Tiho remembered it perspicuously, those anxious nightfalls before his companions found themselves jolting onto battle. They would often gather around a flimsy light, share their thoughts, take a breather and simply work their minds out of the gruesome fact not all of them would reunite again. Dumont, a very roughened man, born and raised at Ivory Coast, picked up that beat up guitar, innately strumming a couples notes, bobbing heads and tapping feet ushered the song's rhythm, promptly infecting the entire squad. Random voices sung harmonically, laughter soothed the heavy atmosphere, hummings averted eyes from death's lingering presence throughout the field. Tihomir particularly despised said nights, the happiness didn't bother him, neither did the possibility of loss.
Dumont simply never remembered to tune his instrument.
An overlooked detail, seldom noticed by any of those with an average audition, but the Mad Mutt had always been recognisable by such a keen hearing, always complaining about the live music pubs soldiers were granted free drinks at. At the end of the day, it was not unlike waging itself. Minor details such as forgetting to cleanse your rifle's parts could lead to your downfall. Dumont never quite comprehended it, hence why Tiho was the one sitting behind a sniper rifle, serving a huge potency such as America in a rather delicate task not many heard about.
Today was in no way distinct from older days, the battlefield and the visages on his crosshairs weren't the same but that was about it.
The battle begins as any jazz song would, small, gradually growing, teasing men's inherent lack of patience with a tranquil crescendo, it was as if he could hear the piano, the saxophone, a melody to rally the hearts of the ones present. His finger firmly hovers above the trigger, vigilant eyes, the music's tone continually grows, it's as if it's about to outburst. Click. His first shot makes the sax go wild, all the serenity is lost, yet there is still a beat to be pursued, the battle morphs into some exciting form of free jazz. Chords are exchanged, tempos are broken, yet amid such a chaotic symphony, you can still sense the heart of it all.
This ostensibly messy song, it's artistic in its own right.
Tiho rushed to his other sniping spot with an image in his mind. Razor's grin as both bullets viciously punctured her skin, a monstrosity such as herself would never bend a knee against all odds. Perhaps she could hear it too? The songs of the battlegrounds, those who made his heart pump blood unlike anything else. Trumpets go off and the song is now a cluttered cacophony of noises, yet between all those aggressive tones, there is still the core of the music. The heart of battle. It echoes beautifully within himself, it always did, like they were both in synthony.
Song and listener.
Bloodshed and soldier.
Crouching into position, the sharpshooter mounted his rifle as hell broke loose in a distance. The song cuts off abruptly, it's no time to have a rushing heart, it's no time to consider tackling the issues head-on, a good soldier can adapt and overcome any situation, yet only the flawless soldier can do so without giving in to temptation. Thorny Tiho had the upper hand, until further notice he would maintain it. Reaching for one of his suit's many pouches, the soldier cautiously pulled out a petite vial in order to spice their encounter even more. Its content was a highly concentrated substance renowned to Australian beaches. Box jellyfish's venom. In any quantity, it was known to forcefully enter your blood stream, more specifically red cells, and make them porous enough to leak potassium, therefore hindering the beating of your heart.
In two to five minutes of tremendous agony, the victims die of cardiac arrest.
A pair of tweezers calmly picked each bullet of his new round, coating them in aforementioned venom before placing them back into the magazine. Five shots, two armor-piercing rounds at first and then another three Carbonadium projectiles. His bias was crystalline thus far. A couple minutes and Tiho's deadly gaze is into his weapon's scope. The girl's quaint sword is problematic, one miscalculation could mean she had enough time to bail, run for any cover. It had to be a perfect shot, one worthy of his marksman's career.
Aim steadies on the sword's portion covering her head. It was time to test its durability. He begins to hum.
"I don't want to set the world on fireeeee."
Click.
His angle shifts a tad, it's now entirely focused on her chest, hopefully slightly uncovered by the shock of the first shot.
"I just want to staaaart, a flame in your heaaaart."
Click.
He crawls a bit immediately after the second bullets leaves, turning his rifle around, attempting to find an opening. Razor's too distracted brawling against the behemoth of a man, momentarily hidden from his sight.
"In my heart I have but one desireeeeee."
She leapt once in an attempt to slice the herculean figure's stalwart frame, landing once more in a place he could finally get a better shot at.
"And that one is yoooooou."
Click.
Click.
Click.
"No other will do."
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