Convoy Crashers - [hyperionchimera]
He was supposed to be in hiding. His skin has been itching like crazy for the last few days and the moon is getting dangerously bright at night but he can't help himself. Even in the Highlands, as far away from human settlements as he can manage, somehow he still managed to find people. He wasn't sure if it was instinct or just plain bad luck.
Phelan had intended to steer clear of the caravan, armoured cars moving what appeared to be cargo in the direction of some sort of Hyperion testing facility. Nothing good came from going toe-to-toe with Hyperion no matter how much Phelan wanted to upset their operation. He wasn't like the rest of the natives here, born with a shotgun in one hand and a grenade in the other. Unfortunate moonlit romps aside, he was a civilian with enough weapons training to hold a gun the right way and not shoot himself in the foot. Five years on Pandora had improved his aim but he was no ex-Lance. Better to let the cargo train go by and avoid an unnecessary confrontation so close to the full moon.
At least, that was what he had intended to do until he'd heard them.
The wander's sure he should have been more concerned with the fact that it's the skags he heard first and not the human captives, even though they weren't making near as much noise. But the skag calls touched something deep and primal in Phelan that had made a permanent home since he left Jakobs Cove. It was difficult to explain to anyone who didn't understand skags as intimately as he did, aside from the feelings hearing skags scream evoked. Every night he'd heard them his face burned all down the prominent scar line and he had to fight back the urge to yell back as loud as his human vocal chords would allow it. He couldn't let the cries for help go unanswered. His own morals and the beast were, for once, completely in agreement. Phelan didn't know if he should be impressed or unnerved.
It was still a stupid plan, Phelan crouched hidden in the hills, staring through the scope of his sniper rifle while he waited for any signs of the caravan. He wasn't one hundred percent sure what he intended to do once he took out the tires on the cars but he hoped that, in the ensuing confusion, he could shoot down whatever guards leapt out of the trucks before they realized he was there. So long as Hyperion didn't drop down loaders he would be okay. Probably.
The ground rumbled beneath the thin soles of his worn shoes and his hands tightened instinctively around his rifle. He let the first car pass, then the second, and finally steadied his aim enough to fire, piercing the wheel of the first runner and hearing it break with a satisfying pop. The runner jerked to the side, its momentum suddenly gone, and the one behind it drove right into it, starting a promising runner pile up. Phelan's heart hammered in his ears as he watched, forcing himself to continue looking down the scope. Soon. When the dust settled he would take his next shot.
