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He had only pulled the trigger once.

Oakley Rayban had never shot anyone before. Curled into the fetal position, he hyperventilated under the broken main console of the rescue shuttle’s wreckage. He couldn’t admit to himself that he had done just that. He hadn’t killed one person. He’d executed eight headshots, each person lined up like dominoes, and that’s not counting the deaths caused by the explosion of the bolt after colliding with the ground.

The world spun, louder than seemingly possible. Oakley’s lungs screamed at him, he fruitlessly gasped down air. Outside the threshold of the exit hatch, the battle against recidivists went on. Panic overwhelmed Oakley’s mind; unable to reconcile with the fact of his actions, nor the situation he was in.

If anyone told him, at this moment, that in two day’s time he would be fighting alongside a Deathwatch Space Marine-- he would have fainted.