Well, I decided to do the inaugural b7friday challenge, so here's my drabble on the theme of "Firsts":

The gun was slippery in his clammy palm. He hadn't thought a blaster would be so quiet. His own breathing sounded loud as a steam press in the silence. He tried to avoid looking at the black and red ruin of the dealer's face. He swallowed bile. No time for that now, no time. Get the visas. That's what you came for. His breath came short as the pain in his side flared up, and he realized it wasn't just sweat that slicked his grip on the gun, but blood. His own blood.

Blood stained his hands. His first death.

I'm not so sure that quite works, but, hey, it's 100 words...