"We can stay here, or we can go save our friends."
"What're waiting for, then?" she said, and grabbed her car keys and the gun safe.
The first time I killed someone was in a friend's galley kitchen. We arrived to open doors, and car alarms and street fires. I circled around the house, and came silently up the kitchen stairs behind him, he: tall, short hair, and a baseball bat, in the middle of an argument with our friend.
"I want your water, and your bread." He said. "Or I'll kill you."
My friend shook his head, wordless, a limp arm between him and the invader, who took a swing (clatter of pots and plates, breaking) and charged in behind it. I flung open the kitchen door. He turned around and I shot him in the face. His head and brains coated everything in that small space.
First words I said were, "I'll clean that up, just give me a second."
"You shot a man, man."
"It was him or you." I replied, "And it's a judgment call, and you're more important to me than him." We stared silently at each other for a minute or so, before I added, "And now I need a hug, and I will talk about this moment once more, then never again."