A Challenge answer/example
Jun. 25th, 2005 04:11 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
thekristeen.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
mag7fansOkay, I cheated. I wrote this while I was in the pokey, before coming home and announcing the challenge that had been driving me crazy for weeks. I can't believe the first draft of this was written on actual paper with an actual pen. I've never done that before.
Anyway--follow the cut to my first completed Mag7 fan fic story. Comments eagerly invited (especially if they're wildly complimentary.) This isn't written in my usual style, but it seemed to fit the theme of this thing. It might be a little obvious, but I'm generally pleased with it. I hope y'all are too.
Boring disclaimer: Never will be mine, but I'll happily play with them and hand them back mostly none the worse for wear. I'm making no profit off of this--it's for my own amusement, and I can only hope someone else finds it amusing too.
ONE SHOT
by Kristeen Spooner
Even in the increasingly rag-tag ranks of an army full of men who had done things--violent things, grisly things--that they had never dreamed they would do, the sniper stood out for special approbation.
Even knowing his utility, knowing his work saved lives among the comrades who barely tolerated his existence, they were becoming too many days when the sniper felt the same way about himself.
He'd stopped working with a spotter long ago. No spotter had the patience to work with him. Some said the man would wait out Judgment Day if that was what it took to get his shot--and he never missed. The young man joked sometimes he was so poor growing up that his family couldn't afford not to eat whatever he brought home from hunting with the one bullet he was allowed, and there were times they'd be eating tree bark if that was what he killed.
At least they thought he was joking. It was hard to tell with the quiet young man--little more than a boy, really, but that was becoming too many in the Confederate forces to be remarked on any longer.
This was a day when all joking was set aside for the sake of grim purpose.
The sniper took care not to let the sun reflect off his spy glass. He'd take his time surveying the blue belly encampment in the narrow valley below; perched in an oak tree, his butternut dyed homespun that passed for a uniform for much of the Army now--except for what they scavenged from the Yankee dead--blended easily into the background.
Like most of his life, he barely existed in the eyes of men. Now, waiting, and watching in stillness, he barely existed to himself.
One shot. It was all he knew in that time of waiting. All he needed to know was where it would go. He was closer than usual. There would only be time for one shot before the cavalry detachment below mounted up and rode in hot pursuit of their Captain's killer.
He would make it count.
He had been sent out not as a soldier today. His orders made him little better than an assassin. It wouldn't be the first time. Or the last.
The cavalry men below had become notorious for their harassment along the Army's outer flanks; disrupting communications, taking supply trains, generally making a deadly nuisance of themselves. The sniper figured it was a case of the blue bellies turning his own side's tactics back on itself, but it wasn't for him to say.
He had his orders. One shot. Pick out the leader of the Union detachment, and kill him.
One shot was all it would take.
It took awhile to find his target. The men below were nearly as as unkempt a bunch as his own platoon, at least in informality. No one saluted or jumped to attention as another man passed. There were surely officers down there, but who they were had taken some considerable reckoning.
He had him now.
A man had ridden in alone, looking on the surface like any any scout or courier, until he saw men approach him as he dismounted. No salutes, but the respectful deference was clear as one man held his horse's bridal, and others waited for him to loosen the saddle and see the horse led away. They then walked along with the newcomer, a slender blond man wearing an untrimmed beard, giving their reports and awaiting his orders.
Yes, this man was in command. That was clear even without outer trappings. He had the presence of a leader; men would follow this man. Of that, the sniper was sure.
The man took off his cap and knocked the dust off of it, pushing his hair back with his fingers, then stopped to talk to one of his men. The sniper saw his chance. It wouldn't take more than a moment to line up his sights, find his target, aim for the killing shot that was his job--some might say his gift.
Sometimes, he said to his own heart, his curse.
The man turned to look at something, following the gaze of one of the men around him. The sniper chanced a look as well, and felt his gut clench.
A line of men, roped together, hands tied, shuffled into the periphery of the Union encampment, guards walking on every side. The blue belly guards looked footsore. Their prisoners looked half dead. At least thirty Confederates came to a halt at the guard's command; few among them could stand a moment longer as they fell out of line, like dropped puppets with their strings binding them together.
The slender officer approached the sergeant in charge of the prisoners. Even from the his distant perch, the sniper could see anger thrumming through him with every step. He pointed past the sergeant at the prisoners, clearly demanding answers. The sniper was impressed to see how his men quietly gathered around and behind their Captain with no apparent order to do so.
They were loyal men.
