Home. There were so many ways of defining it. So many subtle changes in meaning. So many different views on the term terminology for the world. There are some who believed one's home is where they are born in. Some believe a home is the place where you are raised. Yet others believe that home is where you live in the present time. Each different, each pointless. It did not matter where your home was. Whatever you want your home to be is your home. If it isn't, then make it your home.
The door burst open. Those inside had been caught completely by surprise. Red bolts filled the room in an instant, and Damian reacted just as quickly. He had been sitting in his traditional corner, away from the others who spoke loudly as they played poker. Damian did not speak. He rarely ever spoke. In a flash, his pistol was out and in just as short a time the lights had been shot out. The mercenary leapt up to where the ends of the two walls met with the ends of the two ceilings and pushed out at all sides, creating a handhold.
Red blaster bolts flashed underneath him, giving his chin and portions of his cheek an eery illumination. The screams of his comrades, if they could have been called that, reached him. Damian shook his head, silently cursing the Imperials. Unnecessary brutality. Blasters most likely 'accidentally' set to kill. Most of all, a machine-like, almost perverted, ability to kill anything they saw. He shook his head when he remembered his history at one of them. Before he had left. Before he defected.
Before he had seen the universe.
Patriotism. An undeniably successful way of getting a population to obey mindlessly. If someone spoke out against their government, they were unpatriotic. If someone spoke out against those ruling their government, they were unpatriotic. If someone spoke out against the decisions their government made, they were unpatriotic. If someone betrayed their government, they were most definitely unpatriotic. Why? My government was wrong. I knew it. Many others knew it. Yet I am a terrible man for siding with the enemy. But I had to. I couldn't have done anything else. If I spoke out, I would be more than unpatriotic. I would be dead.
Damian could here the co-ordinated whispers of the Imperial strike team. They probably knew that he was still alive. They probably knew he was still in the room. They were probably coming for him. It most definitely did not matter. They were dead, even if they weren't aware of it yet. They were most definitely dead. He knew where every one of them was, and his eyes weren't even open. It was like shooting Mon Calamari in a pool.
Damian pushed off his left arm and foot, sending him skimming along the wall to the right. He landed noiselessly into a roll and came up in a crouch. Right next to a stooping Imperial. Again, the pistol came out. Its silencer gently pressed against the man's temple. There was a brief gasp of surprise, cut off by a muffled shot, and the man literally soared a little to the side before he hit the ground with a thump and slid. Most definitely dead.
Betrayal. The ultimate sin. So subtle. So stealthy. So easy. Yet doing so sent ripples of distress throughout the fabric of society. In my case, it sent waves of distress throughout the fabric of governmental society, and made not a splash anywhere else. I was a shadow. A ghost. Nothing else. I had no true name. No identity, other than my call sign. Damian. I still wonder why I keep it. Probably to remind me. To remind me of why I still fight, even when its hopeless. I've made promises. I have duties to fulfill. Nothing will stop me. Nothing.
Three blaster bolts pounded the corpse before the whisper was given to hold their fire. There were small gasps of surprise when the Imperials realized it was one of their own. Damian knew they were obviously shuddering in terror, wondering if it had been them that had killed him. So quick to kill others when it was okay for them to do so, yet when they might be harmed by it all of the sudden they were pacifists? Hypocrites. All of them. They deserved to die. They would die.
Damian switched the pistol over to his left hand. He unhooked a thermal detonator from his belt and armed it. He tossed it up at the ceiling and went down into a prone stance. The pistol was quickly tossed back into the right. The detonator made a clink sound as it hit the ceiling, and blaster fire sprung forth once more. One of the Imperials had gotten lucky, and it exploded prematurely as a bolt struck it. The room lit up suddenly, and the Imperials shielded their eyes. Damian did not. He would not. He could not. In the brief moment of light, he got off three shots. Three men were most definitely dead.
Freedom. Such a controversial issue. Those who don't have it want it badly, and those who have it hunger for more. Yet if ultimate freedom is given, then chaos will quickly follow. So where is the middle ground? Where is the balance? It is a question that has haunted the minds of scholars and philosophers since the history of humans and humankind. Can a balance be achieved? I believe so, but it might cost us our souls.
There was one man left. A one on one competition. But the battle had already been won. Damian knew it, and now the man knew it. Damian holstered his sidearm, in order to make things slightly more interesting. Well, for him anyway. It would be terrifying and painful for the other man. Somehow sensing his comrades were dead, the Imperial made a rather loud run for the door. Standing up, Damian wrapped his leg around a chair and kicked out, sending it flying. It caught the Imperial halfway to the door, sending him back into a wall.
In an instant Damian was upon him. The Imperial tried desperately to fire his weapon, but he was shocked to find the barrel was gone. It had been disassembled by the man who had killed his fellows. With a single punch, the man had been knocked unconscious, but Damian did not stop there. He took out the rage and frustration that had been building up over the past few days out on the man, raining blows upon blows down upon his poor body. After a few minutes, he felt satisfied. The pistol was out once more, and the silencer lightly touched the middle of his forehead. Damian squeezed the trigger, and blood flew.
Death. All men fear it, yet all men will eventually face it. If thought about enough, it is one of the most terrifying facts of all. We are all afraid of death, even if we will not admit it. Even if we will not admit it to ourselves. It is because we are programmed to fear it. Programmed to avoid it for as long as possible. It is part of evolution. But it will come eventually. Everyone will die. I am afraid, yes. But I am even more afraid of dying before I can do what I set out to do. I am even more afraid of failing. There are two things that we can believe in with absolute certainty. Death...and the mission. If I fail my mission, I fail to justify my death.
