"Get down!"
A shot rang out from across the way as the turian released the heat sink of his Mantis. The hiss was immediately drowned out by more gunfire and yelling and screaming down below, while his teammates fired and suppressed the nasties that ran towards them from the depths. Death surrounded him, not to his surprise; it felt just like the war all over again. Here, another teammate falling to rifle fire from within the shadows, there another turian lobbing a grenade into a charging mob, the explosion tearing and shredding flesh and bone like wet paper. As the fight slowed down, he scanned the battlefield and reevaluated their positions. A change was in order; if they stayed any longer, death was a certainty. The group had already lost too many, and he didn't want to lose any more than was necessary.
Out of the corner of his scope, he saw more of the red-shirted fiends readying for another attack. He sighted in and waited for them to make their move, which they did almost immediately.
"Got another charge coming in straight from the front fellas, hold."
With the weapon cool, he slapped the sink back into the rifle's housing and steadied it. Another shot rang out not long after, bursting a head like an overripe melon as the firefight resumed in earnest. The turian lined up another shot, waited a second to let his heat sink cool, and then squeezed the trigger. A third shot sped its way towards its intended target, shoving through flesh and tissue like a hot knife through butter. Beneath him, energy pulses and explosives and plasma fire peppered his team's fire zone, forcing those further out to retreat backwards. A biotic burst tore through ranks of advancing red on the left, while on the right combined plasma fire downed a heavy.
It was madness. Chaos.
War.
A rocket tore into the low wall his team leader hid behind, flinging the greenskin to the ground. Without hesitation the turian zoomed his scope in on the rocket launcher itself. His finger squeezed the trigger and his rifle barked, tearing the launcher apart at the impact point, detonating the charge the enemy team was busy loading, tearing them to pieces in a heartbeat. While the enemy scrambled to recover, his hand shot to his headset.
"Team leader is hit, I repeat, team leader is hit. Nik is down, say again, Nik is down -"
A round pinged against the ledge was lying on top of, forcing him to duck down. Through the scope of his Mantis he found a Crimson Fist sniper team situated on the roof of a building across the way. They were sighted on him, but not for much longer; he saw the larger rifle swivel downward and buck once, and a soldier down below lost his head. The roar of the rifle reached him two seconds later. It was unmistakable.
A Widow...
The anti-armour rifle was long thought to be a myth. There was one on the field right now, man operated and absolutely deadly.
He shifted his aim. Better to take out that sniper before someone else died.
Several days before...
Hazan leapt deftly out of the floating shuttle and onto the rooftop they were above. Second out, but first to cover the action, so to speak. With Mantis at the ready he advanced to the edge of the roof and set up shop, casting his sights down on whatever lay below.
His role here was simple enough: they were meeting someone called Jek the Butcher and he was to be overwatch for the meet. If their contact tried anything funny, he'd have a round through his brain faster than anyone could react. Funny story between their target and the contact, but he wasn't one to concern himself with the fluff of the contract. All he kept in mind was the big target painted on one krogan's ugly head, and Jek was apparently their key to getting at the leader of the Crimson Fist.
The Crimson Fist. What was once a tiny little mercenary company, now was one of the leading companies in the Terminus System, right behind the Blue Suns in terms of popularity. Say what you wanted about Qiyrloc Sirn, but the krogan knew how to run a merc company well. In the three years Hazan had spent on Omega, he'd had several run-ins with the fists when they were emerging in strength and skill. Mostly hit-and-run contracts against the lower rungs; runners, enforcers and the like, nothing too serious. Then a time had come when he was given a contract to end one of the Fists' top section commanders. He'd gone and done it, of course, a bolt to the head from several hundred meters away, business as usual. That act earned him a sizable bounty on his head, set by Qiyrloc himself. All they knew of him was that he was the Ghost of Omega, a roving sniper and bounty hunter. Nothing else. He'd gotten away unscathed and untouched. The Fists eventually forgot him, though the bounty still stood.
And now here he was, back again, this time to end the Fists and their reign of terror. The briefing provided by Nikusiil still sat in his head, ringing clear and true; this Jek used to be a Fist. That was how they were going to get back at Sirn.
Some meet. Feh.
Hazan adjusted his grip on his rifle. The meeting area was a small, abandoned marketplace in one of the emptier corners of Omega. They were to sit down and discuss terms, of course, and hopefully not get each other killed in the process. From his position on the roof he had an excellent view of the whole plaza and market, one he did not think to abandon.
"Haze here. Overwatch is up and a go. You guys head on down, I'll have you covered."
SkyeOfStars