/lit/ - Literature

It's not an obsession.

The man with the broken black mask told himself that over and over as he peered at his target through the scope.

Adjacent building, straight ahead, four hundred meters away. Wind direction, allowing adjustment of five millimeters to the right.

Scope magnification, 8x. Tripod wedged firmly on the ledge, steady.

The open air howled around his ears, blowing his hair about, flapping his overcoat like bat wings. Inside, he was a still pool of utter calm. Nothing that he felt outside registered. His senses were dead. All he could make out was his finger on the trigger, and the bright red head four hundred meters away.

It's not an obsession.

He thought to this himself, as the world around him began shutting down.

I am impartial.

His heart fell into pieces, unable to comprehend the awe of the memories he was summouning.

I am God's messenger.