In his former life as a tracker of dangerous game in the unforgiving Australian outback, the Sniper would spend months by himself. Prolonged isolation taught him a valuable lesson: You don't have to rely on other people if you never miss.
The Sniper is a tough and ready crack shot. The Sniper's main role on the battlefield is to pick off important enemy targets from afar using his Sniper Rifle and its ability to headshot. He is effective at long range, but weaker at close range, where he is forced to use his Submachine Gun or his Kukri. As a result, the Sniper tends to perch on higher grounds or in hard-to-see places, where he can easily pin down enemies at chokepoints.
Although he is typically known for instantaneously killing enemies at a distance, the Sniper can use the Huntsman to get closer to the enemy. Additionally, the Sydney Sleeper, or the mysterious Jarate allow him to take on a support role by causing enemies to take increased damage.
Battle vs. Jyn (by Sir William Of Chalitton)Edit
No battle was written
Winner : The Sniper
Although Jyn's hand and eye coordination is good, the Sniper is more experienced in real life than Jyn himself. Plus, the creativity of the Sniper made him won the day.
Battle vs. John "Soap" MacTavish (by Urbancommando77)Edit
No battle written
Winner- Soap MacTavish
Soap was victorious in this battle because he had better weapons, training and more versatility. The Sniper was a powerful fighter, but he was mostly skilled in long range, and when the fight was closer he couldn't keep up- not to mention that he was an enigma, with so little known about his past and training which kept him from being able to keep up.
Battle vs. Robert Muldoon (by Lachlan Blake)Edit
The fight opens in the security complex of Jurassic Park, in Muldoon's office an alarm goes off, there has been an intruder in the park! Muldoon takes his guns from a compartment below his desk and heads to his jeep. He believes that a dinosaur has breached its enclosure, so he takes his sleeping darts and loads them into his gun.
as he turns the corner he sees a guard slumped against a jeep, he has a heavy calibre bullet in his head, Muldoon now knows that there is a greater threat, an assassin. he jumps to the floor as an arrow flies past his head.
"G'day mate! gonna have to kill ya! sorry about this" says a figure in the door way.
"Oh yeah, you like living dangerously do you!" says Muldoon, taking a swig of whiskey.
Muldoon gets up and fires a shot with his pistol that is stopped by The Sniper's bullet proof vest, The Sniper then shoots another arrow at Muldoon and the waits. When Muldoon stood up to shut his pistol again he got hit full in the face by a jar, which shattered in his face and urine spilled into his eyes.
Muldoon, temporarily blinded ran towards his office where he knew his RPG would be, but ran straight into The Sniper, kukri in hand.
"got you now, mate" said The Sniper slashing with his knife and hitting Muldoons arm.
Muldoon punched The Sniper in the face and ran to his office, grabbing his RPG from the case under his desk and jumping through his office's window out into the park.
Meanwhile, The Sniper was taking position behind a pipe, sniper rifle ready, he sees Muldoon aiming his Remmington at him.
"The bullets come out of the slim end, mate!" yelled the sniper, and shot through the barrel of Muldoons gun, destroying it.
Muldoon, knowing that he could not win the fight at range ran towards The Sniper, who was relocating to a different spot, and fired his RPG, knocking The Sniper to the ground.
"I can't kill you, but I can hurt you a lot" said Muldoon, standing over The Sniper,"did I mention that you were a clever man?"
Muldoon gave The Sniper over to the Costa Rica police but The Sniper soon escaped with the help of a large bald man and a smartly dressed man with a cigarette and a balaclava.
END RESULT; MULDOON WINS
This was not too hard of a win for Muldoon, as he had far more experience, having fought large beasts, contrary to the Sniper.
Battle vs. John Rambo (by Wassboss)Edit
Rambo is sitting on a log sharpening his knife. Little does he know he is being watched. Watched by the sniper. The sniper pulls out his sniper rifle and charges up the shot as he aims at rambo’s head. He smiles and he fires. However just at that moment Rambo drops his knife. He bends down to get it as the bullet flies past his head. Rambo jumps up in full alert. The sniper cusses under his breath and fires again. But because rambo is moving about the bullet misses him. Rambo picks up his Dragunove and starts to scan the trees looking for his enemy. The sniper fires again but because he has lost concentration it only grazes rambo’s shoulder. Having located his target rambo fires into the tree the sniper is hiding in. It does not hit him but it hits, and breaks, his sniper rifle. Cussing once again the sniper climbs down the tree. When he hits the floor he pulls out his huntsman bow and starts to creep towards rambo.