"The rest of the cell is gone as well..." Damian said aloud to the empty room. It was not a question, "GLF won't be pleased.
They better give me my money."
The door burst open. Those inside had been caught completely by surprise. Red bolts filled the room in an instant, and Damian reacted just as quickly. He had been sitting in his traditional corner, away from the others who spoke loudly as they played poker. Damian did not speak. He rarely ever spoke. In a flash, his pistol was out and in just as short a time the lights had been shot out. The mercenary leapt up to where the ends of the two walls met with the ends of the two ceilings and pushed out at all sides, creating a handhold.
Red blaster bolts flashed underneath him, giving his chin and portions of his cheek an eery illumination. The screams of his comrades, if they could have been called that, reached him. Damian shook his head, silently cursing the Imperials. Unnecessary brutality. Blasters most likely 'accidentally' set to kill. Most of all, a machine-like, almost perverted, ability to kill anything they saw. He shook his head when he remembered his history at one of them. Before he had left. Before he defected.
Before he had seen the universe.
Patriotism. An undeniably successful way of getting a population to obey mindlessly. If someone spoke out against their government, they were unpatriotic. If someone spoke out against those ruling their government, they were unpatriotic. If someone spoke out against the decisions their government made, they were unpatriotic. If someone betrayed their government, they were most definitely unpatriotic. Why? My government was wrong. I knew it. Many others knew it. Yet I am a terrible man for siding with the enemy. But I had to. I couldn't have done anything else. If I spoke out, I would be more than unpatriotic. I would be dead.
Damian could here the co-ordinated whispers of the Imperial strike team. They probably knew that he was still alive. They probably knew he was still in the room. They were probably coming for him. It most definitely did not matter. They were dead, even if they weren't aware of it yet. They were most definitely dead. He knew where every one of them was, and his eyes weren't even open. It was like shooting Mon Calamari in a pool.
Damian pushed off his left arm and foot, sending him skimming along the wall to the right. He landed noiselessly into a roll and came up in a crouch. Right next to a stooping Imperial. Again, the pistol came out. Its silencer gently pressed against the man's temple. There was a brief gasp of surprise, cut off by a muffled shot, and the man literally soared a little to the side before he hit the ground with a thump and slid. Most definitely dead.
Betrayal. The ultimate sin. So subtle. So stealthy. So easy. Yet doing so sent ripples of distress throughout the fabric of society. In my case, it sent waves of distress throughout the fabric of governmental society, and made not a splash anywhere else. I was a shadow. A ghost. Nothing else. I had no true name. No identity, other than my call sign. Damian. I still wonder why I keep it. Probably to remind me. To remind me of why I still fight, even when its hopeless. I've made promises. I have duties to fulfill. Nothing will stop me. Nothing.
Three blaster bolts pounded the corpse before the whisper was given to hold their fire. There were small gasps of surprise when the Imperials realized it was one of their own. Damian knew they were obviously shuddering in terror, wondering if it had been them that had killed him. So quick to kill others when it was okay for them to do so, yet when they might be harmed by it all of the sudden they were pacifists? Hypocrites. All of them. They deserved to die. They would die.
Damian switched the pistol over to his left hand. He unhooked a thermal detonator from his belt and armed it. He tossed it up at the ceiling and went down into a prone stance. The pistol was quickly tossed back into the right. The detonator made a clink sound as it hit the ceiling, and blaster fire sprung forth once more. One of the Imperials had gotten lucky, and it exploded prematurely as a bolt struck it. The room lit up suddenly, and the Imperials shielded their eyes. Damian did not. He would not. He could not. In the brief moment of light, he got off three shots. Three men were most definitely dead.
Freedom. Such a controversial issue. Those who don't have it want it badly, and those who have it hunger for more. Yet if ultimate freedom is given, then chaos will quickly follow. So where is the middle ground? Where is the balance? It is a question that has haunted the minds of scholars and philosophers since the history of humans and humankind. Can a balance be achieved? I believe so, but it might cost us our souls.
There was one man left. A one on one competition. But the battle had already been won. Damian knew it, and now the man knew it. Damian holstered his sidearm, in order to make things slightly more interesting. Well, for him anyway. It would be terrifying and painful for the other man. Somehow sensing his comrades were dead, the Imperial made a rather loud run for the door. Standing up, Damian wrapped his leg around a chair and kicked out, sending it flying. It caught the Imperial halfway to the door, sending him back into a wall.
In an instant Damian was upon him. The Imperial tried desperately to fire his weapon, but he was shocked to find the barrel was gone. It had been disassembled by the man who had killed his fellows. With a single punch, the man had been knocked unconscious, but Damian did not stop there. He took out the rage and frustration that had been building up over the past few days out on the man, raining blows upon blows down upon his poor body. After a few minutes, he felt satisfied. The pistol was out once more, and the silencer lightly touched the middle of his forehead. Damian squeezed the trigger, and blood flew.
Death. All men fear it, yet all men will eventually face it. If thought about enough, it is one of the most terrifying facts of all. We are all afraid of death, even if we will not admit it. Even if we will not admit it to ourselves. It is because we are programmed to fear it. Programmed to avoid it for as long as possible. It is part of evolution. But it will come eventually. Everyone will die. I am afraid, yes. But I am even more afraid of dying before I can do what I set out to do. I am even more afraid of failing. There are two things that we can believe in with absolute certainty. Death...and the mission. If I fail my mission, I fail to justify my death.
"The rest of the cell is gone as well..." Damian said aloud to the empty room. It was not a question, "GLF won't be pleased.
They better give me my money."