Summary: A short Morden fic, set just after the death of Kosh.
A/N: Yep, another B5 shortie and another one on the way. I've always found Morden to be interesting and even though plot dictates he was a Shadow agent with no personality, the look on his face as the Shadows killed Kosh was haunting.
Rating: K+ for safety.
Disclaimer: Don't own Morden or B5, sadly enough.
It is a terrible thing to kill a Vorlan, just as it is a terrible thing to smash a crystal vase or slash a terrible work of art.
Or maybe more like burning up something valuable and watching it go up in flames; a beautiful fire that caused a moments delight and then nothing.
Morden slowly stepped around the debris, twisted and charred, taking care not to let his shoes brush the smoking metal. He could hear the creatures around him twitching slightly, their soft clicks and whistles close to his ear. He smiled. Even through the glass of his mask and the vapors that rose around him, he could see their shapes, only slightly blurred around the edges and hard in the center, crystal clear.
He briefly considered taking a piece of the twisted metal as a souvenir, but quickly dismissed the idea. It was too risky; Kosh's death would not go for long. The security teams, with their scanners and computers would document every inch of the room. They would analyze every particle of dust that caught their eye, scratch their heads and maybe even shed a tear or two for the dearly departed ambassador.
And they would find nothing.
The small smile grew wider as he paced a neat circle around the bulk of the debris, then slowly turned a prefect 360 degrees on the spot, relishing the dents and burn marks on the previously spotless walls. He soaked in the destruction, imprinting the images into his head. It was a rare sight, he realized, the sight of something he had created and orchestrated and set in motion that gave him this feeling of pleasure, of satisfaction that fully sated him. He had never talked to this Vorlan, never interacted with any Vorlan. It was a silent battle, one fought over smaller races, children and grandchildren to be swayed. But their victories had always been piles of dust left to float in space, never this close or personal. It gave him a thrill and just for a moment, he let the images take over his mind: Encounter suits spread on the floor, writhing under heat of dense particle beams or perhaps metal ripped apart by bare hands. Warm flesh turning cold under his hands and angry eyes going lifeless, hands slowly unclenching as limbs rolled across a floor slippery with blood-
Noo..
Their whisper stopped him, a soft breeze that turned into a low warning hum. He stood up straight, tugged a little at his jacket and walked towards the door at a fast clip. The shapes behind him wavered and then vanished.