Meanwhile rambo satisfied the threat is gone is about to sit down when suddenly an arrow flies past his head. He looks in the direction and sees the sniper bow in hand ready to fire another arrow. Rambo reacts quickly and pulls out his colt pistol and fires at the sniper. The sniper ducks down just in time as a barrage of bullets flies over his head and he silently begins to circle round the back of rambo. Rambo walks over to the bush where the sniper was just and rips them down firing his pistol at the now bare ground. He scratches his head wondering where he has gone. He realises just in time and turns as an arrow hits his pistol knocking it out of his hands. The sniper emerges from some tall grass and fires another arrow at rambo. However rambo is ready and dodges to the side pulling out his own bow and fire five arrows in quick succession. Most of them miss but one hits the sniper in the shoulder.
The sniper cusses yet again and discards his bow for his kukri and rambo pulls out his hunting knife. The both square each other up before charging at one another. They start to fight with each one blocking the others stabs and swings. After several long minutes of duelling rambo manages to knock the kukri out of the snipers hand. He then kicks him knocking him down. The sniper reaches for his knife but rambo steps on his hand and points the knife at his face.” Any last words” he says inching the knife closer to the snipers face. “Yeah” the sniper replies “EAT MY P*SS” and, with his spare, hand throws the jar of Jarate at rambo’s face.
Rambo step back as the liquid inside is burning his eyes. The Sniper picks up his knife and goes over to rambo intending to finish him off. However rambo just manages to wipe the foul smelling liquid out of his eyes just in time to dodge the snipers two handed stab. Rambo pulls out his hunting knife and slashes the sniper across the face blinding him. He then thrusts his knife into the snipers eyeball, twists it, and pulls out the snipers brain. The snipers body stays standing for a few more seconds before it crumples in a heap on the floor. Rambo spits on him and then goes back to sharpening his knife.
WINNER: JOHN RAMBO
Rambo won because he was good at all ranges, while The Sniper was really only good at long range.
Battle vs. Craig Boone (by BeastMan14)Edit
The Sniper walked through the mountains of the Mojave. After the war, the team discovered whenever they died, they just....came back to life back at 2Fort. They went their separate ways, and the Sniper had been a mercenary ever since. He had taken a mission from some man with a wolf on his head named Inculta to take out a squad of NCR rangers that had been hassling them. Sniper paused, then looked through the scope of his rifle. He had em. Chuckling, he opened fire, the round dropping the first Ranger, and the others panic and scatter for cover. "Like Christmas mornin!" He shouted as he crouched into a good position. He was gonna be here a while.
The Courier and Boone were doing what they had to do a lot. Walking. Courier had heard something about a group of women with rolling pins mugging strangers at Freeside. Someone was willing to pay to big money for their heads, and the Courier and his gang always delivered. He brought Boone along, in the odd event he needed backup. Suddenly, his NCR radio bursts out,"This is Ranger squad 12 calling in! We are under fire by a sniper, near Highway 95! We need backup ASAP!" "We gonna help them?" Boone asked flatly. "No. Serves em right for sticking around after Mr. House thrashed them at the Dam." The Courier responded, unflinching. Boone stopped, his voice beginning to show some of his inner rage. "We. Do. Not. Leave. Men. Behind. We clear?" Courier sighed, "Fine. We'll go."
The Rangers found themselves stuck behind a cover point as rounds slammed into cars, one of their comrades already dead, and another nursing his stump of an arm. The firing stopped, and for a moment, the Rangers thought it was over. Suddenly, their radio chimed in, and a voice, heavy Australian accented, said over the other line,"Hold on chap. Just gotta get some more ammo." Whistling, he switched his end of the radio off. "We don't have much time. Please let someone get here in time." One of the Rangers shouted into the radio. Just then, a voice shouted,"You're in luck. 150 caps and you'll have a savior." The Courier and Boone stood waiting. "What? We don't have time for this!" The Courier laughed,"Well then. 300 caps it is." The Ranger stared at him with an exasperated look. "We don't have time! Here!" He tosses a sack of caps at the Courier. "Well then, in that case. Here we come to the rescue. Boone? Any idea where this sniper might be?" Boone slid into cover, looking around. "If I were in his position, I'd be at that hill." He points. "Well, my flamer doesn't have that good of a reach. Looks like its up to you Boone." The Courier shrugs, then begins to flip through a magazine as Boone draws his rifle and opens fire. Meanwhile, on the hill, the round slams right next to the Sniper's head. "Blimey!" He cries, then jams more ammo into his own rifle. "Well, bout bloody time you wankers started fighting back." He grins. Looks like he was gonna be here a while.
