I originally posted this as a short fic, but it just begged to be expanded, so here you are :D Massive thanks to frodogenic for editing this piece, putting in some VERY witty ideas of their own and for generally being awesome. Check out her work if you already haven't, you won't regret it!

Keep out!! This means YOU!!

Yes, that includes you, Wes.
And Wedge, I don't care what you say, keeping a diary does not qualify me as a "pansy".
Even if you think that Luke is a "pansy" name.
Which it is not.

What the nine hells is a "pansy," anyway?


Finally managed to switch this thing on. Honestly, I know that the Alliance is a bit strapped for cash at the moment, but even I could've figured out that if the datapads were being offered for free, then there was going to be something drastically, irrevocably wrong with them. It's taken me half an hour just to resurrect the "on" button.

0812 hours: Wow, I've finally managed to set the time recorder. Genius. Hmm, I wonder what the little "23" on the bottom of my Holonet browser means? 23 hours used? 23 years old? 23 notches on the bedpost?

0814 hours: Definitely not my bedpost, anyway. Now Han's, possibly ...

0817 hours: Hang on, it's now up to 48. Damn it, I'll ask Wedge.

0825 hours: "That's the amount of popups that you've blocked in that browser window, you prat. Oh Sith, don't do anything, I'm calling Tech."

I ought to have him charged with insubordination, seriously.

0859 hours: Yuck. I don't care what the slogans on the recruitment posters say, these ration bars are absolutely disgusting.

0904 hours: Dropped the ration bar onto the backspace key, and the key just fell off the keyboard and into my hand.

0905 hours: Backspace key refusing to stick to keyboard. Sometimes, I think the Force really, really has it in for me.

0907 hours: Backspace key still refusing to stick to keyboard. Correction: the Force does have it in for me.

0908 hours: Backspace key snapped in half. Frack this, I'm calling Tech Support.

0940 hours: Have spent the past half hour trying to glue the backspace key back together, but to no avail. Tech were totally useless (as usual). The conversation went something like this:

Me: Um, hello, is this Tech Support?
Moron: If it's about the datapads we got from that scrap company, forget it.
Me: But look, my backspace key has totally warped and I-
Moron: I don't care if the bloody thing has fallen apart in your hands, if you're not from High Command, you ain't getting another one.
Me: (in total and utter desperation) No, listen! You see, I'm Luke Skywalker-

Conversation is abruptly terminated.

It seems that several other Luke Skywalkers had called the station, all requesting new datapads.

Damn it, I'm going to kill Wes.


0614 hours: There seems to be something very, very wrong with my new hand. Every time I try to move my fingers, it stalls. Am now typing with two index fingers as a result.

0620 hours: I bet my commission Vader planned this. He probably planted a faulty prosthetic just to drive me nuts and turn me to the Dark Side.

0701 hours: If he did, I think it's working.



1204 hours: Have spent the past couple of days in the base medbay, for "severe and debilitating psychological trauma". Of course, nobody knows the reason why. If I told them, they'd probably believe I was nuts anyway. On the plus side, my hand is fixed.

1242 hours: Turns out a pansy is some sort of flower. No wonder I never heard of it.

1243 hours: I am so not a pansy.

1244 hours: I mean, I got into a one-on-one duel to the death with Darth Vader WHOSE RELATIONSHIP TO ME WE SHALL NOT DISCUSS and I'm still alive. How many flowers could pull that off? Huh? Huh? Yeah. That's what I thought, Wedgie boy.

The following message was received from an UNKNOWN sender from an UNKNOWN destination.

My son STOP I request that you reconsider my proposition about total galactic domination STOP Failing that I hear that the weather on Naboo is brilliant at this time of year STOP We can make it a family gathering STOP Next week would work well for me STOP What about you STOP


1809 hours: Mon Mothma told me to "stop moping about Bespin" and to get on with my life. After all, she added, much as I'd lost my hand and all, she was sick of "removing Wes Janson from my quarters at ungodly hours of the night, demanding a 'goodnight kiss'," and "it's your responsibility as commander to keep your squad in check regardless of how you're feeling" and "civic duty" and "orange flightsuits" and blah blah blah. Huh. See if I blow up a Death Star for her again.


