her hands stutter and hover in front of her. With a sharp "tut" sound she gives out a good humoured snort of air and reaches over anyway, placing her hands on your own. "Fuck... that's a lot." You nod limply and sniff back the mucus threatening to leap free from your nose and throat. It is, a lot. A black baseball capped member of staff starts awkwardly inching into your peripheral vision. The short yet somehow rangy kid, barely old enough to drive let alone serve you edible meals, plays with their little two star badge and clears their throat. "Can I get you anything..." "Does it look like it?" Annie snaps back at him, not rudely or aggressively, but with enough force to make him visibly shrink from view. She leans forward slightly to meet you eye to eye. "Have you like, talked to anyone about it?" You ask her what she thinks you're doing right now. "You know what I mean." You can't quite dredge up the words to explain exactly how or why you havent. No reason your brain can muster seems to ring true under inspection and immediately dissolves as you focus upon it. Instead your lips, expecting the answer at any moment, just flap around wordlessley. She smiles and runs an ever so gentle hand through your hair. "Doesn't matter...there's all the time in world for that. You want to get out of here?" (link: "You grip her hand tightly and nod.")[(goto-url: 'https://jblair440.wixsite.com/writing')]

(text-style:"underline")[''Snowsport England, Later...''] Kelly's body neatly absorbs the rifle's recoil. The sporting rifle's used for biathlon are only 5mm but, all the same her body position is great. In between shots she breaths steady, the rifle sits steady. Her biggest struggle initially was controlling her breath, as it would be having cross country skiied (or in this case run) for bloody miles before rocking up at the range. In your first meetings she was really keen to find some kind of workaround, a shortcut to more accurate shooting, but you gave her the heartbreaking news the Sarge first gave you on the march and shoot team. Just get fitter. Full credit to her, and the rest of the team, for taking that advice to heart. You could give them the technique and help them set up and adjust scopes (something thankfully easy given that they only ever shoot from fifty metres) but their heart rate and respiration would be the difference between winning and losing. The better you run, the better you shoot you'd told them. And they listened well. Through the binos you watch her fifth bullet smash down the fifth target. She slings the rifle over her shoulder, alongside the additional weight you are making her carry and takes off at a brisk pace. On her way out of the range she shoots you a smile and a thumbs up. You give her a nod on the way past. (link: "Good job kid.")[(goto-url: 'https://jblair440.wixsite.com/writing')]