The Sniper put aside another jar, this full, just like the last. He stared through the scope at the Rangers hiding point, well covered as always. "Come on wanker. Poke your bloody head out. Do something." He hated it when the prey knew they were done for, but wouldn't admit it. He sighed, before aiming just above the car and firing, the round pinging off its hood. A Ranger clearly panics, and begins to reach for his rifle. Boom, headshot. "Dropping like flies now, are ya." The Sniper chuckles right before a round tears through his shoulder. "AH! Bloody goddamn hell!" The Sniper shouts, scooting backwards, holding his shoulder.
"I got him." Boone says coldly, lowering his rifle. The Courier and the Ranger's look up, surprised. "Really?" The Courier asks. "He ain't dead. But I think I did something." Boone kept his eyes on the hill. "Wait. Get down." Boone whispered, pushing the Courier back into cover. "Ow. Jesus." Courier mumbles, rubbing his injured forehead. He never really did recover from Benny's attack. The other Ranger's all take cover. After a second, nothing happened. A few seconds later, nothing continued to happen. "Great, good to know pushing me down was neccesar-" The round tore the car door and into the Courier's leg. "AGH! GODDAMN MOTHERFU-" The Courier held his leg and fell onto his back. "I NEED A STIMPAK!" Courier shouts. "Shhh! Be quiet!" Boone hisses. "Knew I should have brought Cass or Gannon. Then I wouldn't be in this goddamm mess." Courier growls through gritted teeth.
The Sniper chuckled, his shoulder freshly bandaged and on its way to healing thanks to some of that weird liquid stuff the Medic had kept in his gun. Good ol Medic. Sniper sighed, sometimes he missed his team. But he couldn't get distracted now. He grinned,"Looks like I got someone." as he saw one of their members continue to roll around, holding his leg. "Walk it off. Teach you to stand around in my scope like a bloody idiot." Sniper mumbled as he crouched back down again. As the sun began to set, Sniper tipped his hat to his unseen sniper foe. "Not too bad. I'd like to see your face before I finish ya off."
Boone looked down at the Courier. They had passed out from blood loss hours ago, he needed to get them a Stimpak soon, or they'd bleed out. "I got a plan. Take them and get out of here, keep your radio here and set it to as loud as it could go. I'll keep you covered for as long as possible, try to take the safest route to the nearest base." Boone says to the Rangers. They nod, hoisting the Courier over their shoulder. "We don't know who you are, but thank you." The lead Ranger says, before Boone opens fire on the Sniper's position. "Come on you son of a bitch. You want a fight, let's fight."
Sniper ducked with each shot that slammed closer to his head. "Easy now!" He said, rolling out of the way. When he looked up, he saw what this guy was trying to do. The last three Ranger's were running as fast as they could, with someone on their leader's back. "Nice try. But you ain't gettin' away that easy." He focused the scope on the back of the one in front, holding his breath, waiting for the right moment. "Got ya." Sniper said just as music blared right out of nowhere, the sound of it echoing across the Mojave. "What in the bloody.." The Sniper mumbled under his breath as he focused on the source of the music. The cluster of cars. "Where are ya? Where are ya?" The Sniper growled. "A round hit the hat off his head. "Right here!" Boone cried as he dashed up the hill, quickly switching his rifle for his machete. "So you're the tough wanker I've been facing. Damn good job!" The Sniper shouted as he drew his kukri. The radio continues to play.
Threw the town there came a stranger with a big iron on his hip...
Boone thrusts forward, with Sniper barely sidestepping. He drives his boot into Boone's gut, sending him staggering back. He swipes downward, with Boone locking blades with Sniper, pushing with all his might. "I've fought just about every damn thing in this desert. What makes you think you're gonna come out of this alive, you son of a bitch!" Boone shouts as he overpowers the Sniper and knocks him to the ground. "I'm ending this. Now!" Boone says as he raises the machete over his head to finish off Sniper. Desperately fumbling for something, Sniper grabs a jar and hurls it into Boone's face. "Gah! What the hell?" Boone cries, holding his face. Sniper leaps up and drives the kukri into Boone's stomach. Boone falls to his knees, fumbling for something in his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, looking down at it. "Ca...Carla. I'm sorry." He chokes out before tumbling to the ground, dead. "Sorry I had to do it mate. Just business." Sniper tipped his hat to his fallen foe. He almost felt bad. Almost. Seeing his targets are gone, Sniper walked off into the hills.
Three days later...
The Courier really didn't know how they ended up in those situations. Last thing they remembered, they had a hole in their leg and Boone was fighting a sniper. Now, they were in the desert, surrounded by Legionaries. "For Ceaser! Our fallen leader!" One cried. Inculta. Knew they should have killed him in New Vegas. "For all your crimes against the Legion, you shall be crucified." Inculta said calmly, then reached for the Courier's bound together hands. Suddenly, a round tore through his skull and he fell to the ground. All heads whipped to where a figure in red stood in the horizon. "Not so bloody fast." The Sniper said. As an apology for what he's done, he was gonna keep this guy safe.
