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Name: Kiloeum
Age: 37
Gender: Male
Race: Human (?)
Occupation: Military Sniper
Alignment: Follow the orders of superiors.
Appearance:
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Skin: Medium-dark brown
Clothes: Basic military armor and camo vest and trousers. Lightweight stealth boots, camo helmet, black gloves.
Distinguishing features: A large black eye patch that covers his right eye.
Weapon of choice: Anything with a scope and a silencer. Otherwise, he'll use pistols as a sidearm. Dislikes automatics and shotguns, as he can't stand the vibrations.
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Battlefields have different colors. Brown ... grey ... green ... blue ... red ... and white. They're never truly black, though, not even during the night. Whether it's storm clouds reflecting the light of the towns several miles away, or untrustworthy helicopter searchlights seeking out potential victims, or the blinding flashes of flash bombs and gunfire in the night sky, it can't stay a still black for a second. Not even when he closed his remaining eye and tried to get some sleep could he experience the color black.
Only death brings that color to one's eyes, so it was inevitable that Kiloeum didn't want to experience that color.
Even still, it was getting dangerously close. Kiloeum sat in the hastily dug-out ditch that separated him from sudden black. It was impossible to tell whether or not he was the only man still alive in the field. It was silent, save for a random bomber scoping out the field and giving it some final touches of its own.
He checked his rations one more time. None of it was truly his, and neither was his armor, his ammo, or even his clothes. He had salvaged it from victims of himself, his teammates, or nature, and used it to his own cause. Only his weapon was truly his - a .51 caliber M40A3 that appeared to have the capability to fire these .32s he found quite effectively. He didn't trust it could be used for some real sniper work, but he knew that bigger guns scared people more. He only had 3 or 4 proper rounds for it, which he forced himself to save incase an enemy leader decided to wander the fields. Pick him down, and his men would easily surrender, even if there was only one of him.
He was covered in blood, none of it his own. He hadn't taken any wounds yet, mostly because he worked more behind the scenes then someone with a shotgun and a very loud battle-cry. However, the famine alone could take down the healthiest of soldiers slowly and painfully. It was tough being a soldier. Forget the pay, forget the vacation benefits. Those were just American Dreams to those that lived these sorts of situations, and the military was in no danger of going over-budget with this.
He had to keep moving. He had to find help, but he couldn't trust anything and anyone anymore. He couldn't even trust deceased soldiers, who might be armed with a proximity time-bomb or life enough to let loose a final burst of death. Search helicopters with chain-guns, abandoned tanks and mechs. Not even the air was trustworthy, for it was nuclear and unstable to an extent. Goodness knows if his body had adjusted to it yet or not.
He traveled light and low, keeping his head down and traversing the maze of ditches the old fashioned way. He was probably going around in circles, he just didn't know anymore. Death was beginning to sound like a very tempting means of escape by now.
Finally, he decided to let logic and reason judge his fate. If there really was someone or something alive, they would probably be thinking the same thing as I. They wouldn't dare go above the only cover they have in the fear that someone may open fire upon them. However, I hear no aircraft, I hear no tanks, I hear no mechs ... heck, I don't even hear any gunfire. Yes, there's a high chance that an enemy or two might be alive up there, but the way I'm dressed, I can't even tell who I am.
He decided to risk it, and lept over the shadowy wall, his sniper rifle out at the ready.
Nothing. That's what came out to meet him head-on. That's what came out, guns flaring, bullets whizzing by his head. That's what drove a tank and fired its heavy barrel right for his chest. That's what flew the bomber overhead and dropped a barage of atomic mini-frags. Nothing. He was alone, in an open field of dirty colors covered in a white fog.
He raised his rifle and looked through the scope. The only advantage to his eye-patch was that he could use the scope for as long as he wished without aching his other eye. Everything was in a limited focus, but movements were a lot easier to recognize. It took some time for him to get used to it, but when he did, he took it to pure advantage.
He looked around. Just a bunch of dead bodies and ditches littering the otherwise empty field. Dark gray craters, large patches of decay, great siloutes of-
He dived to the ground, covering his head. That shadow in the fog was undeniably a machine created for nothing for the instant and heavily anticipated destruction of its own creators. It was their own image of what divine judgment over their race was distributed by.
This one, however, didn't react to his presence. Was it allied? Was it un-maned? Kiloeum didn't have much to lose anymore but his philosophies of war, so he slowly crawled towards it.
The tank towered over him. Of course, it was far more superior to him, so it was only natural that it was big. The safest place he could be near it is right beside it, away from where the gun barrel faced. Should it start moving while his curiosity took over, he could be able to spare himself a few seconds to get away.
Holding his rifle with one hand, he hoisted himself up onto the top and tried the latch. It was unlocked. Typical; nobody had the time or safety to lock anything anymore. He pried the top open and thrust his sniper rifle straight down the hatch. No scream, no grunt, no whimpers, no returning fire ... nothing. Satisfied by this silence, he jumped right in.
A tank this size was normally operated by two people, but if you had great reflexes, it isn't hard for one person to work this thing. Both seats were empty and stained with blood. Apparently, someone came in, attacked the bodies, threw them out, and for some reason jumped out himself.
Checking the systems by a routine he knew for emergency scenarios, he found the tank to be in working order. The gas tank was half-empty, and the barrel still had one or two rounds left. The reason it was abandoned was probably because the infiltrator either didn't know how to run a tank or he was too confident at the tank's ability to traverse such a rugged landscape.
Kiloeum smiled as he strapped himself into the driver's seat and started it up. Finally, some hope at last.
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