Petty Officer 1st class /:ERROR:NAME REDACTED:\\, Jungles of Fameno, 27th July 2556, Operation THROWBACK

Range wasn't his problem. He had taken longer shots with less accurate rifles before. His crosshairs were zeroed in perfectly, or so his armour's metrics showed him. His target? A currently empty elaborately decorated balcony outside a pristine white house which sat nestled on a plateau amongst Fameno's incredibly steep, jungle-carpeted mountains. The prospect of building a serviceable road to this lone location in the middle of the wilderness was not feasible, so the only way to leave the private manor of the United Rebel Front's top military leader was by aircraft, like the ex-UNSC UH-144 Falcon tilt-and-traverse rotor wing utility helicopter currently squatting on the landing pad hanging off of the edge of the plateau's cliffs.

This woman had to die. She had caused the deaths of many UNSC personnel and innocent civilians alike. Her actions had led to at least five terroristic attacks on UNSC bases, recruitment offices and factories over the last three years, ever since the bloody, decades-long conflict between humanity and a dominating alien hegemony known as the Covenant. They had not had enough time to mourn their dead before the ultranationalist Insurrection that had threatened to tear them apart before the War reared its ugly head yet again, capitalising on discontent in the UNSC's strategic decisions to abandon some colonies during the war to incite anti-United Earth Government sentiment once again. So as a key part of this threat, she had to die.

The decision had been made far above his pay grade, in the shadowy realms of the Office of Naval Intelligence, and he was here to execute the order from 3000 metres away. For the average UNSC marksman with the standard issue SRS99-S5 sniper rifle, this would be an impossible task. Not for him. For one thing, he was no ordinary marksman, he was the best shot in his training group of 300, consistently scoring bulls-eyes from up to 3500 metres distant with an unmodified rifle and no spotter. For another thing, he wasn't using the standard issue rifle. The bulky weapon at his shoulder was the SRSX, a bolt-action rifle shooting the devastating 12.7x104mm round. This gun was certified up to 3000 metres, and its bolt-action allowed for much higher accuracy compared to the semi-automatic sniper rifles in service. And lastly, he was no ordinary marksman for another reason; he was a Spartan.

The high-magnification scope attached to the scope rail on his weapon buzzed and whined mechanically as he scanned the jungle valley before him, keeping an eye on the three well-placed anti-aircraft batteries strategically located around the area. He was far above them, near the peak of one of the smaller mountains in the region, looking down on the house and its plateau. It had taken him two weeks of treacherous hiking to reach this vantage point unseen, dropped off dozens of kilometres away by a UNSC Owl stealth dropship with his rifle and rations. He had marched up and down thickly forested slopes, through rivers and swamps, rappelled down cliff sides and crossed deadly ravines. All part of the job. The heat had been unbearable, and the lining of his Semi-Powered Infiltrator armour had begun to stink after day two. He shuddered to think what he must smell like now, but he had quickly gotten used to the smell. He hadn't dared take the photo-reactive armour off to bathe at any point, as there could be URF monitoring drones scanning the area at any time.

He checked the status of the cloaking of his armour, visually inspecting his forearm for any signs of panel washout or damage. The armour was a miracle of modern engineering, a mesh of photo-reactive panelling so effective that although no-one could ever accuse him of being invisible, he was certainly incredibly difficult to spot in any spectrum. The panelling on his forearm had taken up the mottled green hues of the moss he lay on, giving him near-perfect camouflage as he laid prone on the forest floor, aiming downwards at his target.

A large native insect buzzed around his helmet, evidently intrigued by the faint scent of sweat leaking through the seals. The SPI armour was not vacuum proof, unlike its big brother MJOLNIR. He had a MJOLNIR set waiting for him back aboard the Renovatio, but the added bulk and noise of the armour, coupled with its lack of stealth capabilities made it a second choice to the SPI. He still missed the energy shielding though. He didn't break his concentration to swat the winged invertebrate away, both hands clenching his rifle. He had been holding this position for several hours now and every part of him ached. But according to intelligence gathered by ONI, the target was here.

They weren't wrong. His heart rate increased as the large patio doors to the balcony swung open and his target strolled out nonchalantly. She was wearing a wide sun hat, tank top and shorts, perfectly suited to the heat of the planet, a complete contrast to the identification images he had memorised before he set off in which she had been wearing the well-pressed uniform of a UNSC Army General. The target sat down in a deck chair on the balcony and laid back, drink in hand, relaxing in the dying sunlight as the day drew to a close. He began his calculations, taking into account the effect that his elevation, the humidity, heat, wind and even the planets (slightly lower that earth's) gravity would have on the bullet's flight path. He could rely on the targeting computer nestled in the foliage next to him to work these things out for him, but a good sniper always double checked his calculations, and never relied on machines. His mental arithmetic calculated a corrective trajectory which was confirmed by the computer's calculus a half-second after he had arrived at it.

