Snippet #2489593

The honed eyes of the Tribal Sniper had already been tired when he had taken the post hours ago; sleep had almost taken him again as Bandit opened the door of the shack below. Alert once again but still exhausted, Terrence slugishly climbed down from the tin roof and slunk to the doorway of the outpost. He stopped for a moment, something important occuring to him.

"You do happen to have a long-range weapon on you, right? Or at least something that would let you see farther." His father's words returned to him. 'What is the point of a lookout if he can't actually look out? That rifle has no mounts for a scope and it has too much kick for a custom job to hold together.'

The Paciencia. It was a perfect model of hunting rifle, capable of inflicting higher damage at greater distance thanks to the workmanship involved in creating it. The increased recoil meant it had it's drawbacks; the magazine had to be shortened to make room for a larger bolt and scopes were impossible to use as they would come loose more frequently. But it was his mother's rifle, famous in the Stone Walker Tribe for punching through a Mirelurk's shell while using the same rounds as it's inferior versions. It was the perfect rifle. It was his rifle. 'This rifle has saved lives for years. Mother used it to save lives for years.' And that had been the end of it.

"What is the point of a lookout if she can not look out."