Darkness grants a certain comfort. At the same time, the darkness has an underlying sense of threat—of that which you cannot see. It spoke of things best left untouched; multitudes of danger lurking in the shadows. It can take it's time—leaving wound after wound on a soul until they resemble a bloody mess, stumbling, blind. But then one remembers why they are here—why they accepted the dark.

It is easier to accept darkness than light—easier to take the quick road, rather than the long and tedious one. Morally, the wrong choice would be this. But the world is not black and white—everywhere you look there is grey. Neither choice is always right—and that's why the 'greys' must make the decisions.

"You've got an hour. Make your shot, make it count—then get the hell out of there." The Sergeant Major handed a rifle to the corporal. "Remember: don't let this get to your head. We chose you because you're the fastest we got—we're not made for speed."

You got that right. The corporal thought, glancing over at her comrades—all large, bulky men. Decent shock troopers the lot, could run for miles at a good pace and sprint for short distances when needed, but they weren't like her. She was built for speed—long distance full blown sprint.

'Lightning', the men called her—the name just sort of stuck.

"Now," The Sergeant Major—Johnson—Lightning recalled, threw her a sheathed combat knife and a pistol with an attached silencer. "Should you fuck this up, you run like hell—and if any of the bastards get close to you, drop the sniper and take them out with these." Johnson studied her carefully, searching for any signs of hesitation. Upon finding none, he said, "You're a good soldier, Farron. Get out of this alive, you hear?"

"Yes, sir." Lightning saluted, turning on her heel to walk across the small clearing and to the chopper. She pulled herself up into the aircraft, sitting across two other soldiers. They were here in case the plane went down, ready to defend her and the pilot.

She nodded to the two—a man and woman—before turning her attention back to her rifle. Large, bulky—it was definitely going to get in her way. Thermal imaging, night vision, the works—it was all set in the scope. Lightning's hand drifted to her thigh pack, which contained more ammo for the gun. She prayed she wouldn't need it. One shot, and she'd be done.

Hopefully.

"Nice piece there." Lightning glanced up at the feminine voice. The other soldier gestured at the rifle, before pulling her own from her back to show Lightning. "Mine's shit compared to that."

"You're not going behind enemy lines and firing from kilometers of distance." Lightning murmured, staring at the ground surging past them. She wasn't interested in friends or small talk—this was business. No, it was even more than that. This was duty. She needed to get focused on fulfilling it.

"Heh, snarky much—?"

"Leave her be, Williams." The soldier sitting next to her rumbled.

"Just trying to make some conversation."

"I said shut it."

Lightning appreciated the man's brute authority over Williams. She wasn't here to make friends.

"ETA ten minutes." The pilot threw over his shoulder. Lightning could feel them descending, bit by bit. She closed her eyes, leaning back in her seat to take deep breaths. Calm, focus, these were the things that she needed right now—she didn't need to worry about the little things.

She needed to get the job done.

There is no can or can't.

No hesitation.

Just another battle.

This was her job.

Grow up.

She was ready.

BREAK

Lightning ran through the forest. She was some distance from the encampment yet, able to run without fear of anyone hearing her. The rifle weighed her down and made running difficult—but she could manage.

As usual, whenever she began to run, her mind entered a sort of calm, dream state. Lightning was aware of her surroundings, always wary for an unsuspecting attack—however, her nerves had gotten to her, and running always seemed to help calm her down.

Her mind began to break things down piece by piece—laying the information out for her to see like a craftsman setting the tools of his trade on a table. Lightning would think about each piece, picking it up and turning it over in her mind, inspecting it for flaws, before moving on to the next tool.

Meticulous and thorough—that was what Lightning had been taught. It's what she was good at, as if she was a natural born soldier, ready since the cradle.

Her mind reeled from the thought—childhood. That only made her pace falter, almost making her trip over the roots of trees in her path.

Focus.

Meticulous and thorough.

Tools.

No communication whatsoever—no flares, no radio, no contact. The hostiles were monitoring any incoming and outgoing communications in a twenty mile radius. She was on her own.

Five days of rations and water. Drop points had been set up—emergencies only, should she need to fall back, regroup, and attempt to assassinate again.

That was not an option for Lightning.