WINNER: THE SNIPER
While Boone had greater training and experience, he was greatly hindered by his low mental health; he was literally suicidal. The Sniper, on the other hand, was perfectly healthy, enjoying what he does, and wanting to live. He was far less likely to make a mistake during battle, unlike Boone, who could more easily let his frustrations cloud his judgement.
Battle vs. Simo Häyhä, Carlos Hathcock, Vasily Zaytsev, and MacMillian (by El Alamein)Edit
Click... click.... click...
With bated breath, Captain MacMillan slowly but deliberately adjusted the knob on the scope of his M21 sniper rifle, trying to get the optics to focus. It's bloody difficult gettin' anethan' in focus with this fog everywhere, he though to himself, and mah damn ghillie suit ain't helpin' much. He reached up and pushed the semi-transparent mesh covering his face to the side, wiping the sweat off his brow and squinting harder into his scope. His USP pistol sat holstered at his hip, two claymore mines strung along a shoulder-pack that rested on the ground. He sat, crouched low and cross-legged in a scraggly brush, where the irregular outline of the shrub coupled with the camouflage on his ghillie suit would keep him well-hidden while he prepared himself for the hunt. The sun shone weakly in the cold morning, small streaks of pink and orange daring to penetrate through the fog, before the hostile gray-white mist swallowed it up again. It was quiet - very quiet. MacMillan could hear water running off in the distance, and every so often a flock of birds would suddenly take to the sky or a startled deer would bolt into the open. These mistakes would be fatal for his opponents later on, he noted silently, but for right now, he had to ensure that his weapons were in working order before he took to the fight.
Halfway across the city and with a grimy face smeared in the soot caked under the pile of rubble where he lay, Vasily Zaytsev scanned the horizon, peering up into the shadowy trees that were slowly being illuminated in the waxing sunlight. He was looking toward the west - to ensure that the rising sun shone on any enemies, blinding them rather than himself. He controlled his breathing in slow, deliberate gulps of air that did not disturb his meticulously created nest. Situated to the side and off to an angle was his Ppsh-41 submachine gun - it was not placed out in the open, per se, but was visible enough to entice a passing foe should they pass closely by. It would be a simple matter of firing his Mosin-Nagant point-blank to eliminate such a threat. Unbeknownst to Zaytsev, Simo Häyhä crouched low in a building not a hundred yards away, making a quick ammo count and hurriedly but quietly adjusting his white mask over his face. He spotted a growing snowbank near a shelled-out apartment complex - he planned to take shelter behind the snowdrift before making his way past the building and into the woods that lay beyond. Taking a deep breath, he looked up through the bombed-out roof of his structure and noticed a light snowfall was starting. He gripped his rifle tightly and ducked down into a low crawl, emerging slowly from his hiding place, moving so slow as to avoid detection by motion. Vasily Zaytsev had acquired Häyhä in his sights at one point, but as the light was low and the shadows thick, he dismissed the fleeting white figure as a rabbit. Thinking better of a casual dismissal, he re-acquired his scope on the location - but the figure was vanished, quick as a ghost, melting into the shadows and blending in with the icy ground.
Chyort. Zaytsev silently chastised himself. That was probably a counter-sniper. I'll have to keep my eye out on that location. Ignoring an itch that raged in his left shoulder, he took in a deep breath and settled in to wait.
Up in the hills surrounding the valley, Carlos Hathcock sat in his element. The heavy forestry was not unlike much of the dense foliage he was used to dealing with in Vietnam, and the tall trees and scraggly bushes would easily distort his profile even when the sun was to his back. He crouched, supporting his Winchester rifle on his knee, his M1911 pistol on the ground next to him, the barrel pointed in the opposite direction. He could see almost the entirety of the ruined city before him, the shattered remains of buildings jutting up, standing as smoky silhouettes standing guard over torn and twisting roads, cracked and scarred after decades of disrepair. Every so often a jolt of motion would catch his eye, but it would be just a feral dog or curious wildlife wandering out into the open. These animals, slowly creeping forth to reclaim the land taken from them by civilization, have no idea of the deadly game of hunter and hunted in which they walk, thought Hathcock. The idea amused him - the sentience of humans contrasted sharply with the animalistic nature in which they hunted each other. His senses, his instincts, took over, and his musings took a backseat to his observation. He listened for any telltale footsteps crunching in the brush behind him, but also for any slight rustlings or swishes of a body prone in the grass. Who knew how skilled his opponents would be this night? At any rate, one thing was certain - they weren't NVA.