1454 hours: Okay, here we go. Supply run. Inhale. Exhale. I can do this. I can do this.

No, I can't.


1911 hours: I did it! I'm alive, I tell you! Alive!

Wait. Message from the High Command: "Supplies inadequate. Prepare for supply run in ten standard days."


2029 hours: The Rogues just gave me a bottle of whiskey for my "heroic actions" yesterday. I smell something fishy, and I'm not talking about the contents of Leia's "Alderaanian Surprise". Anyway, I suppose it's only common courtesy to try just a little of the stuff, right? Just a little sip, you understand.

2032 hours: Kreth, that stuff burns! Obviously, I must get more used to drinking strong and highly illegal alcoholic beverages that are in all likelihood banned in several civilised systems. Han would like that ... if he wasn't frozen into a wall decoration in Jabba's palace, that is.Oh gods, I don't want to think about that. Too depressing. Maybe I'll have another shot.

2037 hours: You know, if it wasn't for that walking junk shop that I happen to call "father", then my best friend would be here right now, laughing at my farmboy ways with me ... screw this, I'm having another.

2038 hours: And another ...

2039 hours: And another ... you know, if this is what they mean by "drowning your sorrows", then I don't think it's working.

2040 hours: An' another …

2043 hours: no … not drunk yet … can have another little drinkie …

2047 hours: Hey Hobbie mate, why're there two of you? And ooh, you have a blaster? Pretty blaster … pretty stun bolt … pretty


1029 hours: Where the hell am I? Where is everybody? And what's this stuff on my face?

1052 hours: Guys?


1541 hours: After what felt like several years, the door was opened by a very surprised Leia, who said something along the lines of "Luke, what in the name of Alderaan are you doing locked in a supply cupboard when you're meant to be at a mission briefing … and dear Force, is that lipstick on your face?"

Medbay Report.

PATIENT: Lt. Janson, Wes
Mild concussion resulting from blow to head.
TREATMENT: Bed rest.
INJURY/TREATMENT DETAILS: Patient sedated due to incessant shouting and flailing of limbs. Quote: "No, please, don't keep me in one place! He'll come and kill me with that fancy sword of his!"

PATIENT: Lt. Klivian, Derek
Mild concussion resulting from blow to head.
TREATMENT: Bed rest.
INJURY/TREATMENT DETAILS: Patient sedated due to extremely violent and threatening behaviour. Quote: "If you ever refer to me by my real name again, I'll stick this IV stand up your CENSORED."

PATIENT: Lt. Antilles, Wedge
Pain in chest "from laughing too hard".
TREATMENT: Sedative administered.
INJURY/TREATMENT DETAILS: Patient unable to stop laughing at the predicament of his fellow lieutenants.

PATIENT: Lt. Celchu, Tycho
Pain in leg caused by "antibiotic aneurysm".
INJURY/TREATMENT DETAILS: Healer thinks that patient merely wanted to hide from Commander Skywalker in the medbay as well.


1345 hours: The pictures have now been sent all around base. What the hell am I going to do? Suicide springs to mind…


1902 hours: Right, that's it, I'm emigrating to Tatooine. For good. But I will not be a moisture farmer. I will be a hermit. Like Ben. And Yoda -- except much less wrinkled.


0721 hours: After a lot of carefully laid plans -- read: scribbled notes halfway through a flight drill -- I am thoroughly prepared to walk out of the base and into my new life. Goodbye Rebel Alliance, hello Mos Eisley!

Oh, Uncle Owen, if only you could see me now…


0812 hours: stupid stupid stupid stupid i'm such an idiot bantha poodoo stupid stupid stupid

Hi Luke, this is Tycho. Just a quick message saying that when you do get this, um, High Command wants to "talk" to you. They didn't say what -- shut up, Wes -- what time. I think it all depends on when you finally manage to get your feet out of Lyra Litesi's stiletto heels.

The following message was received from an UNKNOWN sender from an UNKNOWN destination.

