{"sf1_id":801032,"sf2_id":null,"title":"Pilot: Pvt. Connor Bishop, The Marksman","author":"MicoConejito","words":2906,"posted_at":"2014-12-28T22:51:00.000Z","tags":["Adventure","Alternate Society","Bunny","Drama","Fox","Military","Rabbit","Story Progression","Story Series","War","Wolf"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/801032-pilot-pvt-connor-bishop-the-marksman","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/view/801032","image_url":"https://www.sofurryfiles.com/std/thumb?page=801032\u0026ext=.jpg","description":"","content":"Springfield on Fire\nStory Pilot - The Marksman\nStanding before the fire was a man\nwho had forgotten mercy and forsaken his graces. Flickers and sparks shined in\nhis darkened eyes, glazed and mirrored by the night sky. Nothing else in the\nworld existed but him and his inferno. Standing before the fire was a man who\nknew there was nothing left to do. A slow burn. This was a slow burn. He\nthought about the rubble it would leave behind, the bodies they'd try to\nrecover. The mangled identities left in the ashes wouldn't tell a soul what had\nhappened here. Standing before the fire was a man who felt the bliss of victory\noverwhelm him. \nTo his knees, he fell. At his\nknees, he laid his rifle. That weapon was all he had left, and it delivered him\nto his mission. He came from a town nobody knew about tucked away in the hills\nof a country that was an ocean away. He couldn't remember how old he was\nanymore, just that he was somewhere past eighteen, his age when he enlisted. He\ncould, however, remember what the cold felt like as the wind bit at his nose.\nIt reminded him of the nakedness he felt in boot camp. His officers were always\non him, sharp and abusive. They fed this fire. They delivered him here.\n\"Private Bishop,\" called\none Sergeant Reilly. \"You're up at the range for evaluation. Don't keep\nthem waiting.\" \nThe sun was only just starting to\ncome over the hill as Bishop stepped out of the barracks. His hair was still\nfresh from the barber, uniform to the rest of his fur, cotton-white in the sun.\nTwo long ears stood like antennas on his head, and his short tail stuck out\nlike an afterthought in his uniform. He was smaller than his comrades. The cats\ncalled out at him as he passed their tents. The dogs howled.\n\"Bunnies don't belong in the\narmy,\" sneered one. \"Hop on home before you hurt yourself.\"\nIt was this teasing that made him\nso stoic. How can one smile when it invites jokes to spurn his teeth? How can\none wag his tail when it is mocked by the bushy and coiled? A ear flops, he's\nweak. A ear stands up, he's horny. He's taking a shower, they invite him to\nshare their cell, their soap, their cot. He didn't mind. If this is what it\ntook to serve his country, he would endure. He was the youngest of seven\nbrothers; this was a daily routine to him.\n\"A vegetarian can't live on\narmy rations,\" warned the recruiter. \"No protein for strength.\"\nHe didn't need it. The other\nrecruits were overfed as far as he cared. Weighed down by desires, they\nconsumed whatever the cooks gave them and left a trail of waste in their wake. He\nwas efficient, eating no more than his body needed, and leaving no mess to\nspeak of. Stepping into the range, he stood at attention.\n\"Private Connor Bishop,\nsir,\" he saluted and knocked his heels together. \"Reporting for\nfirearms evaluation as ordered by Sergeant Reilly.\"\n\"Grab a rifle, son,\" the\ngrizzly Doberman ordered. \"You've got thirty targets on the field at\nintervals of five meters starting at five and ending at one-fifty. You have\nthirty seconds or three fifteen-round magazines to lay down as many lethal\nshots as you can; a target on the ground is considered lethal. Conservation of\nammunition, mastery of the rifle, and shot location all influence your\nscore.\"\nWhile the dog talked, Bishop took\nthe time to get a feel for the rifle: M1A1 Carbine semi-automatic; red wood\nbody and stock. This was not the Thompson he was used to firing on the range.\nBishop heard mixed reviews of the M1A1, and he was excited to get a chance to use\nit for himself; it was simple and fit well into his hands. The stock was solid,\nbut light, and the barrel didn't feel long enough that it needed to be\nspecially considered when turning. The magazine was accessible and small, a\nnice change from the cumbersome drums that, a stark overcompensation for bad\naim, plagued the Thompson. First impressions were good. \n\"What's the average\nscore,\" Bishop asked with the rifle at his cheek. The iron sights were skewed.