Painfully aware of how much noise he had just made, the Sniper cringed and silently cursed himself as his Kukri knife slipped from his belt and clattered to the floor several stories below. He was loaded down to bear with weapons - perfect for an intense firefight or raging battle - but the city was vast and empty. The clanging echoed in the open spaces of the abandoned office building; it could have carried out into the valley for the whole town to hear, for all he knew. Peering over the railing of his third-floor perch to the ground floor, he saw his knife shining silver in the morning sun. Weighing his options silently, the Sniper kept still, his rifle angled at a wall to prevent his underbarrel laser from giving away his position. Any minor advantage gained from moving to recover his fallen knife would be offset by the potential of being spotted - after all, the damned noise has probably revealed me position to every bloke out there, he reasoned. Gritting his teeth, the Sniper realized how dangerous his situation was becoming as the fog intensified, swirling ominously and lowering visibility to less than a few meters out the third-story window. He was not content to gamble on the fact that just because he could not see out, his opponents could not see in. Leaving the rifle on the floor, he crawled to the top of the staircase at the end of the hall and aimed down to the lobby, where his knife lay taunting him for his rashness.
Häyhä turned instinctively as the loud noise of the knife falling sounded off in the near-distance, looking over his shoulder. He had already made his way behind the apartment building after resting in the snowbank, unaware of the fact that he had escaped death from Zaytsev's bullet by a fraction of a second. A ripped-up section of the road was all that lay between Häyhä and the building from which the sound had emanated. The White Death slowly propped himself up on one elbow and aimed down the iron sights of his rifle, his gaze drifting from window to window while he kept his aim steady. Zaytsev, too, had heard the sound, holding his position but remaining attentive, ready to respond to the sharp report of rifle fire. MacMillan set off on a fast crawl around the outskirts of the city, waiting to hear a follow-up noise. Up in the hills, Hathcock shifted his attention to the half of the city from which a faint echoing had sounded.
The Sniper had attracted the attention of all of his opponents to his position.
Captain MacMillan kept himself low, pressed against the cold, hard dirt that lay scattered near the road. Thick weeds helped to conceal his location, but he was aware of the fact that his movement was likely to attract attention, if noticed. Betting on the fact that most of the other snipers would be zeroing in on the source of the noise, and on the hopes that he might catch an unwary sniper before he himself was spotted, MacMillan crawled quickly, the tips of the weeds swaying and bowing as if in a gentle breeze - a gentle breeze exactly five and a half feet long, and one that blew along with the path of a hidden sniper. The silence was all but deafening, only the low sounds of his boots rubbing against the gravelly dirt reaching his ears. The fog had begun to lessen, allowing MacMillan to peek up through the weeds and into the distance. He detached his scope from his rifle and raised it to his eye, first giving the treetops by the hills a cursory glance, before turning the majority of his attention to the road ahead. Peering into his makeshift looking glass, MacMillan spotted a figure in white aiming across the street at a building. His heart skipped a beat before pounding furiously as he looked down to reattach the scope. Raising his M21 once again, he found the figure gone.
MacMillan's scope betrayed him. Carlos Hathcock turned his steely gaze from a row of office buildings a block from the Sniper's position over to a vacant lot off to the side of the road, littered with weeds and debris. He had spotted a reflective glint of sunlight - just for a fraction of a second - but it was time enough. The distance was too far to make out any figures clearly, and the sniper was likely camouflaged or concealed, maybe both. But I can wait, thought Hathcock drily to himself. Rubbing his arm against his side to scratch at an itch, he waited for MacMillan to move again.
With the fog lessening, the Sniper had a decision to make. His window gave him a perfect vantage point over the valley, but his sniper rifle would immediately give away his position to anyone in the area. It was now slightly past noon - the sun was directly overhead. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he had ignored far worse pains in the outback. The second floor of his building was especially damaged from the shelling, and many of its windows were blocked by collapsed rubble from the floors above. Submachine gun levelled at the lobby below, the Sniper slowly crept down the stairs and ducked into an open doorway on the second floor, pulling the door shut behind him. The old hinges creaked loudly as the Sniper tugged at the door, and they finally gave way halfway through, snapping off and sending the door crashing to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. The Sniper shut his eyes tightly and balled his free hand into a fist. I can't make another blue like that, he thought. There's nothing more I can do... The reason he had originally came down into the room from the floor above came back to him in an instant, and the Sniper turned to the corner, unzipped his pants, and pissed on the wall.