My son STOP I have recently seen some most disturbing pictures of you STOP Binge drinking and transvestitism do not become a future Sith Lord STOP Although I must admit that I also fell prey to such distractions in my youth STOP We are clearly two of a kind STOP So it only makes sense for you to join me


1623 hours: Back at the base after an escape attempt that lasted all of ten minutes. Maybe I can just crawl into a hole and die. Being as there aren't any convenient bottomless shafts on Rebel bases.

1702 hours: Wedge came to see me, but I chucked him out. I'm never speaking to him again, unless it's to say "you're fired". And actually, I won't even say it, I'll type it. Just so that I never have to speak to him ever again. Ever.

1804 hours: Wedge, you're fired.

1934 hours: Leia came in and sat down on the edge of my bed. She looked at me all mournfully -- I swear, Lando and Chewie better get Han back soon because I hate seeing her all depressed like this -- and asked me if I was alright. I, of course, answered with all my customary wit and flair.


"Luke, you're not 'fine', you're taking this whole thing way too seriously."

Way too seriously? Hey, let's recap. First they take pictures of me in the shower and sell them, then they tie me up, put a wig and makeup on me, take a few more snapshots and send them to seventeen different "lonely hearts" magazines under the name "Lucrecia", and then they make me miss my flight briefing and then, when I finally try to escape, they spread rumours about me defecting to the Empire!

Way too seriously my afterburners.

"You're an Alliance hero, you're fighting for good and if you prove that you're strong enough to stand up to these childish pranks, then you'll become even more of a great man than you already are, Luke." She then smiled at me in a very platonic, sisterly way that sent sand flies a-fluttering in my stomach.

Or maybe that's because I hadn't eaten all day, I'm not sure.

I think I love this woman sometimes. She did kiss me twice, you know. Not that I'm keeping track. I mean, what's the occasional passionate smooch between two good, very non-romantic friends? Okay, so I still keep a copy of her Imperial wanted poster pinned up in my X-wing. And my foot locker. And possibly my underwear drawer. But moving on.

So, I was all silent, not wanting to admit that she had a point, when she put her arms around me.

"You could always … teach your subordinates a lesson, I guess."
"Revenge is not the way of the Jedi."
"But you're not a Jedi yet."

I definitely love her. Platonically, of course.


1532 hours: I have reinstated Wedge as my wingman. He deserves it. After all, anyone dealing with a faulty engine with such aplomb deserves a promotion, at the very least.

Dear Force, I hope they manage to fix his nose back on.


0957 hours: Well, the entire Squadron has been grounded until Wedge recovers because "nobody, not even the great Luke Skywalker, can fly through a battle without a wingman." Ugh, honestly, I blow up the Death Star for them and this is the level of confidence they have in my abilities? Or maybe, as Wes pointed out just now, they don't trust me after the whole escape fiasco. See, under normal circumstances, I would give my right hand to have a normal life, but, as Wesy boy pointed out not two minutes ago, I don't even have a right hand anymore. Huh. Some family reunion that was.


1908 hours: Mothma dragged us all into the main hangar for a mass briefing. Every single one of my Jedi senses -- the ones that chant that timeless mantra that goes along the lines of I have a bad feeling about this -- were screaming at my subconscious, but, being a brave and courageous pilot, I ignored them. Big mistake. Suffice it to say, I knew I should've written my will after Bespin.

On that note ...

FROM: Mos Eisley Solicitors (Encryption Code TT-0252 MS2342)
TO: Skywalker, Luke (Encryption Code CENSORED)
SUBJECT: Your Will

Mr Skywalker,

Here is the current will we have stored in the database under your name:

aunty beru can have my moddal ship. uncle owen doesnt get anythin becuz hes horabal. hell be sory wen i die. biggs can have evrythin else.

Yours sincerely,

Mos Eisley Solicitors


Mos Eisely Solicitors -- if we have your will, rest assured, Jabba doesn't!

FROM: Skywalker, Luke (Encryption Code CENSORED)
TO: Calrissian, Lando (Encryption Code BS-9811 LC0164)
SUBJECT: My Last Will and Testament


I don't know anything about legal stuff -- chalk it up to my farmboy upbringing -- but I'm too lazy to ask Leia to correct this. It'll do.


This Being the Last Will and Testament of Luke Anakin Skywalker

Okay, technically I know that Jedi don't have possessions, but whatever. You understand, don't you?

