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The Competition	By : logsig123 Category: +M through R > Mass Effect Views: 4311 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mass Effect series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from this story.

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I steal a glance at John, to see if he finds Harris' monologue as melodramatic as I do. But he's looking straight ahead, a model soldier, and I can't see his expression. Harris is speaking a few words quietly into his radio. Other persons, also human, emerge from the prefabs. Harris points at and names each of them in turn: Krycek, Yang, Langley--all dressed in the same nondescript gray armor. Then he unlocks a gate in the chain fence and slides it open far enough for us to enter.
A short walk from the gate is a slab anchored in the dirt, instantly recognizable as a shooting platform. It's divided into twelve shooting lanes. There's also a stack of crates of various sizes, and a pile of small sandbags to be used as supports for a shooting position. Krycek rattles off the usual list of range rules and safety procedures. I listen with one ear while watching the other two of Harris' men working at the console at one end of the platform. A collection of targets is rising from the ground in the four leftmost lanes. Each is marked with the classic series of concentric circles used by shooters of all races, in one form or another. A row of small red flags also appears, parallel to the shooting lanes. These puzzle me for a moment until I realize they are indicators of wind strength and direction.
As Harris has said, this first section of the course is strictly routine. Ilium's heat haze and the glare of reflected sunlight in the scope are annoyances, but only minor ones. The Master Sergeant calls the target ranges and shooting positions, we shoot. After each volley, they read out the scores. All I care about is that my score is no lower than anyone else's. All I really care about is that my score is no lower than John's. I’m pleased that I have the highest total, in the end. Only edging John out by two points, a meaningless margin, but as the Master Sergeant announces the final tally I take a self-congratulatory bow. John snorts and cuffs me across the back of my head.
Krios falls into step with me as we move on to the next part of the course. I tense, certain he's about to ask an awkward question, but he merely says, "Good shooting."
"Thanks," I reply. "Two points isn't much of a lead, though."
"How do you think you will fare in the second section?" he asks politely.
"Don't know," I say. "He tends to be slightly better at setting up shots in dynamic situations." I look around to make sure John hasn't overheard. "But if I'm lucky and he isn't, I might maintain my lead."
The drell is silent for a moment. "You know, you are competing against all three of us," he says. There's an undercurrent of amusement in his voice.
I cough to cover my embarrassment. "I meant no offense--"
Krios waves my apology away. "None is taken. In any case, I suspect you will be proven correct in your assessment."
We arrive at a second shooting platform, this one partially backed by a high wall. This time, when the console is activated, a scene out of a dream rises from the ground. Two-dimensional parodies of buildings, skeletal representations of trees, boxy cutouts of vehicles. A small settlement, drawn entirely in broad strokes of welded sheet metal and wire frame. The effect is alien yet strangely familiar. I find myself smiling in admiration.
"One shooter at a time," Harris announces. "Black targets are hostiles--three points each. Red targets are friendlies--minus five points. When time is called, cease fire immediately. Shooters have been chosen in random order; those who have not yet shot will remain behind that wall, to avoid an unfair advantage. When you are called, proceed to the firing position and make ready. The target sequence will commence on your signal." He calls Krios forward. The rest of us walk behind the wall to wait.
We stand in silence, listening to the sounds from the platform. After a while, John begins to pace slowly along the wall. He brushes a hand slowly against my leg as he passes me, his eyes dark as they meet mine. I know damn well what he's doing, but I can't prevent myself from reacting, even though we're both in full armor and there's little physical sensation when we touch. He's standing a little way off now, his back against the wall, smirking at me. I move closer, lean back next to him, and, in between the booms of the sniper rifle coming from the platform behind us, whisper, "I could fuck you right here." I monitor his heart rate in my visor and grin to myself.
Legion is staring at us. I have no idea how good its audio sensors are, but its head is tilted and the flaps are raised. Damn. That's probably a bad sign.
The sound of firing stops. Harris appears at the edge of the wall and calls John to the platform, putting an end to our psychological warfare for now. I'm left alone with Legion, but beyond studying me like a specimen, the geth makes no effort to communicate. I turn up the music in my visor's audio link and try to ignore its scrutiny. This works so well that I hardly notice Legion's absence after it's summoned forward.
Finally, Harris calls for me. As I step onto the platform, I see the others standing off to the side. John casually moves a hand over his groin, lets it linger there. I grit my teeth at him, seat myself at the firing position and brace my rifle on the edge of the crate conveniently provided for this purpose. Three deep breaths. They're all watching you, Vakarian. Don't fuck up. "Ready," I say.
In the distant metallic settlement, silhouettes begin to appear. Human, asari, turian, krogan, batarian, even the occasional vorcha. Low, wide targets with four legs. Varren? They come from behind trees, pop up in the windows of buildings. On the roofs of vehicles. Pushing out of doorways. Some move towards me, others away. I let my body relax, trusting to my other self, the part of me that knows how to do this. As each tiny movement registers, the word Friendly or Hostile flashes in my mind. Hostile means Kill. The scope aligns, tracks the target. The figures scrolling in my visor plug directly into my hands, correcting for range and windage without conscious thought. The trigger pull. The sound. The punch of recoil. While the thermal clip ejects, the scope finds another silhouette. I watch the targets falling. There's nothing else in the world.
"Time! Cease fire!"
I let go. Stand up, slowly, letting reality seep back in. I feel good. I know I've made no errors, so it's only a question of whether John worked faster than I did, whether he hit more targets.
"Damn, you guys are something," one of Harris' men says, shaking his head. Langley, the tallest one. "All of you beat the existing record on this range." Behind him, the Master Sergeant grunts approval. They read out the accumulated scores. John's leading now by one point. Disappointing. But one point is nothing. I'll catch him in the third section. Where I'll learn hidden truths about myself, or whatever.
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The Competition