"Stay sharp!" Recce-Warrant Ronald Taylor told Sniper-Warrant Sty Hume.   "You too." They traded glances, and went to opposite directions.  
  Hours later, "Sharp-shooter! Sharp-shooter!", the local civilians were chanting. In truth, the shot in question had been easy for Sty, a clear field, a section of heavy weapons to the side, blowing away nearby obstructions, a nearby commissar attempting to engage the target in melee, but from an angle where shooting through the target wouldn't pierce the friendly. No wind, no precipitation nor intervening obstacles. Distance, 100m. He'd been trying to get to this target since the beginning of the battle, but had just thinned the target's bodyguard of some bodies, chaos forces, amirite?   The brain matter on the commissar's great coat wasn't something he could really control, nor did he consider aiming anywhere but the head. The magister was a priority target, all snipers had been given a target list, with identification pictures, he was at the very top. Sty had already been commended by his commanding officer during the campaign, but he expected a decoration for this one.  
  "Ouch!" The 1st company of the 3rd battalion was fanning out to secure the area, after relieving 2nd battalion's first company, and they were having a hard time. Some spent grenades from the heavy weapons section that had been savaged before Commissar Goldenrod's intevention had left shrapnel all over the field, and some of it was still hot, all of it was very, very sharp. But the ordnance disposal folks, who had been called, had other, hotter, sections to get to first, so some of the regular soldiers were making do with their stalker-pattern gloves, who hadn't been made for this.   Sty walked to the company's commanding officer, to remind them that magnets would take care of some of that problem, and that better protective equipment could be requested from stores. It was why they were paying him Chief Warrant's pay, after all. Other times, well, other times, it just paid to be sharp.


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