I leave this datapad to the Alliance High Command, so they know just what they lost when they sent me to my certain death.

I leave my lightsabre to Darth Vader, as a sort of in-your-face thing. I didn't join him. I resisted temptation. Take that, DAD. Haha. Hahahaha.

Leia can have my model ship, so she cries over me when she goes to marry Han.

Han gets the rest of that whiskey. Untouched.

The Rogues will get nothing. Except perhaps my wrath from beyond the grave.

You can sell the rest of my stuff, except not my underwear, because that's just beyond unhygienic. Although I really wouldn't put it past you.

Oh, wait, strike that last paragraph. I leave my underwear to the Emperor. Please don't wash it.

Luke A. Skywalker

There, that should do it.


0905 hours: Got a message from Lando: "Write me again when you're sober." Like he has room to talk.

Is there no sympathy for a man who's as good as dead?


0405 hours: Well, this is it. Here we go, boys.


2156 hours: I lost a pilot, and Mothma is making me scout out a new one already. Has the woman never heard of courtesy? Oh, wait, hang on. We're an odd number now. Bugger.


1443 hours: Came in to run the new recruits through the flight sims. Out of the nineteen pilots that applied, five crashed their X-Wings within mere minutes of taking off, three accidentally fired on their own team mates and one flew into a tree. If this is what the Alliance is made of, no wonder we can't defeat the Imps.


1521 hours: Had our official Alliance mugshots taken today. The holocam flashed just as I let off the most violent sneeze in my entire life. I look like I escaped from the mental home.

No, Wes, I did not escape from the mental home.

Anyway, Wes has pencilled in "pox scars" on his face with what looked suspiciously like eyeliner. He says Mothma won't notice "because I swear, she has about fifty of those things, all over her desk". I don't even want to know how he got into her quarters in the first place. Hobbie pasted a handlebar moustache onto his face, twirled the ends up ridiculously, and put gel in his hair. All he needs is a cape, and he'd fit in just fine with Lando's weird friends on Cloud City. Good ol' Wedge has also gelled his hair, into some ridiculously large quiff. He's also wearing eyeliner around his eyes and lips. Said something about putting the Empire on the wrong trail if the images ever get leaked. He pulls off that feminine look way better than me. We compared holos.

Wedgina Antilles. It has a nice ring to it, you know. Or maybe Wedgette…

Then there's Tycho. He's neatly combed his short hair back and washed his face … he looks exactly like those blonde-haired, blue-eyed Imp poster boys. Oh, I forgot, he is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Imp poster boy.

I made a comment to that effect, only for Wes to get this crazed-Jawa look on his face that he gets whenever he thinks he's had a good idea. I see it far too frequently.

"You know, Tych old buddy old pal, you look so much like an Imp defector you could almost have it tattooed on your forehead …"


1744 hours: Well, there it is on the communal noticeboard in the mess hall for every Rebel to see, in all its glory: Rogue Squadron. Commander: Luke Skywalker.

1746 hours: You know, the pictures don't look so bad …

1747 hours: I tell a lie. They look hideous. Really hideous.

1748 hours: What do you think my father would say if he saw me now?

1749 hours: No, Skywalker, don't go there. Don't ever go there …


1330 hours: Wow, this thing still works. Yeah, I know I've not written for about a month or two … I finally found this under a pile of old magazines, including a few of a more … intimate nature. Poor Wedge. He must be seriously desperate if the only thing he can get his hands on is Twi'lek Temptations.

Well, it's been exactly six months since Bespin, and I can almost mention the whole thing without collapsing. Plus, I think that I've finally worked out how to get the Happy-Not-Dismembering-Each-Other Family scenario that I've been dreaming of for ages. All I have to do is make him return to the Light. There is some good in him still … and no, I'm not saying that just because I'm in denial, but it's on some strange sheet of material called a "film script" which I found in the back of an abandoned warehouse somewhere on Polis Massa and found an overwhelming desire to parrot as a result-

0834 hours: Erm, sorry about that. The fourth wall of my room started shaking very badly at that statement. Must invest in an earthquake sensor. Slight problem: bank funds are limited. What to do, what to do …

0838 hours: I know, I'll ask Leia.