They were also quick to react when the Captain ran out of his obviously limited patience and knocked out the sergeant with one uppercut to the jaw. Among his own men there suddenly appeared a forest of carbines and and hand guns, leveled on the guards left standing, lest they decide to protest.
Wisely, they did not.
The cavalrymen stripped away the guard's weapons and led them to the shade nearby. Others surrounded the the prisoners, bringing out canteens and what looked like hardtack and jerky, followed by plates of beans. The prisoners fell on it like wolves. Some, too weak to feed themselves, looked wearily surprised as the blue bellies took to helping them. Bandages flashed white as a few set to binding neglected wounds.
If the Yanks weren't being particular tender, they clearly shared their Captain's disgust at the prisoners' treatment. They were human beings in those disreputable blue uniforms.
The sniper lined up his sights again. He was under orders. One shot, then skedaddle, get back to his lines quick. One shot, and the troops waiting farther back in the hills would take advantage of the confusion and make their attack.
It all waited on the result of the sniper's skill, that was never in doubt.
The sniper gently pulled back on the trigger. He made his shot.
It ricocheted away harmlessly at the Captain's feet. The man might yet die today, but not by the sniper's bullet.
He didn't wait to see what happened next in the camp down below. Minutes later he rejoined his company, and found the word already spreading like wild fire--he'd missed his shot.
He endured the ribbing, and worse, spending two days on the front end of his comrades' ridicule. On the third, the muster found him gone, his long rifle with him.
No one tried to follow the deserter. No one found Vin Tanner when he chose not to be found.
* * * * *
The Union captain jumped for cover as the shot from nowhere ricocheted at his feet, his men wasting no time in doing the same. He found shelter behind a rock fall on the far side of the camp, a moment later joined by his lieutenant. "Hold your positions, and no firing until we have something to aim at," he told the younger man. "Probably just some Reb hot head taking a potshot, but we'd best be ready in case it ain't."
"Yes, sir." The young officer passed on the order to his sergeant, then turned his attention back to his captain. "Sir, about that guard--"
"No food or water for those prisoners in two days march? Let 'em court martial me. I could use the rest in a nice stockade." He allowed the young--too young--officer a smile. "Don't worry, Simms. Anyone pitches a fit over this, I don't think he'll find a credible witness. Do you?"
Simms smiled back. "Not a one, sir."
Captain Larabee's smile turned into a feral grin. He never doubted it.
THE END
Anyway--follow the cut to my first completed Mag7 fan fic story. Comments eagerly invited (especially if they're wildly complimentary.) This isn't written in my usual style, but it seemed to fit the theme of this thing. It might be a little obvious, but I'm generally pleased with it. I hope y'all are too.
Boring disclaimer: Never will be mine, but I'll happily play with them and hand them back mostly none the worse for wear. I'm making no profit off of this--it's for my own amusement, and I can only hope someone else finds it amusing too.
ONE SHOT
by Kristeen Spooner
Even in the increasingly rag-tag ranks of an army full of men who had done things--violent things, grisly things--that they had never dreamed they would do, the sniper stood out for special approbation.
Even knowing his utility, knowing his work saved lives among the comrades who barely tolerated his existence, they were becoming too many days when the sniper felt the same way about himself.
He'd stopped working with a spotter long ago. No spotter had the patience to work with him. Some said the man would wait out Judgment Day if that was what it took to get his shot--and he never missed. The young man joked sometimes he was so poor growing up that his family couldn't afford not to eat whatever he brought home from hunting with the one bullet he was allowed, and there were times they'd be eating tree bark if that was what he killed.
At least they thought he was joking. It was hard to tell with the quiet young man--little more than a boy, really, but that was becoming too many in the Confederate forces to be remarked on any longer.
This was a day when all joking was set aside for the sake of grim purpose.
The sniper took care not to let the sun reflect off his spy glass. He'd take his time surveying the blue belly encampment in the narrow valley below; perched in an oak tree, his butternut dyed homespun that passed for a uniform for much of the Army now--except for what they scavenged from the Yankee dead--blended easily into the background.
Like most of his life, he barely existed in the eyes of men. Now, waiting, and watching in stillness, he barely existed to himself.
One shot. It was all he knew in that time of waiting. All he needed to know was where it would go. He was closer than usual. There would only be time for one shot before the cavalry detachment below mounted up and rode in hot pursuit of their Captain's killer.
He would make it count.
He had been sent out not as a soldier today. His orders made him little better than an assassin. It wouldn't be the first time. Or the last.
