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[HARD CONTACT] Chapter 4: Darman kills
|| Republic Commando: Hard Contact || 2004 || Book series || Military, Sci-Fi || 18+ for violence and harrowing themes ||
Darman going against the weequays was incredibly sexy, but also we see that it wasn't just about shooting them from the distance. He killed someone with his bare hands, with a vibroblade, very close. But also this detail that he doesn't know how to feel about it. He is a living weapon and he doesn't know what to think about death and killing or how to form words around the feeling how it affects him.
But this was different. It wasn’t distant, and the debris of the kill wasn’t metal. The Weequay’s blood had dried in a stream down his glove and right forearm plate. And he hadn’t managed a clean kill. It was wrong.
They had drilled him to kill, and kill, and kill, but nobody had thought to teach him what he was supposed to feel afterward. He did feel something, and he wasn’t certain what it was.
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Darman going against the weequays was incredibly sexy, but also we see that it wasn't just about shooting them from the distance. He killed someone with his bare hands, with a vibroblade, very close. But also this detail that he doesn't know how to feel about it. He is a living weapon and he doesn't know what to think about death and killing or how to form words around the feeling how it affects him.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
Darman brought his fist up hard under the Weequay’s jaw, ramming his own vibroblade up into the throat and twisting his fist off to one side to sever blood vessels. He supported the deadweight of the impaled Weequay on one arm, until it stopped moving. Then Darman lowered his arm, shaking with the effort, and let the body roll to the ground as quietly as he could.
(...)
Darman brought his fist up hard under the Weequay’s jaw, ramming his own vibroblade up into the throat and twisting his fist off to one side to sever blood vessels. He supported the deadweight of the impaled Weequay on one arm, until it stopped moving. Then Darman lowered his arm, shaking with the effort, and let the body roll to the ground as quietly as he could.
(...)
He’d killed plenty of times at Geonosis, smashing droids with grenade launchers and cannons at a distance, hyped up on fear and the instinct to live. Survive to fight.
But this was different. It wasn’t distant, and the debris of the kill wasn’t metal. The Weequay’s blood had dried in a stream down his glove and right forearm plate. And he hadn’t managed a clean kill. It was wrong.
They had drilled him to kill, and kill, and kill, but nobody had thought to teach him what he was supposed to feel afterward. He did feel something, and he wasn’t certain what it was.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•