A/N: I've seen a few of these, and decided to try my hand at one. Thus, the first of five.
Skywalker barely fidgeted on the ground beneath Mara's blaster, while most men would be begging her for their lives pitifully. His unusually calm demeanor troubled her to no end. There was no satisfaction in killing a martyr who wasn't self-conscious. Acknowledging the growing perspiration on her forehead and upper lip, she uselesly tossed her head to one side as if to flip it off.
Mara's fingers tightened their grip around the cold metal as her resolve began to slip. She had killed in cold blood before - why was this so different?
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to get a hold of herself. She was trembling.
YOU WILL KILL LUKE SKYWALKER!
And immediately snapped her lids open to see Skywalker's blue orbs locked with hers. Before she knew what she was doing, something loud filled her ears and a shockwave rippled her Force-sense. She drew back by a step or two, stumbling over a loose root.
All she knew next was the echo of Palpatine's command taunting her, congratulating her, and the softly running stream of violent red soaking into his clothes and his sandy hair. The astromech tottered back and forth, screeching with what could only be interpreted as grief.
Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, Hero of the Rebellion, and detroyer of the Dark Side, was dead. Murdered by Mara Jade, the antithesis to all that her victim stood for.
Now that it had been done, Mara wished she could have undone it all. Joining with Karrde had been an attempt to erase her past and move on, with a hope to someday find Skywalker -no, Luke- and kill him in the process. She realized that with having accomplished just that, there would be no turning back. Ever.
With a loving tenderness, Mara caressed the side of his face that had been soaked with blood. Her index finger carefully outlined the slight creases in his face, rising up to the gash she had made. His forehead, she had not noticed until now, was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and warmth as well.
She rocked herself back and forth like she had as a child, hugging her knees that were getting drenched with silent tears. Mara still held the cold metal in her pale, blood-stained hands. With wide eyes, she pressed the cold against her feverish brow like a soothingly damp cloth. Her grip on the weapon tightened and it moved closer to her temple. Clasping her eyes shut once more, with the image of Skywalker's spirited cerulean irises staring back at her, Artoo-Detoo's mechanical screams died in Mara's ears.