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03.08.2013 , 10:49 AM |
Lessons in Survival
bh - Ajacksa
The first man she'd killed had been an accident.
It had been the night she'd escaped. Waited till Mother and her shiny new step-father were sound asleep, resting easy in the thought that their target hadn't realized what they'd tried. Her heart had been pounding so hard, desperation making her hands shake as she moved quietly through the dark of what used to be a happy home. Credits, armor, and an an old blaster. All she could afford to carry. Almost. The minature holostatue of her father sitting on the table next to the door had been shut off only days after he'd died. Ajacksa picked up the slim black base and slid it into her pocket before she keyed the door and left the bright shining deadly world at the top for a different kind of deadly in the dark part of Coruscant.
She'd never been on the surface - had lived here her whole life and never touched the planet's ground. Technically, she still hadn't - plascreet covered everything. The smells overwhelmed her as she ventured into shadowed streets: the cool smell of plascreet, the sweet-sharp stink of filth, the chemical miasma from the smog that dropped down from on high.
Looking back, she shouldn't have survived. She'd never ridden a taxi. Never seen violence or poverty up close, in your face, in all its gut-churning, stinking glory. Sheltered girls from the upper levels didn't take lessons in survival. Luckily, it was a skill that could be picked up through practice.
That first kill had been an accident - a rush from the shadows, a wild struggle that shook her muscles and had her gasping for air, the blaster lighting up the darkened street, too loud and too close, and then stillness and the awful smell of charred flesh. She looked back once as she ran. Half a face gone, a gaping hole where a person used to be. When she finally found a patch of shadows of her own, she threw up.
That was three weeks ago.
She looked down at the blaster in her hand.
Since then she'd killed twelve more people - assassins sent from her step-father and thugs on the streets of Jiguuna. The number seemed ridiculous, unreal, obscene. They'd all come after her though; she hadn't gone searching them out. She took a deep breath in the shadows of the spaceport where her mark was prepping for takeoff and let it out in a shaky stream of air. She was going to have to kill this man. Jack's hand shook as she wiped away sweat that had beaded up on her brow. She had to kill him without getting killed herself.
She adjusted her grip on the blaster, testing the flexibility of her new gloves, and took one more steadying breath. She had a part to play, and she needed to survive the show. Keep moving, Jack, just keep moving.
aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?
My Name is Solomon Crae
The Man in the Box