A silent smile stretched across his scarred lips as he adjusted the scope on his weapon delicately, compensating for the extreme range and elevation, and the Coriolis effect, the fact that his shot was at such a distance that the rotation of the planet would affect the final placement. His scope beeped in his HUD, signalling that it was ready, and that it would automatically compensate for changing wind speed and direction throughout the shot. He leaned forward and quickly removed the polymer jacket from the rifle's barrel, which had been up until this point warming the barrel to avoid the accuracy issues caused by the colder temperature of the bore for the first bullet fired than the proceeding rounds. At shorter ranges, the "cold-bore" effect would not overtly affect flight ballistics with modern ammunition. But at these extreme ranges, every factor needed to be taken into account.

He settled behind the rifle, staring down the scope at his target as she lay there, out in the open, content to sunbathe in the evening glow. Why wouldn't she? There had been no report of UNSC activity on this half of the planet for months, and she was in as secluded and remote a location as possible. There was nothing to fear.

Breaths came slow and deep to him now as he entered a relaxed state of mind, focussing all his energy on preparing for the shot. His shoulders de-tensed, his consciousness clear and free of distractions, his finger curling around the trigger.

And then he appeared. From out of his scope's field of view, a small child, no older that 5 or 6, walked up to the target and tapped her on the shoulder. He froze, his finger coming off of the trigger quickly, his mind racing, trapped in a time long past.

He was 5. On New Hamburg. His mother had just come home from her job at the hospital. He would never forget her face, the worry lines around her eyes and wrinkles around her nose that would suggest she spent a lot of time smiling. He had been so happy to see her. His father was away, seeing to business in Rhineland on the other side of the planet. He missed him, but he video called every night to talk to him. They had been happy. He wanted to show his mother a drawing he'd made in school that day. He specifically remembered it had been a picture of the cows that grazed outside his house in the fields behind the back yard. He was so proud of it.

She had died instantly. Which he supposed he should be grateful for. No pain, no suffering, just instant release. Their evac ship had been hit by a covenant round, and his mom had been flung around the cabin and broken her neck. He had watched the medics work on her as they soared away from the destruction, numb and broken. None of them would look at him. They all just talked about him to each other, as if he was deaf. When they covered her in the blanket he just watched, not believing his eyes, his drawing was still clutched in her hand as they tucked it into the folds of the fabric.

Once they had broken orbit and boarded an evacuation freighter headed for Wellsburg, he had learned of his father's death below. At that point he wasn't really lucid, just walking around the ship, shuffling from one area to the next until he found Hilda. She had taken him in, hugged him and cried with him during the 48 hour journey through slip space. She had lost both her sons, and reminded him of his mom. He would never forget her or what she had done for him in those days.

They had barely stepped foot on Wellsburgian soil before a black-suited Naval officer had taken him away from Hilda and her husband Jack, citing some UEG regulation that now he couldn't or wouldn't remember. Less than two weeks later he was training to become a Spartan. The candidates had been selected at 6 years old based on their parents having been killed by the Covenant. He wanted to kill them all. And the rest was history.

And now, here he was, unable to tear his eyes away from the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy showing his mother his toys. They looked as happy as he had been once. How could he tear that apart for some Rear Admiral's Mission Objective. Was that all she was? A tick in the "Mission complete" column on his Service Record? What about the kid? Would he grow up haunted by the dreams of his mother's death as he was? Would this tragic loss at the hands of the dreaded imperialist UNSC sympathise him to the URF's teachings? Where had the UNSC been when his homeworld was glassed?

Suddenly the repercussions of this mission spiralled around in his head, breaking any shred of concentration or objectivity he had. If he did this, he was no better than the covenant, ripping a young boy from his beloved mother so cruelly. But if he didn't he'd be court martialled for sure, and who knows how many more innocent servicemen and women would have their lives ruined by this woman. She was no longer just a target in the crosshairs to him.

However, what she had done across the quadrant had to be answered for. Visions of scattered bodies, broken and burned floated to the surface of his mind; a couple still hand in hand as they lay, their forms twisted and shattered, a tattered UNSC uniform found twenty metres away from its owner, a child's toy melted and warped by flame.

Conflicting emotions boiled in his mind, and he growled in frustration as he re-zeroed his rifle on the target's centre of mass. Could he do it? He knew he would lose some part of him if he pulled the trigger on this forest world, and he had to be willing to make the sacrifice.

He centred himself again and let his mind go blank, breathing slowly. The target laughed with her child. He curled his finger on the trigger. He held back a tear as she settled back into her seat, the child now playing next to her happily in the warm sunlight. He exhaled smoothly, stabilising his body for the final milliseconds of the shot.

The recoil of the rifle barely registered to him as he worked the bolt action, sending a large brass casing spinning into the foliage next to him. He glanced down his scope to confirm target hit and quickly collapsed the rifle, feeling more disgusted with himself than he ever had been before. By the time that the echoing crack of the rifle reached the target's location 8.74 seconds later, 5.74 seconds after the bullet had, he was already moving out towards his extraction point 20 kilometres away. By the time the URF security team had pinpointed the trajectory of the round and discovered his firing position, all they would find upon inspection was a depression in the mossy undergrowth and a single .50 calibre shell casing balanced on its end in the middle of it.

What Spartan Josef-G164 had left behind on that lonely jungle mountain slope was considerably more.

The end.