\nDamn.\n\"Don't bother with\naverage,\" the officer retorted. \"That kind of thinking lands you in\nthe latrines.\"\n\"You're right, sir.\" He\nlowered the gun and took a deep breath in, out. \n\"Let's get started--unless\nyou've got more questions.\" He was being carefully sarcastic.\n\"I'm ready, sir.\" There\nwas no sense in sassing an officer with complaints about the weapon.\n\"Step up to the range and take\nyour preferred stance,\" ordered the Doberman. \"After your signal, I\nwill count down to begin.\"\nBishop stepped to the marked stall.\nThere were three magazines laying there neatly, full of ammunition. They looked\neager. Bishop inserted the rightmost clip with his left hand, knocking it with\nhis wrist so it would click. Smooth, clean, satisfying. He took a breath and\ncrouched before the range with the sun coming up behind him. \n\"Ready, sir.\" His ears\nfolded back, touching the collar of his jacket as they landed.\n\"Begin firing in five, four,\nthree,\" the Doberman shouted. Protocol was silly. Nobody was about to walk\nonto a live range. Nobody wanted to leave their tents in this cold. \"Two,\none: open fire.\"\nBishop lined up his crooked sights\non the heart-marker on the closest target and pulled the trigger. It hit the\nshoulder, but the target fell. There was laughter behind him. He took aim at\nthe second target center-mass and hit the heart. Calibration achieved. There\nwas almost no time between his second, third, and fourth shots. The targets\nfell like dominoes. On five, he missed. On six, the wind strayed his bullet\ninto seven. On eight, he got a headshot. On thirteen, he needed to reload. \nA forefinger lifted to depress the\nsafety, a thumb to eject the clip. It fell smoking onto the ground next to his\nknee. The middle clip inserted cleanly and was emptied all the same. The third\nfollowed, the clip emptied with a hungry metallic snap. Ten seconds and three\ntargets remained--one of which was hit, but did not fall down. A complete shit\nshow; he knew he could do better. Bishop ejected the spent magazine into his\nleft hand and organized the others into a neat stack.\n\"Not bad,\" chimed the\nDoberman. Bishop's ears were ringing still, and he couldn't hear the officer.\nHe stood and put the rifle and ejected magazines on the table. \n\"May I try again with another\nrifle?\" He should have known better than to open his mouth with anything\nother than, \"Thank you.\" It was too late at that point to go back.\n\"The sights are not properly ali -\"\n\"Looked fine to mine,\" the\nofficer interrupted. The dog crossed his arms and cleared his throat at Bishop\nwhen he tried again to speak. \"Don't showboat, kid. That's how you attract\nsnipers. You'll have your results and assignment in the morning.\nDismissed.\"\nBishop saluted and exited the range\nin the same determined stature in which he entered, looking to his destination\nand nothing in between. A bell rang loud through the cold air, the kind of bell\nBishop remembered from the farm down the road from his house back at home. It\nmeant breakfast: the most important and only real meal of the day.\nRation-quality beef steaks served\nalongside rolls and a medley of dried peas, cabbage, and carrots. It was\nastounding how something like that could go so wrong, all cooked in the same\npot as the stew from the night before with no cleaning in between, all smeared\nwith its grease and residue. Bishop couldn't eat it; he knew better than to\ntry. The rolls smelled clean, so he ate the one he was given. A shame, though,\nbecause everyone wanted their rolls. Normally, Bishop could trade for something\nelse. \nAt least he had people he knew who\nunderstood and were willing to sacrifice the only decent part of their meal to\nhelp. Private Geoffrey Barnes, a brown timber wolf built like a truck, and\nPrivate Anthony, 'Cricket' Smith, a lanky and homely red fox, were the closest\nthings Bishop had to friends. Barnes was a gentle giant and felt the need to\nprotect the black sheep. Smith was afraid that Bishop might snap and wanted to\nbe on his good side when he did. They joked about it in good company. Bishop\ncould smile around them. He often did.