Enough ammo to take down a small platoon—not enough for the legion that her superiors thought occupied the camp.

And finally, medical supplies and stims—enough to make the junkies at Eden jealous.

Also not an option.

Things were yes or no with Lightning—she didn't believe in a middle ground. You were a soldier or you were a civilian; you were worth her time, or you were not. Simple.

Lightning slowed her pace to a crawl, knees bent, taking slow careful steps. Off in the distance, she could see lights from the encampment—fires. Intel said that the hostiles rarely used electricity, preferring to live off the environment like barbarians.

Contempt colored the thought. One word summed up her thoughts on the matter: Amateurs.

She paused as she reached the cliff's edge, kneeling on the ground. Taking out her binoculars, she zoomed in, barely making out the bright and colorful patterns on the canvas tents. Lightning clicked a button, zooming closer so that she could actually see the markings.

The target would be located in the largest tent, well fortified. The commander's 'house', many of the troops called it. The Corps own were built with superior defenses—solid concrete five feet think, no windows, gun turrets, bomb shelters, etc. This however… Lightning snorted, amused and irritated. Logs surrounded the camp, stacked on top of each other, the branches sharpened and jutting out at every angle. Two scouts were positioned at thirteen points surrounding the ring of logs, one standing on top of the highest barricade, the other on the ground, every now and then glancing around the camp. A smaller ring of logs surrounded her target's tent, with an armed guard on the lookout.

There were no turrets, the soldiers didn't have guns at all. They had spears, swords—archaic weapons.

There was no technology to speak of.

Lightning frowned. Then how the hell do they block communications?

She recalled at time when she was with her squad, shaking her head at some of the things they said. One of them was sent on a mission much like hers—difference being he was sent to recon, not assassinate. He told them all how his comms unit wouldn't work, but how they didn't have any jamming devices.

"Then how'd they block it, Smith? Magic?"

Laughter all around at the skeptical question, created just for jesting. Smith's expression was enough to quiet them down.

"Whatever the hell it is, it ain't like ours."

Lightning shook her head, pocketing the binoculars, and taking a deep breath. She needed to focus—getting lost in memories and rumors, that was beneath her.

Get your head straight.

She snapped her fingers, feeling the familiar butterflies in her stomach as gravity flowed around her, illuminating her with a pink-purple hue. Taking a step off the cliff, she fell to fall slowly and gracefully to the ground.

Now was the time for stealth.

Taking out her pistol she began to stalk towards the camp.

Scouts were no doubt patrolling the area, looking for resources—she was going to have to be careful if she wanted to keep breathing.

BREAK

Lightning pressed to the ground, crawling slowly up to the top of the hill. She placed her pistol beside her, within reach. Her other hand unbuckled the rifle from her back, bringing it out to set the rest on the ground in front of her. She leaned forward, keeping her breathing nice and easy, looking through the scope.

She could make out the facial expressions on the guard's faces—the color of their eyes, the tattoos on their temples. Lightning shifted to the right, turning the rifle to the left. The commander' s tent flap was closed.

Now came the wait.

A long howl ripped through the air, making her flinch twisting around to search for the sound. Nothing moved in the foliage.

Must've been further away.

She relaxed once more, looking down the scope to make sure her target was still in the tent.

You're getting paranoid.

It felt like she was being watched—as if someone's eyes were making two holes in the middle of her back. Her grip tightened on the rifle, her teeth clenching.

Always trust your gut instinct, soldier.

Lightning accepted the internal advice, letting the rifle rest on the ground as she snatched up her pistol, just in time to have her hand crushed underneath a booted foot. Her eyes went wide, hissing angrily and in pain, as the boot continued to press down on her digits—about to break the delicate bones. Yanking the combat knife from her left thigh, Lightning swung it around to bury it in the calf of the intruder.

A loud yell was heard, but she was already moving. She shot up, darting around the man to bring her hand over his mouth, bringing her knife across his throat. She held him until he stopped struggling, finally letting him slump to the ground as his body went limp.

Too close.

Lightning flexed her hand, wincing as she did so. It was her right hand—Trigger finger, she thought. The scout was smart, crushing the hand that she normally made shots with. She wiped the blade off of the scout's clothes, sheathing it and the pistol. With her left hand she scooped up the rifle, the weight alone would cause her enough pain with her right.