0900 hours: To cut a long story short, Leia told me, in no uncertain terms, that as I am merely a lowly fighter pilot, the High Command does not have the money to invest in my own personal seismograph. Honestly, I blow up the krething Death Star for them, and this is what I get? One day, I swear …

FROM: Mos Eisley Banking Co. (Encryption Code TT-0255 ME3853)
TO: Skywalker, Luke (Encryption Code CENSORED)
SUBJECT: Bank Statement

Mr Skywalker,

Your bank statement is as follows:

Account holder: Skywalker, Luke Anakin
Account number: 024246
Balance: -89 Imperial Credits.

Thank you for using Mos Eisley Banking Co.!


Mos Eisley Banking Co. -- if we've got your money, then rest assured, Jabba doesn't!


1349 hours: I am going to kill Wedge. I mean it.

1350 hours: No, I must remember Yoda's teachings. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to the Dark Side. The Dark Side leads to ultimate power at the right hand of my father.

Wait a minute ...

1357 hours: You know, when put like that, it doesn't sound that bad, actually. I mean, sure, there's the whole "you must become a Sith and kill the Emperor and promote oppression in the galaxy" aspect of it, but apart from that, it sounds pretty neat. A whole Empire to myself, getting to schmooze with the father I didn't actually know I had until a few months ago, all that power at my hands, the ability to kill certain traitorous friends who take pictures of you while you're in the shower and sell them to every single female (and one or two suspect males) on the base …

1358 hours: Actually, I wouldn't need the Dark Side to do that, come to think of it, all I'd need is a blaster.

1400 hours: Hmm ... I could actually have a decent meal for once, instead of having to live off ration bars. And I wouldn't have any more of those ghastly 0500 hour starts … and I'd get to actually customise my X-wing -- screw an X-Wing, I could have an entire Star Destroyer at my command!

1403 hours: What, exactly, is holding me back from all this? All it'd take is a short Holonet call …

1407 hours: Well, actually, I do know what's holding me back from the Dark Side: the fact that I'm the last Jedi. That stupid sense of farmboy morality that I really wish wasn't an integral part of my character. The ghost of Ben Kenobi. And some really odd guy called George Lucas, who I swear really has it in for me someti-


1909 hours: Have been temporarily relocated to my old pal Hobbie's quarters, following the unexpected collapse of the fourth wall of my room. Honestly, all I did was mention some weird dude with a funny name, and whoosh, before you know it, down it goes!

Serve them right for not buying me that damned seismograph!

Anyway, now I'm sharing with Hobbie and his wingman Tycho Celchu (the Imp defector, probably come to kill me in my sleep), and they get this malicious glint in their eyes whenever they see me … if either of them even thinks about playing any pranks on me in the middle of the night, I'll grab my lightsabre and stick it somewhere really unpleasant. On high intensity.

1923 hours: Plus, what would I say anyway? Um, hi, is that Lord Vader's office? Yeah, this is Luke Skywalker. You know, the galaxy's most wanted traitor? Yes, I'm taking up Lord Vader on his offer of full time employment. Thank you. I'll hold.

Yeah. Don't think so. Besides, I don't have his number. If he was really serious about this "join-me-and-turn-to-the-dark-side" thing, you'd think he would at least have left me a business card or something. In the hand that he didn't cut off, that is.

2006 hours: Who names their child "George", anyway? "Earth" must be a really strange planet, wherever it is-


2208 hours: I knew I shouldn't have tempted fate again, I knew it. Hobbie's fourth wall collapsed too, and now I'm stuck sharing a single room with Wes, Wedge, Tycho and Hobbie, who all keep darting me really shifty looks every time I open my mouth.

On the even more down side, still no seismograph.

2301 hours: I've warded off no less than seven stun bolts with my lightsabre … from my own men. Dear Force, I'm sure that the Imps have much better discipline than this.

2302 hours: Only because they probably iron the personality out of their recruits, I bet. All the same ...