\nThey gave him their rolls and split\nhis vegetables and jerky, unable to smell the meaty remains on them that had\nmade Bishop's stomach turn. This monopolizing of the cafeteria was a necessary\ntwice-daily chore. Where some soldiers negotiated for cigarettes and hand jobs,\nBishop spent his favors on calories. \n\"You could do a lot of\ngood,\" said Barnes reaching for Bishop's jerky. \"If you tried making\nfriends, Connor.\"\n\"I have enough food,\" he\nreplied, ignoring the point.\n\"You're a nice kid.\"\nBarnes was several years older than Bishop and took a liking to treating him\nlike a  younger brother. Bishop tolerated\nthe advice because Barnes was, in fact, a lot like one of his older brothers. \"You\ndon't give them a chance to know you. Do you really expect them to treat you\nwith respect when you don't try yourself?\"\n\"No; I shouldn't have to do\nanything for it.\"\n\"Yeah,\" chimed Smith with\na mouth full of peas. \"But everyone thinks you're a dick. They're kinda'\nright, you know.\"\n\"Oh, don't you call me the\ndick,\" Bishop sneered. \"You don't understand how it feels to be the\nwhipping boy around here. I didn't do anything to them.\"\n\"Man,\" sighed Barnes\n\"You need to grow up.\"\nThere was a long pause as Bishop\ntried to feel insulted, but, instead, he shook his head. Barnes was right, and\nthe each knew it. \"I know. This waiting around sucks.\"\n\"Amen to that, brother.\"\nSmith finally swallowed. \"No goddamn whiskey out here in the fences. No\npussy, either.\"\nBarnes groaned. He wasn't a fan of\nSmith's vulgarities. \n\"Well,\" Smith began,\nleaning in to the other two. \"Not girl pussy. We got ladies like Garret\nand Bishop here to keep our cocks nice and warm.\"\nBishop pushed Smith with a foot,\nalmost knocking him off the bench. They were all laughing together. \n\"Really, Garret?\" questioned\nBarnes. \"I figured you'd like the dirty ones better. Filthy like that\nmouth of yours.\"\n\"Nah, man. If I'm going to put\nmy dick in someone that's got a dick of their own, I need to know they're clean,\nman.\"\n\"You're not joking,\"\nBishop said with clear suspicions in his tone. \"Are you...?\"\n\"Look, man. All I'm saying is\nthe hand can only do so much after a day on the range. A nice, round ass goes a\nlong way. I'm no flower boy, but ass is ass. Ain't got no business with what's\nin front.\"\n\"Next time I get invited into\nthe showers,\" Bishop said while laughing. \"I'm giving them your\nname.\"\n\"Long as you tell them I'm\npitching.\" The contract was sealed over soggy carrots and a damp roll.\nThe three only got to spend a\nlittle time together most days, but they made the most of it. Barnes was\npolitical and intelligent enough to back it up. His father was a governor of\nhis home state, so he probably got just as much teasing as Bishop. However, with\nBarnes being big enough to eat most of the recruits, not many people had the\nnerve to squeak out an insult unless they were willing to risk losing some\nteeth. Bishop wasn't into the politics of the war, but it was nice to get news\nas Barnes caught it. \nCivil war was particularly brutal.\nEveryone there tried to distract themselves from the likelihood that they might\nhave to shoot their friends someday. There were a lot of measures taken by the officers\nto make sure none of them were defectors or traitors. Bishop fought for the\nNationalist Party, or \"the cleaner of two toilets,\" as Barnes would\nso eloquently say. \nThe enemy was part of some grand idealistic\ncoup, the People's Liberation Army, who wanted an independent monarchy (which\nmeant a dictatorship according to the Nationalists) instated after ninety years\nof stable oligarchy. The classes were subjugated by laws and regulations\ndesigned to keep families like Bishop's from every entering a state power. People\nfighting for the Nationalists were willing to accept their sorry state in fear\nthat the new one would be even worse. Those fighting for the Revolution\nbelieved they were really going to win despite the massive advantages held by\nthe Nationalists. \nPropaganda was prevalent on both\nsides. Nationalists were plagued by Stockholm-syndrome, in love with their\npoverty, and desperate to defend their abusive masters. The Revolutionaries\nwere rebellious snakes--coincidentally, one of their leaders literally was\nserpentine--bent on instating anarchy and famine to the State. Bishop knew the\nscore, and Barnes was right: both sides sucked.