Chapter Twenty-six – Journaling
[Datapad of Rogue Fett. Entry begins.
I've been sort of slipping in and out of consciousness since Boba hauled me off Kamino. I think the longest I've been awake is . . . maybe five minutes. Well, if you can't tell, I'm awake now. I'm doing a little better; thanks for asking. Turns out I'd had a single solitary syringe of bacta in my utility belt, which I so cleverly jabbed into my side. I guess I've been sitting in this stupid cargo hold for . . . I dunno . . . more than a few hours. However long it's been, it's been long enough for us to get close to Coruscant.
Quite frankly, I'm scared of what may happen to me. I think I'd prefer it if Vader just shot me and got it over with. But it's not like I'm an unskilled hunter . . . I'm just scrupulous, and Vader absolutely cannot stand that. Well, I'm sorry, sir, but not all of us are axe murders like you and your friend Emperor Wrinkle-Butt. I guess I'm just afraid to die. What if I die, expecting to get to the other side and see Jang'buir and Chev waiting for me, but I get there and I'm all alone? I guess I've been alone almost all my life; why not in death too, huh? But maybe the past few years have just made me a pessimist. But I am afraid. I don't mind admitting that because it's true. I've heard what they do to people at Lusankya, and I really don't want to have it happen to me. But I know that's what will happen, more than likely, so I guess I just need to suck it up and accept what's coming to me. Maybe I'd better spend these last few hours savoring all my memories before they're stripped from me and I'm turned into something I'm not.
You know, I hate this cargo hold. Sitting here, trapped . . . It makes me really despise this ship when I used to love it. It was my father's; no wonder I liked it. But now . . . now it makes me feel like an animal being led to the slaughter, which I'm absolutely certain is a fitting analogy. Ow . . . There goes my side again. Still hurts. All of me hurts . . . especially my heart. That hurts because I've been betrayed by my own brother. You're probably thinking, "But he's the rodent! He's just your adopted brother! You two don't even come from the same father!" Yeah, well . . . Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Or I thought it did. I thought it did right up until this kid came and shot me right through the ribs. All right, all right, I'll lay off the angsting. But can I help it? My life is literally falling apart right before my eyes, and I can't do one shabla thing about it.
Just felt the ship shudder. I think we're coming into Coruscant's atmosphere. My stomach just went tight, like somebody reached in and tied it in a knot. Part of me wonders if I shouldn't exaggerate my injury and "play dead" of a sort . . . maybe play unconscious in this case. Maybe if they think I'm critically wounded, they won't hurt me. Maybe they won't send me to Lusankya just yet. Maybe I can find some way to escape. But I'd like to know just what awaits me here on Triple Zero. Oh, listen to me. All these years and I'm still using the old military codes. That in itself makes me long to see my Chev again. But you know there's only one way to do that . . . That's the other option. The first is to enter Lusankya as Rogue Fett and leave as Vader's pet kath hound who doesn't know who or what she is and was. I hate to use the old cliché, but that one really does sound like a fate worse than death. Going through life, completely clueless as to who you really are? No fun. At least when you're dead, it's over, finished, and you don't have to hurt anymore. But maybe I should take hope from Larra and the others. They remembered, even after Lusankya. Maybe I could, too. But then again . . . maybe not. I think they'd probably use a higher concentration of chemicals on me than they ever used on them; they know I'm feisty. But you know the two options there are in this situation: survive and be Vader's bounty hunting slave, or not make it out at all. I guess it all depends on whatever the Force has written up for my fate . . . if you believe in all that stuff. I think I might.
If I do make it out of this and I can somehow remember, I'll be one lucky girl. But Vader always makes good on his promises—especially the nasty ones—so I don't have a whole lot of hope. But . . . if I don't make it . . . If I don't, I want you to remember me. I want you to know who I was, what I've done, what I've gone through . . . I want you to be able to think of me whenever you hear the name of Fett. I want you to know that there was one of us with decency. I want you to know that I never intended for Boba to become what he did, but I do take some responsibility for it. The rest I willingly blame on genetics. And, most of all, I think I want you to know that I only hunted because that was the only thing I knew how to do. I would have gladly worked as a bartender instead of hunting bounties. I just want you to remember me.
And if I don't make it out of this, brainwashed or no, then . . . then, Chev, wait for me on the other side.