She needed to find another vantage point—once they saw the body they could track her anywhere.

Turning, she began to lope through the forest again.

BREAK

Finally, she was ready.

Laying on the ground she peered down the scope. The commander hadn't left the tent in the entire night. Not to mingle with the guards, not to check to make sure the guard were doing their duty. It was frustrating, and Lightning wasn't feeling particularly patient. Especially after her first encounter.

Her whole body tensed as the flap moved, her grip tightening, breathing picked up speed, glancing from the scope to confirm that it was real. She quickly readjusted her position, scooting forward, closing one eye to peer down the scope.

That… can't be right.

It was a girl. Red hair, slightly tanned skin, bright emerald eyes—she was shorter than all of her guard!

That must be the commander's daughter or something.

She wouldn't know why a commander would bring her daughter out on the field—but she couldn't make heads or tails of the hostiles anyway.

But what if it is…?

Her trigger finger twitched, sending a twinge of pain.

Gut feeling, soldier. Take the shot.

What if she was wrong though?

Retreat, camp out, grab supplies, regroup, go assassinate. Lather, rinse, repeat.

That was true—but it increased her chances of dying and she wasn't fond of that.

Lightning took a deep breath, holding it as she gently rested her finger on the trigger—nothing in her sight other than the small girl, currently talking to and smiling at one of the guard.

"Not today, viper."

She just managed to twist around in shock before everything went black.

BREAK

Muffled voices, loud shouting—all of it was indistinct. Her eyes blearily opened, blinking in confusion. She just managed to sit up, only to feel a hard slap across her face, knocking her back down to the floor.

Lightning groaned, her head fuzzy and vision blurry. Feet shuffled across the floor, the flap was shoved open as someone left the tent that she was in. Someone came, grabbing her by the arms to push her into a chair. Instinctively, she struck out, managing to connect a few decent punches. Lightning stopped when she felt a punch, much stronger than her own, connect with her stomach. Bent over—she tried to regain her breath—not aware of her arms being brought behind her and tied to the back of the chair.

Another slap.

Lightning glared in the general direction, spitting in the hostile's face.

Her vision was clearing—she could see who her assailant was. She watched as the woman wiped Lightning's spit off of her face, her dark green eyes burning with a fire that made Lightning uneasy.

"Name." The woman's accent was exotic—a lilting voice that sent chills down Lightning's back—as was the rest of her. Darkly tanned, wild, wavy brunette hair with tips dyed red. Full, sensual lips, that were currently drawn back to revel sharp canines. And eyes… Lightning took a minute to focus on them. The ring of gold that surrounded the pupil, the way they seemed to burn with the amount of life, vitality, and emotion that she had. "Give me your name!"

Lightning was jerked backwards by her hair, forced to glare up at the tribeswoman as she stood over her.

Do what she says, there's nothing else you can do right now.

"Lightning."

The huntress—now that she had released Lightning and could see the pelts hanging off of the pelt—smirked, placing her hands on her hips as she looked her up and down. She walked over to the tent flap, pulling it back to reveal the rain from outside, and that Lightning was in the center of the camp. Just as the huntress pulled the flap back, gesturing outside, there was a flash of lightning, and the loud clash of thunder that followed.

"Lightning, eh?" She allowed the flap to fall closed. "Looks like you chose your name poorly."

Lightning ignored the insult, staring straight ahead.

Interrogations are to get you to open up, be it torture or emotions. Remain stoic and icy—and they can't get to you.

Stay icy, soldier.

She felt a tug on her uniform. Lightning glanced down at where the woman had pinched the symbol of her rank pulling it smooth to see it clearly. "What rank are you, soldier?" When she got nothing but silence, the huntress grabbed Lightning's chin, forcing the woman to look her in the eye. "I can make your life a living hell," She whispered, a dagger brushing against Lightning's cheek.

You can't die, yet.

"Corporal." She was proud of herself for keeping her voice steady.

"Corporal." Her interrogator snorted, pushing her chin away roughly. "You're a waste of time." The huntress turned, walking away from her toward the entrance of the tent. "Next time you try to assassinate a chieftain—get the right intel." She looked back at Lightning to gauge her reaction. "You're target's right here."

BREAK