Dry

Sty "Sly" Hume was dry. It was the only good thing about his current situation. He was hiding in a ruined chapel, a klom away from his target, a magister of chaos, haranguing in the field a pair of platoons of blood pact elites. He could take the shot, he had taken longer shots, before, but not in this heavy rain, which would certainly deter the accuracy.

The chapel bell tower, next to him, would provide echoes, and maybe even magnify the 'crack' of the shot. And if he did hit, which he would not waste a bullet on unless he was sure, even sure as sure, to hit, the target's head would burst like a popcorn, dried in the hot air of the popper.

Unless the reason he appeared dry in his scope was what he suspected, if the target was wearing a shielding device. That would cause him much trouble. His earpiece rattled, he pushed the push to talk button: "Sly."

"Taylor here, you tracking what I'm tracking?"

"Yup, what do you have for me?"

"First company is heading their way..."

"Warn them off, that's way too heavy for crunchies..."

"What did you have in mind?"

"My dry homour says they get some plums... 'The tall one'" meaning the one in power armor "Needs two servings, five seconds apart."

"I can make that happen..."

"Make it so."

Not-thunder broke the silence, a massive conflagration of fire and fury, and would have blinded Sty for long moments if he hadn't taken his eye off the scope, anticipating this. The earthshaker's shots had been perfect, a first shot exploding over the area, killing the unarmed troops, and destabilising the energy shield their target, a magister of chaos inducted into the Emperor's Children, wore. The second shot, five seconds later, had ensured his demise.

Sty's earpiece rattled again. "Sty"

"You going to stay there, warrant?"

"Sure, it's dry here. Look at compass point five-nine-yotta..." And so it went, Sty was dry here, and safe, for a little while longer, while him and Recon Warrant Taylor rained fiery death on their enemies.