\nThat night was quiet apart from the\norchestra of snoring soldiers. It ended with the loud entrance of Sergeant\nReilly the next morning before dawn.\n\"Get your sorry asses out of\nbed!\" He barked at the recruits like the German shepherd he was.\n\"Privates McAllen, Brandt, Bishop, and Johnson: report to Captain Tanner\nimmediately.\"\nBefore his feet touched the ground,\nBishop lost his balance, nearly falling back into his cot. After a bit of\nflailing, he assimilated into the position taken by the rest of the soldiers. \n\"What, does your candy ass\nhurt, Private, are you drunk?\" Reilly stormed over to Bishop and circled\nhim, eyeing him. \"I didn't order an interpretive dance--or is that stump\nyou call a tail not enough to keep those ears from turning you over?\" \nSmith broke into a quiet chuckle,\nbut Sgt. Reilly caught him. \"Smith, are you laughing at your squadmate?\nYou're on latrines for a week if I hear you out of line again.\"\n\"Sorry, sir.\"\nEven Bishop thought it was funny,\nbut he'd learned a long time ago that laughing around Sgt. Reilly was akin to\nshooting yourself in the kneecap. Those who were called left the tent and\nmarched to the Captain's personal building. It was strange to be back inside an\nactual structure with walls and a solid roof. \n\"In reference to your trials\nat the range yesterday and the week before,\" began Captain Tanner in an\nofficial tone. \"You have been selected as the most skilled marksmen of\nyour squads. You will be further trained in that field and work to become a\nspecialist in higher-ranged weaponry than your squadmates. Your jobs will be to\nquickly, accurately, and effectively neutralize designated priority targets\nthat your squadmates can't reach. \n\"You've probably noticed that\nyou're the only ones who haven't been training with the M1928, the Thompson.\nYou will be outfitted hereafter with semi-automatic rifles,\" he continued,\nholding up the M1A1 from the day before. \"... which suit engagements at\nlonger ranges. You can expect training on the M1A1 Carbine to begin this\nafternoon.\" He set it back down on the desk. \"You may inform your\nsquad leaders of your new positions when you return from breakfast. Do you have\nany questions?\"\nNone of them responded.\n\"Alright then. Good job,\ngentlemen. Keep this up, and you may yet make the sniper academy. Don't get a\nbig head. You're still just grunts. Dismissed.\"\nThe grunts left the building and\nreturned to the tent they had been sleeping in only fifteen minutes before.\nBishop shared his news with Barnes and Smith, and they congratulated him. \n\"I got put on support,\"\nsaid Barnes. \"I get the fun job of carrying ammo and supplies through\ncrossfire.\"\n\"At least you got\nsomething,\" sneered Smith. \"I'm still just regular infantry. I'm\ngonna' marry that fuckin' Thompson at this rate.\"\n\"I'll be keeping an eye out\nfor you two from now on, I guess,\" Bishop said before stealing a grin. \n\"Seeing you smile,\" Smith\ngroaned, \"Scares the shit out of me.\"\n\"Maybe this will get you a\nlittle respect from the other squads.\" Barnes was optimistic.\n\"Marksman isn't a little thing to those guys.\"\n\"Maybe,\" Bishop\ndismissed. \"I think they're just bored. Everyone's eager to shoot\nsomething.\"\n\"Tch! You're not?\" Smith\ncocked his head at Bishop and leaned back a little.\n\"Of course I am. I just don't\nlet it go to my head is all.\"\n\"You should let Gavin know you\ngot placed,\" Barnes said. \"He's at the mess hall waiting for\nbreakfast I think.\"\n\"Isn't it about ti-\"\nSmith was cut off by the breakfast bell. \"Well fuck me with a fork; look\nat that timing.\"\n\"Classy,\" Bishop snerked.\n\"Damn right, powder\npuff.\" He groaned and rubbed his rumbling stomach, taking the opportunity\nto scratch himself. \"Let's get some food.\"\nThis time, the vegetables smelled\nclean. It was nice for Bishop to eat without negotiations for once, but that\nstroke of luck would be the last any of them saw that day. An hour after\nbreakfast, there was an explosion nearby the mess hall. Near, of course,\nmeaning it took out one of the corners of the building, but it didn't seem to\nland on anything--or anyone--important. \nMortars marked Bishop's first real\ntaste of war, the first of countless more."}