The sound of the door crashing was not loud enough to reach Hathcock's ears, but he spotted an excited MacMillan rustling through the lot toward the building. Hathcock took a deep breath and steadied the rifle on his knee, tracking the steady movement of his prey several hundred meters away in the valley below. His finger slipped delicately around the trigger, caressing its curve before pulling hard, discharging a round with a loud bang that shattered the silence in an instant - the first shot had been fired. Calmly, Hathcock slid his bolt open, ejected the spent case, and chambered the next round, sliding the bolt back into place, all without moving his eye from the scope. Picking up his pistol, Hathcock disappeared into the undergrowth of the forest and dipped down behind the trees, looking for a place to relocate. He slung his rifle confidently over his shoulder, pistol raised and at the ready. Just because I feel safe doesn't mean I am, Hathcock reminded himself.
Captain MacMillan instinctively flattened himself into the tall weeds as the sound of the bullet aimed his way slammed into the dirt road but a few inches from his body, followed closely by the sharp and echoing crack of the rifle shot that sounded from the heavily forested hills out in the distance. Bollocks, he cursed to himself, the bugger's got a bead on meh. At this distance he'll have to take the Coriolis effect into account. I'd best stay hidden and keep a low profile. Moving delicately but deliberately, MacMillan hugged his M21 rifle to his body as he crept at a snail's pace through the grass, not so much as disturbing the scraggly weeds through which he crawled.
Inside the building not two hundred meters away from MacMillan's position in the grass, the Sniper ducked at the sound of the gunshot but kept himself composed and tightened his grip on his submachine gun. It took him a moment, but judging from the distance and the location of the shot, the Sniper guessed that it wasn't directed his way. A sudden trickle of movement along his exposed forearm caused him to start violently, before he looked down at the cricket trekking across his limb. He leaned back against the wall of the room for the briefest of moments, shook the hitchhiker off his person, closed his eyes, took a breath, and peeked out a slit of light visible through a boarded-up window and out into the city. The fog was thinning out, allowing him to make out the empty road and the deserted buildings that sat dormant on the other side, identical in their stillness and vast emptiness as the one in which he crouched. Pushing his glasses further up his nose, the Sniper suddenly became aware of a presence in the room, followed closely by the telltale creak of a loose floorboard. His heart leapt into his throat as he spun around, raising his submachine gun to waist level, finger already pulled down on the trigger - but it was too late. Simo Häyhä, standing there in the doorway, unloaded round after round from his KP-31 submachine gun into the Sniper's torso, riddling the Australian hunter with bullets, sending him crashing backward into the dusty wall. The magazine ran dry in a few seconds, leaving a slumped and shredded body with slick red bloodstains trickling down the wall behind it, a whole host of spent shell casings still hot and clattering on the floor, and a smoking barrel that whisked away in a heartbeat as its owner turned tail and disappeared out the door of the building, vanished into the white tundra outside, with only the corpse of the unlucky Sniper as a visible sign of the briefest of clashes that had occurred minutes beforehand.
Simo Häyhä dove into a snowbank by the doorway, burrowing quickly into the cold, wet ice and breaking up his form to any unwary observer. His white mask poked up from the pile, a handful of snow in his mouth preventing his breath from condensing and compromising his position. Reaching down to his submachine gun, he dropped his empty magazine out into the snow and slapped in a fresh one, held in a pocket on his homemade uniform. His rifle was strapped to his back, jutting awkwardly out into the air. It could pass off as an icicle, Häyhä reasoned with himself. Still, I'd better move once their attention is diverted from this building. I just need to wait for someone to make a mistake... like the man in that building.
Vasily Zaytsev had had enough of waiting - a clang, a crash, a rifle shot, and now automatic weapons fire - his current position was not close enough to the center of the action. He slowly began to extricate himself from the small mountain of rubble under which he lay, lowering his Mosin-Nagant carefully, almost lovingly, to the ground first, before reaching down and sliding somewhat ungracefully to the ground below. A brick tumbled down with him and clattered noisily on the cracked pavement. Chyort. Zaytsev grabbed his rifle and darted into the shadows of a train car rusting on broken tracks. There was a ladder on one of the cars, but the Soviet sniper ignored such a post and made haste to the end of the tracks, using the bulk of the trains for cover. As he approached the building from which the gunshots had emanated, with only a vacant lot and a small stretch of road between the two, he spotted a figure moving, ever so slightly, in the grass.
MacMillan's cautious crawl had steadily increased in pace as time passed and the perceived threat lessened. Either the sniper targeting him had believed MacMillan dead, or else had lost interest and moved on. The abandoned building loomed high over the Scottish sniper's head as he pushed himself up to a knee and unholstered his silenced handgun, aiming it tentatively ahead, searching for any potential opponents. Blowing a loose strand of mesh from his suit that flopped over his eyes, MacMillan gave a half-glance over his shoulder, ensuring that the coast was clear, and stood up, making toward the entrance of the building at a fast pace. His durable boots crunched down hard on the gravel in the lot right outside the door to the lobby, and he kicked through the doorway and levelled his pistol, scanning the shadows. It looks empty... MacMillan thought. I'd better make sure. He looked up the stairwell, craning his neck around each corner before lowering his handgun, making sure to place a claymore mine at a landing on the second floor by the stairs to protect his back.