The cavalry men below had become notorious for their harassment along the Army's outer flanks; disrupting communications, taking supply trains, generally making a deadly nuisance of themselves. The sniper figured it was a case of the blue bellies turning his own side's tactics back on itself, but it wasn't for him to say.
He had his orders. One shot. Pick out the leader of the Union detachment, and kill him.
One shot was all it would take.
It took awhile to find his target. The men below were nearly as as unkempt a bunch as his own platoon, at least in informality. No one saluted or jumped to attention as another man passed. There were surely officers down there, but who they were had taken some considerable reckoning.
He had him now.
A man had ridden in alone, looking on the surface like any any scout or courier, until he saw men approach him as he dismounted. No salutes, but the respectful deference was clear as one man held his horse's bridal, and others waited for him to loosen the saddle and see the horse led away. They then walked along with the newcomer, a slender blond man wearing an untrimmed beard, giving their reports and awaiting his orders.
Yes, this man was in command. That was clear even without outer trappings. He had the presence of a leader; men would follow this man. Of that, the sniper was sure.
The man took off his cap and knocked the dust off of it, pushing his hair back with his fingers, then stopped to talk to one of his men. The sniper saw his chance. It wouldn't take more than a moment to line up his sights, find his target, aim for the killing shot that was his job--some might say his gift.
Sometimes, he said to his own heart, his curse.
The man turned to look at something, following the gaze of one of the men around him. The sniper chanced a look as well, and felt his gut clench.
A line of men, roped together, hands tied, shuffled into the periphery of the Union encampment, guards walking on every side. The blue belly guards looked footsore. Their prisoners looked half dead. At least thirty Confederates came to a halt at the guard's command; few among them could stand a moment longer as they fell out of line, like dropped puppets with their strings binding them together.
The slender officer approached the sergeant in charge of the prisoners. Even from the his distant perch, the sniper could see anger thrumming through him with every step. He pointed past the sergeant at the prisoners, clearly demanding answers. The sniper was impressed to see how his men quietly gathered around and behind their Captain with no apparent order to do so.
They were loyal men.
They were also quick to react when the Captain ran out of his obviously limited patience and knocked out the sergeant with one uppercut to the jaw. Among his own men there suddenly appeared a forest of carbines and and hand guns, leveled on the guards left standing, lest they decide to protest.
Wisely, they did not.
The cavalrymen stripped away the guard's weapons and led them to the shade nearby. Others surrounded the the prisoners, bringing out canteens and what looked like hardtack and jerky, followed by plates of beans. The prisoners fell on it like wolves. Some, too weak to feed themselves, looked wearily surprised as the blue bellies took to helping them. Bandages flashed white as a few set to binding neglected wounds.
If the Yanks weren't being particular tender, they clearly shared their Captain's disgust at the prisoners' treatment. They were human beings in those disreputable blue uniforms.
The sniper lined up his sights again. He was under orders. One shot, then skedaddle, get back to his lines quick. One shot, and the troops waiting farther back in the hills would take advantage of the confusion and make their attack.
It all waited on the result of the sniper's skill, that was never in doubt.
The sniper gently pulled back on the trigger. He made his shot.
It ricocheted away harmlessly at the Captain's feet. The man might yet die today, but not by the sniper's bullet.
He didn't wait to see what happened next in the camp down below. Minutes later he rejoined his company, and found the word already spreading like wild fire--he'd missed his shot.
He endured the ribbing, and worse, spending two days on the front end of his comrades' ridicule. On the third, the muster found him gone, his long rifle with him.
No one tried to follow the deserter. No one found Vin Tanner when he chose not to be found.
* * * * *
The Union captain jumped for cover as the shot from nowhere ricocheted at his feet, his men wasting no time in doing the same. He found shelter behind a rock fall on the far side of the camp, a moment later joined by his lieutenant. "Hold your positions, and no firing until we have something to aim at," he told the younger man. "Probably just some Reb hot head taking a potshot, but we'd best be ready in case it ain't."
"Yes, sir." The young officer passed on the order to his sergeant, then turned his attention back to his captain. "Sir, about that guard--"
"No food or water for those prisoners in two days march? Let 'em court martial me. I could use the rest in a nice stockade." He allowed the young--too young--officer a smile. "Don't worry, Simms. Anyone pitches a fit over this, I don't think he'll find a credible witness. Do you?"
Simms smiled back. "Not a one, sir."
Captain Larabee's smile turned into a feral grin. He never doubted it.
THE END
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