|The Last Kill
Author: FalconWind PM
The account of the last kill of a career. Features Boba Fett. Please review!Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Boba Fett - Words: 717 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 1 - Published: 08-18-02 - Status: Complete - id: 919614
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
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.