Vasily Zaytsev lost sight of the ghillie'd sniper as he ducked into the shadows of the building. Slowly lowering his scoped Mosin-Nagant to shoulder level, Zaytsev considered - for the briefest of moments - engaging the enemy with his Ppsh-41 submachine gun in the close confines of the building, but, remembering the automatic weapon fire he had heard from within earlier, decided against it. He had no idea of knowing whether the man who had rattled off those rounds was still hunkered down inside. Crouching back behind the shadows of the derelict train cars, he waited.
Carlos Hathcock settled down near another tree, one that dipped low, heavy with branches, allowing for a transparent screen through which he could aim his rifle, while remaining safely cloaked behind the boughs. He still had excellent line of sight on the building, this time from the other side. Just as he was getting himself relatively comfortable on the cold, hard ground, though, the dense fog began to roll back in with a vengeance. The sun was already low in the sky, making things difficult to see in the waning light. I guess I can wait until tomorrow, Hathcock though, and, stringing along a line of claymore mines in a semicircle around his tree, he slumped over and tried to get to sleep.
Elsewhere, Simo Häyhä was making similar preparations, jamming a wooden plank into the door of a gas station's convenience store, taking shelter in a ransacked shelf, scattering several short and uneven stacks of canned food at regular intervals on the floor. Most people would look directly behind the clerk's counter, and in the process they would knock over the cans in the dark and alert him. Knowing that he was relatively safe thanks to his setup, Häyhä gently laid his rifle on the shelf below his, cradling his SMG in his arms, finger safely off the trigger, relaxed but alert.
Zaytsev, though, stayed awake. His foe was still in the building - or, at least, he hadn't exited through the front again. Every fiber of Zaytsev's warrior mentality itched to finish the fight, to win the hunt and triumph over a lesser foe, but his sniper mindset held firm and forced him to wait. MacMillan was, incidentally, still within, making a very slow, very thorough search of the third floor. He stumbled across a pool of dark liquid spilling out from a doorway by the stairwell, and, raising his pistol, entered the room. A dead man with a wide-brimmed hat was laying, splayed out and twisted on the floor, with his clothing tattered and the flesh beneath it shredded to bits. Hearing a slight clink, MacMillan looked down and saw the spent shell casings his boots had disturbed. A 9mm submachine gun lay clattered on the floor in the corner - likely the weapon the dead man had attempted to use. Shaking his head, the Scottish sniper exited the room and began to slowly make his way back downstairs. His claymore mine still sat, undisturbed, by the stairs, so MacMillan quietly disarmed the mine and slid it back into its designated spot in a pouch hidden beneath his ghillie suit.
Stepping into the doorway, MacMillan jerked back as his left arm was ripped out of its socket, all but severing the limb and leaving it hanging by a tattered string of mashed-up skin. He fell to the ground, hard, on his back, writhing in agony as he forced himself into a sitting position. Bloody hell! his mind screamed, somewhere within the realm of consciousness rapidly leaving his body. I'm hit! Gingerly reaching his good arm over to touch the bloody stump, MacMillan never saw Zaytsev reacquire his figure through the scope of the Soviet's rifle, moments before the Mosin-Nagant fired again and slammed directly into MacMillan's skull. Brain matter splattered across the room and onto the back wall as Captain MacMillan collapsed, dead, onto the floor in the doorway. Vasily Zaytsev turned, working the bolt on his rifle as he went, and sprinted through a sliver of moonlight and into the shadows of the train cars.
Carlos Hathcock sat straight up as the report of the gunshot echoed over into the forest. Snatching up his rifle, he quickly gathered up his claymore mines and set off, down the hill and closer to the city, shaking sleep from his eyes.
Häyhä's eyes snapped open in the gas station, but he held stock-still for a half a minute, waiting to see if the gunshots continued. They sounded far enough away as to remove any fears that they were targeted at him, but he did not want to take chances. Once he felt the imminent danger had lessened, Häyhä slowly reached down, grabbed his rifle, and stepped cautiously around the cans, making sure to leave them stacked in place - perhaps a foolish opponent would give away his position later on. Crawling out the back entrance in case someone had acquired his location and was scoping out the front door, Häyhä made his way back to the abandoned building around which the fighting had centered, peering through the fog.
