-Wedge Antilles

{Wedge Antilles, leader of Rogue Squadron, sat in his office, staring out the viewport at cold, black, empty space, without really seeing it. Why did he need to look at it, after all, when the exact same thing was mirrored in his heart? Wedge stood, eyes burning, heart broken so much he didn't even feel it. Although he longed to grieve, he could not. He wasn't even sad; just empty. Where there should have been grief, instead, he could only feel…nothing. Empty. So cold, so empty, so black and bleak…dead. Just like his comrades. Dead, all dead. And he could feel nothing. Slowly, stiffly, moving like a man over twice his twenty-some years, Wedge sat down. He faced a blank datapad on an empty, makeshift desk. He also faced something he couldn't bear to do: the notifications of their deaths. Those that still had family, or friends they wanted told, those that had kept any ties to their past; enough that the Alliance could notify someone…someone had to be told they were dead. And Wedge, as their commander, had to do it. He slowly reached out and pulled the datapad in towards him, and began…}

"Wedge. It's me, Tycho."

"Why, Tycho? Why?" {Wedge's voice was a hoarse whisper} "Why did they all have to die—how did they die? All of them…all killed; floating, free hydrogen in the void of space; the cold, black emptiness that's their grave. How did they all die? And yet, I'm here, and I have to do this, now…

"Sithspit, I can't even grieve for them. How am I supposed to help their friends and family through their grief if I can't even feel anything? They were my friends—were, there's that verb again. Past tense. Why do I always end up using past tense when I talk about the Rogues? They never last long enough for me to talk about them in the present—all I can do is talk about the past. How do they all die, so quickly? Yet, they became my friends. All of them; each and every one.

"I can't believe they're dead—gone. Just snuffed out, so quickly, so soon… Out in a blaze that wasn't even glory. How did they all end up staying there, staying out in the cold void? Why don't they ever fly away with me? How many more will stay, joining their fellows in space, in death? How many won't fly away? How many more will I loose to this bloody war? I can't even remember why I joined the Rebellion; why did they? Did they ever think, really think, that they might never leave it? That they might be nothing more but another name on the list of those the Empire killed; that by trying to destroy it they were destroyed? That in trying to kill the Empire, they were killed themselves?

"They were young, so young. Not in years, but in age. I'm older then they ever were; older than my years. I could see my childhood in their eyes, but I lost that so fast, so soon, so early. They didn't; right up to when they died. Were any of them truly prepared? They all saw the romanticism, that which calls to youth, and all joined as youths. So young; with that eternal youthfulness. They weren't prepared at all; they thought they could never be the one to fall that day. But they did. They all fell, one after another.

"Will anyone survive this bloody war? Will the others here? Will the Empire? Will I? Will the galaxy? Will we? How can we, when in order to do so we all have to die as well?

"And if we do all have to die as well? What will rise up to take out place? Will we take the Empire with us, or will we just be a spot in an endless history written by the victors—by the Empire?

"Will there even be a victor? Or will we just wipe each other out, leaving anarchy? Or will we bring anarchy? Sending the whole galaxy into one big war, where we all kill each other? Will it matter? Aren't we all dead anyway? All those brave people, now nothing more than a few scattered atoms in the void of space? Or were they brave? Maybe we're the cowardly ones; we're afraid to live. We are afraid. But of what? Which scares us more—the living, or the dying? Or is it neither? Or maybe both…

"How many more fights can we even fight, before we're dead, all gone and dead? Slaughtered, vaped, killed, dead. In this war, this bloody, never-ending war. How many times into the fray, how many Rogues won't fly away? Are we dead already, walking dead—flying dead. Flying dead through hell. How many more lost in this war? I can't even remember what I'm fighting for! And now there's nothing left.

"Nothing, not even grief. The stars are black and cold, and as I stare into my heart, I see the void reflected there. Has, in their death, each friend taken a part of my heart away, and now I'm left with emptiness—as dead as they are. Only I still walk, but can I fight? Can you fight if you're dead—if you're nothing but an empty void?

"Cold. Black. Frozen. Dead.

"The Rebellion's dead.

"They're dead.

"I'm dead."

"What the—"

"Stop it. Right now, Wedge." {Tycho glared, his eyes steely glints, at the surprised Wedge Antilles} "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You shouldn't, and you can't. You're not dead; you just selfishly wish you were. But you're not, which is, trust me, the better way of it. You're being a selfish pig and you know it. The other members of the squadron are in Down Time now, and they're all just as sad about seeing friends die as you are. Take Plourr, how do you think she feels?"

"Madder than anything, and wanting another—"

"No." {Tycho's voice was cold enough to freeze carbonite} "She isn't. She's sad, is what she is. Too tough, of course, to show it, but we can tell. Or Hobbie: he's truly pessimistic now, not just his usual dour self. Aril, Wes, any of them, they're all sad. But do they feel sorry for themselves? Are they sitting around cursing the universe and cursing their own lives? No! They're mourning together, helping each other get through it. And now, if you're going to be such a jerk, why not just walk over to the Empire, announce yourself, and have done with it? If you're going to be like this, then walk away. Go ahead: leave. Get out. Do you hear me, Wedge? Do you understand what I'm saying? I'll repeat it, slowly, and I want you to remember it for the rest of your life: You are being a selfish jerk and don't deserve life if you hold it in such contempt!"

"You're right, probably more so than I know right now, and thank you. Now, before I break the Corellian unwritten law and cry, let's say we head to Down Time. After all, we have some Imperials to pay back and some good friends to toast."