Consulting Sniper (Moran's Story)

Chapter 9: Scars and Stripes

*Alright, this chapter has a little bit more violence and bad language in it so if you're not okay with that, that's okay! Just proceed to the next chapter because that chapter is going to be fine. It will be up soon if it's not already. Enjoy, and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!*

It began to rush me. I didn't know what to do, so I hit it with my rifle. Luckily it was small compared to most, otherwise this folly would have been sorely punished. It was only a little bit punished here though; just a bloody and bruised arm and a streak of blood down my leg.

It turned around to face me. It wanted to kill me. This, I thought to myself, is why I'm not actually a hunter.

"Alright," I said out loud, talking myself through the process. "Lock. Load. Aim. Fire."

And just like that, I'd shot the tiger in one eye and the brain three times almost forming a triangle across the top of the tiger's head. I watched as each bullet seemed to pass in slow motion through its skull, sending bits of tissue flying outward away from me and littering the jungle floor with blood.

I lowered my rifle again, shrugging. "Good enough," I said. "Now, how to get this back to camp..."

At the time, I was wearing a thin dark blue collared shirt over my army green tank top, which I liked to call vomit green, and khaki shorts. So I took this top shirt layer off, ripped it to shreds, and wrapped the tattered fabric around my hands to increase their grip.

I picked up one of the tiger's paws, and tried to drag it. I got it one foot from its previous location before I felt like my arm was about to be ripped off. I fell to the floor, the dead tiger's arm outstretched in front of it as though it was also asking me how I actually thought I'd be able to do this.

I got up and unwrapped the fabric from my hands. This wouldn't work.

But then, I saw a fallen log at the edge of this muddy clearing. And I had an idea.

I tied the tiger's front legs to one end and its back legs to the other using the fabric from the shirt I'd ripped up. It was a miracle the sheer, thin fabric didn't break or tear. I pushed the log into the pipe and slid it down. That worked out fine.

It was a mostly downhill trip back to our base camp; I could push the log with the tiger tied to it back to camp.

When I reached the only uphill portion, I was about ready to scream. But I did not, in fear it would attract more beasts that I'd probably have to drag back to camp if I killed.

I pulled the animal up the hill, using trees as leverage. I was about ready to thank God or whoever was above me for the strength I'd gained from my weight training. I, Sabrina Moran was about to do that. Sabrina Moran, who only believes in the clothes on her back and her trusty gun. Now, you can get an idea of how out of it I was that day.

I finally pushed the tiger on the log into camp, to the absolute horror of the relatively clean-looking but still sweaty archaeologists and associates. They stared at the tiger, the massive animal with its mouth still hanging open, and back at me multiple times. I walked up to one terrified man, and grabbed his collar in frustration.

"Where's the Boss?"

"In his office. Don't disturb him... Even with this," he said, eyeing the dead and still bloodied tiger.

"Bullshit."

"He's on a very important call. This can wait."

"Well, what do you think I'm supposed to do with it, then?" I asked the snidely-speaking but still impressed archaeologist.

"He wanted its head on a plate," the man reminded me of my boss's unreasonable demands. "And he wanted the skin. So, I guess, behead and skin it."

I was appalled. I let go of his collar and stepped back, giving him a death stare. "What?!?!" I yelled at the man. "I can't do that! Do you really think I have the abilities to do that crap?! I'm not a damn hunter! I'm a guard! I'm a GUARD! I don't fucking skin tigers and behead them in my free time or anything like that! Unless you do, in which case I'd be perfectly happy leaving this with you," I said, kicking the log at the archaeologist.

"You know, the boss was right. You're a damn good hunter if I've ever seen one. Not in a good way, though."

Everyone was staring again... Why did they feel the need to do that? And how did I even get into this mess?

"Fuck you. And the boss too. I'll go do what you're asking of me. But I'd better get credit for this. And a raise," I said bitterly.

Later, at dusk, I set a campfire in the center of our compound. I obtained a chef's axe, I don't remember how, and I chopped the head off. The smell was putrid. There was blood everywhere. I wished I'd never have to do that again. But without regard for this I took out my cell phone, which had no service, and took a picture of the head.

I then proceeded to steal the chef's filet knife so that I could skin the beast. I don't even remember how I did it, but it was a gory process that involved a lot of blood, some intestines falling out that I had to literally stuff back into the bloody carcass's stomach, and more..

Luckily, by nightfall, I'd got the skin off all in one piece and the head on a plate. I readied it all to give to my boss, then approached his tent with the skin in one hand and the plate in my other, the archaeologist I had talked to before grabbed my shoulder and pushed me away.

"He's still not ready yet!" the man warned me.

"Bullshit! I'm going in," I cursed, opening the tent and waltzing into my boss's makeshift office.

He immediately got off his conference call and stared at me. The archaeologist was heard yelling outside at his girlfriend, who was telling him to back off.

"Ms. Moran, I was in the middle of a conference call," my boss said before he lifted his head up and looked at me. "What have you got here, Moran?" he asked, as if he didn't see me standing in front of him with a tiger's head and skin. I wondered then whether or not my boss had ever really wanted these things; if he may have been just trying to get rid of me for pissing him off.

I did not respond. I just threw the bloody skin at him and set the head with the bullet in its eye on his desk. As such, he was now covered in the blood, dirt, and sweat too.

My boss stared at me, open-mouthed. I didn't really know what I was supposed to do next, so I smiled widely and turned to leave.

"Moran, wait," my boss tried to reason with me. But I was already way too keyed up to respond in a rational way.

"What?" I fired back at him, turning back around, the rage visible in my face.

My boss sat deeper into his chair, a bit taken aback. "Nothing... Good job, hunter. Except maybe next time, with your attitude, you should hunt people instead of tigers."

"I better see a bonus in my next paycheck for this," I said snidely, walking out.

It was dark when I opened the tent curtains and left. I went back to my room and took off my rifle belt first. I threw it onto my mat and after taking off my clothes, promptly threw them into the trash. There was no chance they'd ever be clean again.

I put on a robe and went to take a shower. While I was in there, pulling the cord on the wood wall repeatedly to allow more water to fall on my head and scrubbing myself thoroughly, I stared at myself in the mirror with a relentless gaze. The gaze of a hunter. A killer. A future murderer and assassin.

I got out of the shower and kept looking in the mirror. I found some loose clothes and put them on, leaving the shower area and heading back to my temporary home. And I decided to take everyone's advice about being a hunter, but an ethical one. One that would never again work for a vain, arrogant boss.

But I forgot all about that when I went to go work for Moriarty.

When I got back to London from the expedition, I used the picture I'd taken of the tiger's head on my phone to get a strikingly accurate tattoo on the back of my right shoulder. My first tattoo. My first of many.

And Moriarty nearly completely invalidated those lessons I'd not only learned, but had engraved in the skin on my back.

Damn him.