Suddenly, a great clunking was heard, in rolling waves across the empty cityscape. With the noise came a great flashing of yellow and white lights as the power randomly came crashing through - the buzzing crackle of still-working, but slightly dimmed neon lights; the distant, faded warble of restaurants playing music on PA systems; and the low hum of generators and heating and air conditioning units washed across the silence, dispersing it and chasing it to the four winds. The fog became blindingly reflective as the soft glow of the electric lights bounced distractingly off the dense white mist.
Vasily Zaytsev was startled at the initial burst of light and sound, but stayed on-course as he trekked down the railroad. As the old, abandoned building disappeared, swallowed up by the dying light and fluctuating fog, several trees stood by a dirt path that led into the woods. Deciding to leave the relative danger of the city behind, the Soviet sniper pushed onward into the wilderness.
Carlos Hathcock sat by a boulder that jutted up into the sky, breaking up his profile on a hill that overlooked the now-lit city. Sitting underneath the great rock, shrouded in the shadow, Hathcock felt protected by the string of claymores set up on one side of the boulder, his M1911 handgun on the ground next to him by the other side. The fog slowly thinned out, allowing Hathcock to scope out the city streets, searching for movement betrayed by the light. His watchful eye spotted a dance of shadows in the trees several meters to his left - but his attention was captured by a figure moving down in the city. The shadow's probably a deer, thought Hathcock. Besides, I've got my claymores. Indeed, down on a cracked and torn street, Simo Häyhä walked, his scopeless rifle held at a gut level, ready to be raised and fired at a moment's notice. Hathcock watched patiently as the Finnish sniper disappeared into an alley, adjusting his rifle's line-of-sight to prepare for his foe's exit at the other end. A soft rustling in the grass put Hathcock at ease, the cool wind caressing the sweaty-faced hunter. Häyhä poked his head tenatively out at the other side of the alley, before he stepped out, slightly off-center of a streetlamp. Holding his breath, Carlos Hathcock steadied his aim and tightened his finger around the trigger.
Crack! Hathcock was thrown to the side as a rifle butt smashed into the side of his face. His eye jutted painfully into the scope of the Winchester as he involuntarily pulled the trigger, the kickback smashing into his face and racking him with pain. Rolling to the side, Hathcock raised his pistol and fired one round wildly at a dark silhouette above, grazing its side. Vasily Zaytsev jerked back, stumbling a few steps before levelling his Mosin-Nagant coolly and firing into Hathcock's stomach. Carlos Hathcock yelled in pain and fell back, the M1911 falling from his hands. Vasily Zaytsev gave the body a harsh kick, and, satisfied with the lifeless flop it gave at the blow, turned back, angrily gripping his wound.
As Hathcock faded in and out of consciousness, he turned his head to the side, noticing a glint of white light reflecting from the city lights off in the distance. It was the cord connecting his claymore mines to their "clacker" detonator. Reaching out weakly, he gripped his fingers tightly around the mechanism and, mustering the last of his strength, pulled down hard. The earth around him erupted in a magnificent blast of orange and yellow, sending thousands of ball bearings flying indiscriminately through the air, shredding the plants and trees that stood in their path. Zaytsev ducked instinctively, off to the side, crippled in the leg by the ball bearings. Standing up unsteadily, he raised his rifle high to regain his balance.
Down in the city below, Simo Häyhä looked up, watching from behind the iron sights of his rifle as the claymore's explosions gave a brief flash of illuminating, revealing light in the hilly clearing. Spotting a dark figure stumbling to stand, Häyhä fired his rifle, hitting Vasily Zaytsev directly in the chest. The silhouette tumbled to the ground as the darkness swallowed up the light from the explosion.
At that moment, even before the dying echoes of the fatal gunshot had disappeared in the lifeless city, the power went out once again.
WINNER: SIMO HÄYHÄ
Simo Häyhä won thanks to his exemplary combat record in the Winter War against the Soviets - such a large body count and a resilience despite a concentrated effort to kill him personally spoke volumes for his capacity as a sniper. These traits, coupled with his innovative tactical thinking, ensured his first place spot. Vasily Zaytsev came in a close second, as a result of his mobile sniper tactics and reliable, simple weaponry - the fact that he survived the Battle of Stalingrad meant he was very, very deadly. Carlos Hathcock secured a respectable third place because, although he was a proficient marksman and an accomplished sniper, his reliance on newer technology made him less reliant on his survival skills than those of Häyhä and Zaytsev. Captain MacMillan came in fourth place because, while his M21 sniper and ghillie suit were excellent tools for success on the battlefield, he simply was not that impressive of a sniper - his mission to kill Zakhaev, after all, was not even successful, and nearly cost him his leg. Team Fortress 2's Sniper came in dead last as a result of a laser sight that would reveal his position to his opponents, a lack of true sniping skills, and an overall lack of real skill when compared to the rest of his foes.