It set off an odd chain reaction that seems unique to Sniper Elite's multiplayer: the guy that shot me exposed himself enough to die, then the guy that shot him was caught out as well. I expect that's what he was doing when another sniper's bullet zipped in from the side, shooting the land-mine that was my curse and saviour, and blowing me sky-high. I'd probably grin the grin of a man who's got a high-powered rifle and a target that knows even a shrug of a shoulder means death.
The rest of the world would melt away as I kept my aim on that few square metres. I dropped again and didn't move for minutes, trying to imagine what I'd be doing in my opponent's place. All that careful shuffling undone with a keyboard fumble that both exposed me then saved my life. Maybe I wasn't even visible, only my shadow betraying me? Then, ridiculously, I'd popped up. I'd been crawling through a warehouse, the broken walls offering players across the map only a brief glimpse of movement, enabling me to be traced but not shot. It bloomed out from the brickwork the second I broke my cover, so I could be sure I was being tracked. That puff of dust told a hell of a story. I'd accidentally ducked out of a bullet's path. Just above me a brick spat out a puff of debris. At one point I accidentally hit 'F', which selects whatever trap you've highlighted, and bent down to place a landmine. With such a precise method of killing, things can also go hilariously wrong. You'll often not even know where the shooter was. What if this act of assassination is the one that gives your position away? Death comes quickly and from every conceivable angle. You're only in that position because you spent the time crawling to get there. When every movement can feel like you're setting off a firework display that writes 'I'm Here' in rockets, popping up to shoot someone is a tough decision. It wouldn't work if the game's draw distance was shoddy, but with the right kind of thousand-yard stare you can see the waggle of a gun rifle a map-length away. Finding signs of life in all that, and it could be 1% of a helmet spotted 250 metres away as it shifts a centimetre, is glorious.
Somewhere out there, among the trees and ruts, behind the crates and tanks, sunken in a crater, is someone. While watching a green field from the broken roof of a bombed-out museum, I've discovered reserves of patience I thought had long since evaporated. Nazi-sympathising inanimate objects are everywhere. You need to get a feel for it all, and then to disregard it. Smoke boils out of fires, embers leap into the air, and torn flags cast rippling shadows that you need to absorb and make a part of the background detail. Beautiful in the way only a destroyed city can be. The levels are gorgeous, animated marvels.
But learning to spot that movement takes time.