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Something is watching Sniper but he doesn't know what.
Or who.
He knows it's not Spy. Now that he's confronted the french bastard earlier, he doesn't have anything to do with it. Sniper believed him because this felt different compared to a cloaked spook breathing in the same room as him.
So Sniper is more paranoid than usual.
He keeps peering outside his minivan, driving said minivan in a different location, making the locks more secure, checking if everything is in place. He even set out some kind of snare that would alert him if someone has been inside his vehicle.
So far. Nothing.
It doesn't make any sense. It's been weeks since he's been feeling the hair on the back of his neck rising for unknown reasons.
Maybe he's going insane.
Sounds bloody ridiculous— he already is. Hell, every bloke on this team, including him, is downright a complete lunatic and don't even get him started on the doctor.
Sniper huffed, his fingers flexing around his rifle from where he's positioned himself on the watchtower.
Then he felt it again.
He turns his head instantly, neck almost snapping at its speed.
Wide eyes meets his own wide eyes.
It's an owl.
All this time.. he was scared of a— “...bloody owl.”
The owl blinked at him.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
"Hoo."
"Piss off, mate. I'm busy."
"Hoo."
Sniper narrowed his eyes at it from behind his glasses.
The owl stared back without a shred of shame.
Its feathers were puffed slightly against the cold evening wind, huge round eyes reflecting the faint glow of the watchtower lamp. Unmoving like it had every right to be there.
“You’re the reason i’ve been losin’ sleep?”
“Hoo.”
“Don’t get smug with me.”
The owl tilted its head.
Sniper scrubbed a hand down his face with a long suffering groan. Weeks. Weeks of checking locks and moving the van and nearly putting a damn bullet through shadows because some oversized feathery bastard decided to stalk him around badlands.
He glanced around the empty battlements again just to make sure nothing was actually trying to kill him.
Nothing.
Just the owl.
Still watching him.
“Right.” Sniper muttered. “Well. Mystery solved.”
He turned back toward the battlefield below, settling his rifle against his shoulder again.
Silence stretched for exactly twelve seconds.
“Hoo.”
Sniper’s eye twitched.
“Mate.”
“Hoo.”
“I swear to god.”
The owl launched itself from the wooden beam above him.
Sniper flinched hard enough to nearly drop his rifle as feathers exploded into his peripheral vision before the bird landed too close beside him with a soft rustle.
“Bloody hell—”
The owl blinked slowly.
Sniper stared at it.
The owl stared at him.
“…you can’t stay here.”
The owl puffed up.
“Don’t do that. that’s...”
Another blink.
Sniper looked away first.
Five minutes later, the owl was still there.
Sniper exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting every decision that led him to this point in life. mercenary work. assassination. gravel wars. all understandable career choices.
Whatever this was? horrifying.
Carefully, while pretending he was absolutely not doing anything important, he reached into one of his vest pockets and pulled out a strip of jerky.
The owl immediately locked onto it.
Sniper looked at the jerky. looked at the owl. looked away. Sighed like a man moments away from spiritual collapse.
“Fine. One piece. Then you sod off.”
He held it out cautiously.
The owl snatched it with alarming speed and began tearing into it happily.
Sniper watched in silence.
“…ugly little thing.”
“Hoo.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The owl did not, in fact, sod off.
That became very apparent three days later when Sniper woke to scratching noises somewhere above his head.
His eyes snapped open instantly.
Years of mercenary work had honed his instincts enough that he was already reaching for the kukri beneath his pillow before he was fully awake.
Scratch.
Scratch scratch.
Something shuffled across the roof of the van.
Sniper went perfectly still.
There it was again. That same horrible creeping feeling from before. The sensation of being watched.
The scratching moved.
Then—
“HOO.”
Sniper smacked his forehead against the wall of the van with a loud thunk.
“Oh for the love of—”
Another hoot echoed from directly above him.
The bastard sounded proud of itself.
That was how it started.
The owl appeared everywhere after that.
Outside the van at ungodly hours of the night.
Perched on signposts.
Fence posts.
The battlements.
The roof.
Once, horrifyingly, on the steering wheel inside his locked van.
Sniper still had no idea how it got in.
“HOW.”
“Hoo.”
“That doesn’t answer my bloody question!"
The owl simply blinked.
Sniper checked every lock— every window, every door TWICE that night.
Then three times.
Then woke up at three in the morning to find the owl sleeping in his sink.
At first he tried ignoring it.
That failed immediately.
Turns out owls were persistent little bastards when they decided they liked someone.
Sniper would settle into position, line up the perfect shot, slow his breathing—
“HOO.”
His aim jerked violently.
The enemy Scout survived purely because Sniper nearly launched himself off the damn watchtower in shock.
Another time, the owl landed directly on his rifle barrel mid-shot.
“Mate—”
“HOO.”
“I am WORKING.”
The owl stared at him with massive unblinking eyes, puffed up quite smugly.
Sniper hated that he could recognize smugness in a bird now.
Things only got worse from there.
The owl began stealing food.
Jerky vanished first.
Then sausages.
Then an entire sandwich.
Sniper once caught it dragging a piece of steak across the dirt with the determination of a man transporting a fallen comrade through enemy territory.
“That’s bigger than your head.”
The owl continued dragging it anyway.
“…fair enough.”
And somehow—somehow—the damned thing kept ending up near him.
Not other people.
Him.
Even Medic had noticed eventually.
“Ah! Herr Sniper has made a freund!”
“He is not my friend.”
The owl was perched on Sniper’s shoulder while he said this.
Medic looked at the bird. Then at Sniper.
Then smiled in the most irritating way possible.
Sniper immediately left the room.
By the end of the week, things had deteriorated significantly.
The owl slept in the van now.
Not officially.
Sniper had never allowed it.
It simply… just happened.
The first time he found it tucked into one of his jackets, he’d stared at it for a solid thirty seconds before sighing so deeply.
“You are a parasite.”
“Hoo.”
“Don’t ‘hoo’ me.”
Now there was owl feed sitting beside the kitchenette.
Which meant things had gone terribly wrong somewhere along the line.
Sniper blamed the sleep deprivation.
And the staring.
The owl did that constantly.
Just sat there watching him with those giant eyes looking like some feathery cryptid haunting his personal space.
Honestly, Sniper should’ve named the thing something intimidating.
Nightmare.
Deathclaw.
The Watcher.
Instead, after hearing the damn thing hoot every fifteen seconds for nearly two straight weeks, what came out of his mouth during one particularly sleep-deprived morning was:
“Alright, Sir Hootsalot, move your arse off the counter.”