by FalconWind
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything related to it. Everything belongs to George Lucas. EXCEPT the stuff I create which belongs to I, and I alone.
A/N: I hope you enjoy this fic. I enjoyed writing it because I've always
excelled in discriptive writing. And I always love to surprise my readers.
BTW, if you read the Star Wars Technical Manual: Weapons & Technology
you will see an entry for projectile weapons (aka slugthrowers).
The night was cold, but not too dark. As I
lay prone I shifted slightly as a bone-chilling wind blew through me. I
could swear that the rain was getting into my suit, but it was completely
self-contained. I adjusted my grip on the rifle, my gloved hand slick from
the unrelenting downpour. I was faintly aware of the random drumming of
water droplets on my helmet, as the water streaked down my visor.
The rocky outcropping that I used as cover
did little to shield me from the elements. It did, however, provide quite
adequate concealment.
I checked the chrono on my helmet's HUD. The
target would be here any minute, no doubt.
I waited a few more minutes, the anticipation
rising in me every second. Until after many tedious moments, the target
came into sight… barely. Just as the man had informed him.
He was good, he was the best in his profession.
I could tell by his body language that he expected an ambush, after all
he was now flanked by upward embankments on either side. The perfect ambush
spot, with trees all around.
But I knew that it was too perfect. To setup
there would have been predictable.
He looked around, checking his vicinity thoroughly.
I closed my left eye, channeling my concentration through the rifle's telescopic
scope. At this range, almost a kilometer, every little movement translated
into a meters of sway.
I slowed my breathing, and steady my body.
I zoomed in on the figure, who's body stance
displayed he was ready to jump into action, should the need arise.
Compensating for the wind and the trajectory
of the projectile, I aim above him and to the left, my years of training
and experience guiding my hands.
I flip off the safety. My body tenses. My
finger pulls on the trigger, which creeps backwards every so slowly until.
BANG!
The bullet explodes out the barrel at super-sonic
speeds, screaming through the air, leaving the sonic boom and the sound
of whizzing in it's wake.
The bullet flies true. It strikes it's target
in the neck, shattering the spine and destroying the throat and vital arteries
just before the loud report of my rifle fills his ears. He now knows where
the gaping hole in his neck has come from. A gun shot, not a blaster. The
bullet hit not the tough armor plating on the chest, or the battle-scarred
helmet on his head, but between. Ripping easily through the flightsuit.
As his limp body falls to the ground he makes
an attempt to find his killer, searching as his life flows away. He finds
the wisps of smoke, but I'm concealed and though he looks right at me,
he doesn't know it. He dies gurgling, but quietly from where I stand.
I approach the body. The famous body, concealed
in the famous armor. The man inside is dead, but the armor still somehow
seems more intimidating, washed with red, braided wookie scalps soaked
in human blood.
The T shaped visor staring at nothing, but
somehow staring right at me, drilling into my soul. I stand there, eyes
unable to move from the form.
Like a coward, I had killed a brave man. I
had killed my idol. I had killed a legend. I had killed Boba Fett.