Two shots rang out, ricocheting off of the alley walls. The man swayed on his feet for a moment, an expression of surprise on his smudged face, before hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
Breathing heavily, Glasha stared dumbly at the man's corpse, then at the blaster in her hands. It took her a moment to regain her senses, to notice anything other than her shaking hands gripping tightly to the metal, her nose filled with the acrid smell of smoke.
She could hear her heartbeat loud in her ears.
But not his.
The Twi'lek hurled the weapon away with a cry and backed into a wall, gripping the cracked bricks for support.
What have I done?
His dead eyes stared blankly up at her, accusing her, blaming her. Glasha slid down the wall, shaking her head. No, it was his fault, the drunken beast! He'd been the one that snuck up on her, grabbed her, scared her—
She had tried to twist away, to run, but his grip was too strong. The memory of his slobbery, whiskery mouth coming ever closer was still engraved into her mind.
"C'mon, shweetheart, don't be that way…I've been lookin' fer one like you allll night…"
She turned away and closed her eyes to keep from meeting his. She should have expected this—an emaciated Twi'lek girl all by herself wearing nothing but a ragged dancer's costume gets too much attention. Stupid, stupid!
The wind was so cold. She could almost feel the presence of the body, hard as she tried to ignore it.
Don't be so appalled, girl. You've killed before.
The tiny, malicious voice echoed in her frazzled mind. She shut her eyes tight. Visions of her old master filled her head—gasping for air, face contorted in fear, hands clawing at the length of shimmersilk knotted tightly around his neck. The sound of his gagging cries as he grasped for his lightsaber and found it absent from his side echoed in her ears. She had only caught a glimpse of the sight as she bolted from the room and into the street, but it remained engraved onto those pretty blue eyes he so loved. He had the last laugh. He always did. The words carved into her skin were proof enough of that.
Glasha wasn't sure how long she remained glued in place, staring petrified at the corpse before her. It was the cold that brought her back to her senses, and she shivered and wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders and stomach. The man was wearing an overcoat, which, while tattered, looked much warmer than her outfit. I'm so cold.
So, slowly, hands shaking, she stripped it from his still form. It smelled like sweat and five different types of alcohol. Beggars can't be choosers.
The pockets stored lint and ten credits, a treasure trove in her situation. Wrapping the garment around herself, Glasha wobbled to her feet and turned to leave—then stopped at the mouth of the alley.
Her eyes flickered back to the blaster lying on the ground. It lay there, winking silently in the thin stream of light creeping in.
Her feet dragged her unwilling body back to the object, and she stood, staring at it, for immeasurable minutes.
She glanced over to the body, then to the gun.
There will be more like him.
I don't want to kill.
Slowly, Glasha's hand wrapped around the cold metal, set it back to half cock, and slipped it into her pocket. She turned and left the alley as quickly as possible.
Beggars can't be choosers.