» Survivor's Guilt

~ by

Red. Pure crimson blinded me. My HUD made it absolutely apparent I was down. 'Incapacitated' flashed in the center of my visor, over and over, mocking me. I struggled to get back on my feet.

I pictured myself pathetically writhing like the wounded beast I was.

"Atin! Hold on, we're on our way!"

"N...No..." I protested.

I was disgusted with myself. I wasn't an amateur, I was a damned professional!

I was born to be a professional. Literally born to do this job. My genes were copied from the great Jango Fett, then tinkered with by those Kaminoans. I hated them. We weren't men to them. We weren't human.

We were products. Cattle. Cannon fodder.

We commandos aren't supposed to make mistakes. We can't make mistakes because we're professionals. I took pride in that. Perfect warriors. Feared warriors that made no mistakes.

Fierfek. Some professional. A professional doesn't lay belly up on the ground, soaking wet with his blood. A professional doesn't make a stupid mistake that forces his mates to save him from his incompetence. A professional who makes a mistake deserves to die.

I deserved to die. I wasn't a professional. I was a disgrace to my mates. A liability. I prayed they'd give up and continue with our mission, leaving me to die.

I'd been running on point. I came across a wounded Geonosion spewing blood out is mouth. And for a split-second, I hesitated. Despite all my training, I hesitated. That was all the time bloody scumbag needed.

With his remaining strength, he fired a blast at me. At point blank range, a sonic round does wonders.

Now here I was, suffering the consequences. Why did I hesitate? Because I had a heart. I guess those long-necked di'kuts can't get everything. I took mercy upon another living being, another soul. And that was the flaw. The mistake.

I vowed to never again take mercy of any kind upon any possible threat. I will be cold-blooded. I will be heartless. I will be a killer.

Never again would a comrade's life be risked because of my mistake. I will be a professional.


"There we go. Gotta love bacta. You took a hell of a hit, commando. I'm sorry about your mates. Any other injuries?" asked the medic, shouting over the engines of the rising gunship.

I closed my eyes and nodded.

"Where?"

Eyes still shut, I put my palm on my chest plate, right where my heart would be.