Revoked: Part 2 — Wes
Rating: PG

One minute life is flying along great and the next it runs smack dab into durracrete wall.

Hobbie's standing in front of me in my living room looking rather awkward. His hands keep knotting together and he doesn't look me in the eye. It's been years since I've seen him this flustered. (A woman, an Ewok, and several pieces of raw meat. Don't ask.) I don't blame him for being flustered, I'm rather flustered myself. But I do blame him.

I blame him for telling me. I blame him for telling me now. I blame him for not fighting the doctor. I blame him for not helping me to defy the law. I blame him for being my friend.

I rage a bit, throwing whatever is at hand. The datapad makes a satisfy thump as it hits the wall, but when I try to throw the lamp it lands near my feet, sending shards of pottery everywhere. The pieces crunch beneath my boots as I pace over its remains.

I yell. I yell things about nothing and things about myself but mostly I yell at Hobbie. He just sits there and takes it, that standard mournful look on his face. Yelling at Hobbie never does any good, he's immune to it. I think it was that Imperial training. All yelling at him does is make my voice horse as the insults and the words of hatred tear at my throat as I hurtle them about.

I hate him. I hate the doctor. I hate my body. I hate myself.

And then the manic energy is gone. Deflated, I ease myself into to a chair, feeling the weight of years press down on me. Hobbie gives me a grim little smile and rises gingerly. He walks over, squeezes my shoulder, and then leaves. He knows I need my time alone. Good old Hobbie.

Good old Hobbie. We've been friends for a long time now. Tycho and Wedge too. The drunken brawls, the endless pranks, the romantic disasters. Not to mention the fighting. Yavin, Hoth, Gall, Endor, Brentaal, Billbringi, Distna, Adumar, Yaga Minor, Borleias, Coruscant, Corellia. It's amazing how long we've survived, how long we've flown together. But now the doctor tells me there will be no more flights.

I feel old.

Years have bent and softened my bones, months have pulled muscle into flab, and days have lined my once baby-like face. I am not the man I once was and I hate the fact I'm reminded of it everyday.

I want to feel young again, to be invincible once more. I am young; I just have to keep telling myself that. I am young and healthy. And immature. I still have the mind of an eight year old and I will build Ubiqtorate class defenses around it and fight to the last before I grow one year older. Besides, I can't grow old. I can't let these dashing good looks go to waste. I have only the interest of the ladies at heart.

Who am I kidding? There will be no more ladies, no more trips to the cantina, no more Ewoks in the sims. They will all come to an end. I'm dying.


I said once that if I died, at least I'd know I had more fun the guy killing me. This time the guy killing me isn't some straight-laced Imperial puppet. This time it's a doctor's orders. I can't even remember the guy's name. I wonder how much fun he's had in his life?

There's been good times, and good friends. I've watched rookies mature into leaders. I've helped save the galaxy at least a million times. I've kissed pretty girls and watched the sun set on over a hundred worlds. I've seen friends married and watched two wonderful little nieces grow into women before my eyes. I have mourned colleagues and friends, knowing that I could join them in death at any moment. And I made sure I had fun every one of those moments.

Cold determination sets in. I've made my decision. I stand and follow the wall into the kitchen. Opening a can of caff, I rummage through the grains.

Fun is Ewoks. Fun is Friends. Fun is Flying. Fun is Freedom. Fun is not dying slowly.

I'm going to have a bit more fun before I die, to Kessel with the doctor's orders. Hobbie, looking out for me as always, may have stolen my keycard, but he doesn't know I've hidden a spare.

One last flight, that's all I want. One last bid for freedom. One last time to rejoice in pure skill and instinct as I soar through the air. One last time.

And then, knowing I've had my fun, that I've lived my life to the fullest, I will sit back.

I'm not going to sit back and let age slowly take me. No, I will sit back and make use of my second set of skills, the set of which the doctor has neglected to deprive me.

I will recline in my favorite chair with the comforting weight of my blaster in my hand. Using the natural site of the blaster, I will acquire one final target. And with a single shot, I will ensure that I at least I had more fun than the guy killing me.

I will have only one shot to do this, one chance before my friends try and stop me.

It's a good thing I never miss.

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