Sharpshot is a sniper, and is very good at that.

(warning: snipers being good at their job means people die)

The mech holding him was no sniper. Young, new, shaky,
barely able to aim a regular gun, let alone Sharpshot’s alt. No matter. For
this, all Sharpshot needed was the support. He did wish the support didn’t
tremble so much, but oh well… this was what his stabilizers were for, and the
half-wall under his muzzle gave some extra support.

His target was unaware. A Decepticon leader of some caliber.
Sharpshot hadn’t listened to name, rank, anything. It didn’t matter. That mech
was marked to die, Sharpshot had been picked to do it. In the back of his mind
he hoped the mech had done something unpleasant, but it didn’t matter. This was
his job. This was his role. This was how the world worked now- if you were important
enough to be a target, you had to keep your helm down.

This mech was not. He was up on a makeshift platform,
gesturing widely, pacing back and forth, evidently giving some kind of speech.
Sharpshot probably could have read his lips if anyone had ever taught him to do
so. He could pick out a few words, war,
Autobots, triumph, his processor focusing on familiar patterns as he waited
for his target to pace back into proper range, but it wasn’t important.

The conditions were important. The angle was important. The
frame of his target was important. The who and the why were not.

Snipers preferred to see a target’s optics. It wasn’t
sadism- it was confirmation. Differing helm and helmet shapes meant that
processors were in different locations. Optic contact was the best way to
ensure a kill.

Sharpshot had multiple chances, but never quite right.
Always with those bright red optics, newly installed by the sheen of them,
turned away from him. Always at the wrong angle. He needed a clean shot. He
always needed a clean shot, but especially in this- they only had one shot,
then they had to run.

Another broad gesture, Sharpshot saw his target moving into
the perfect position, and everything slowed down. He felt the trembling of his
support’s servos, the uneven air movement of their vents against him, the wind
against his muzzle. Most importantly for this, he felt the finger on his
trigger, half-pulled, full permission for him to do as he wanted. Take the
shot.

It took a moment, as it always did, for his frame to gather
the energy to fire. The downside of using one’s spark for power. He’d factored
that in, knew how long it took, and watched calmly as his slow-motion target moved
to line up with his crosshairs.

…three, four, five, and the shot was ready, six, seven, the
target turned fully to face him, eight, and he fired. The mech behind him
jolted in surprise, but one, two, not quite three, and there was a hole between
his target’s optics.

It was the optics. Two-and-a-half they widened the slightest
fraction, reflex, the target’s subconscious noticing the flash of light aiming
for him, but there wasn’t time to react before the core structure of his processor
was gone.

Sharpshot knew he’d been successful when he saw how the
optics changed. They flicker-spun, the lenses unfocusing in no particular
manner, the brightness shifting uncontrollably as the backlash of the processor
destruction sent nonsense signals out through their entire frame, and then as
their frame began to collapse, the lights went out.

Just before the target sank out of Sharpshot’s view, he saw
the darkness in those lifeless optics begin to spread down his target’s cheeks,
along the lines of bio-lights, and then his target was on the ground and he
lost his vision as his support whipped away and began to run.

Sharpshot jolted his trigger to get the servo away, then
transformed, clinging tight to his support’s side and chassis as the young
soldier ran. That was why this mech had come- not any particular skill, they
just ran fast. That was what was needed. They needed to run, get out of range,
out of sight, before anyone processed what had happened.

Processor slowing back to normal pace to conserve energy,
Sharpshot focused his primary optic on the rapidly vanishing scene behind them,
on what he could see through the walls. The target was on the ground, and three
mechs were on the platform next to him where they’d run to help, but none were
doing anything. That usually meant whoever was on the ground was beyond help.
The rest were staring towards where Sharpshot had been, or around at nothing-
some of them might have caught the flash or realized from the angle where the
sniper had been.

They wouldn’t catch Sharpshot.

Success.

Sharpshot felt good about succeeding, and especially about
not being caught.

He didn’t have any feelings about the rest.

He very deliberately did not have any feelings about the
rest.