2305 hours: What am I saying? The Imps are bad. The Empire is bad. I am a Rebel. I am also Darth Vader's son and sorely tempted by the prospect of a mattress which doesn't have what feels like porcupine quills sticking out of it in several strategic locations --

Damn it.

0019 hours: It's official: I'm not going to sleep tonight. I mean it.

0030 hours: Whoops, nearly nodded off there. Was fortunately awakened by a suspicious noise from my right, which proved to be a nocturnal animal of some sort. Now I have two things to worry about: the Rogues and their desire for revenge, and carnivorous reptiles. Even though General Rieekan assured us that this moon had no large lifeforms on it, I'm not taking any chances. Not since last time. I mean, come on, who describes Hoth as "slightly chilly, but otherwise adequate"? A complete and utter fool, that's who.

0033 hours: Yes, Mon Mothma, that means you.

0035 hours: I can see Wes's eyes glinting in the darkness. Damn, they really think that they've got me fooled. It's almost funny, the way that they think that they've got me cornered. They're no match for my Jedi reflexes. I mean, I swear that I can predict any move they've got coming … with my eyes closed …


1902 hours: Suicide is the only option left at this point. I mean it.

Rogue Squadron,

You all suck. Royally. I mean, I didn't want to be your Commander. Truly, I'd rather have thrown myself out of the airlock. And now you have gone a step too far. Stunning me, sticking me in Tycho's old Imp uniform and paining Imperial flags on my cheeks isn't funny, it's humiliating. Especially considering who my father- wait, Sith, no backspace…

I would cross that bit out, but I don't want to ruin the screen.

So, bearing in mind that the image is probably halfway across the galaxy by now and that everyone from Jabba's slime bucket cleaner to the Emperor himself has probably seen it, there really is only one way out.

Tell Lando that my will still stands.

Your Erstwhile Commander,
Luke A. Skywalker

The following message was received from an UNKNOWN sender from an UNKNOWN destination.

My son STOP I knew that you really did want to join me STOP But surely all you had to do was drop by the nearest Imperial garrison STOP Making such a brash statement is not the way of the Sith STOP I await your arrival daily STOP


Luke, Hobbie here. I'm typing this and sticking it under your door, because you won't see any of us. Here goes.

Mate, I know you're pissed off with us and all, but please, please, don't resign or stick a lightsabre through your heart. You're our Commander, and we couldn't do it without you.

What are you meant to say in situations like these?

Oh yes, to quote Tycho, "sorry" would be appropriate. So, yeah. Sorry.

Will you not kill yourself now?

The Rogues.

PS: By the way, you kept mentioning for us "not to tell father" when you saw the shots. Admittedly, you were pretty out of it at the time … but all the same, I thought you were an orphan?

PPS: If you ever call me by my real name again, I will put out your vocal chords with your own lightsabre.

FROM: Coruscant Solicitors Ltd. (Encryption Code CS-0921 CS5499)
TO: Skywalker, Luke (Encryption Code CENSORED)
SUBJECT: Legal Issues

Master Skywalker,

We send this transmission on behalf of our client LORD VADER.

He has recently named you as his sole heir and benefactor. At present, you stand to inherit half of the known universe in shares alone. However, he stipulates that you will have to "acknowledge the Dark Side of the Force and your parentage" before you come into the funds.

Are you willing to do this?

Yours Sincerely,
Propp. A. Gander,
Coruscant Solicitors Ltd.


Coruscant Solicitors Ltd. -- serving the oppressive elite of the galaxy for seven thousand years!

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 WJ 8282] says:
Three thousand credits and I keep quiet about Vader being your daddy.

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922] says:
How did you know?!

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 WJ 8282] says:
We read your Holonet messages.

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922] says:
What the kriffing- hang on, I'm going to tell you exactly what I think of you in a language that I can insult people in better, you CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR


[Encryption Code: RA-0034 WJ 8282] says:
Tut tut. Language, Lukie boy.

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922] says:
Wait, what do you mean we? Who else was in this?

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 WJ 8282] says:
The others.

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922] says:
But how did you get access to my terminal?

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 WJ 8282] says:
Wedge is sleeping with one of the patrol officers.

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922] says:
Wes, you would do well to remember that I am a Jedi Knight. And, therefore, not only am I very skilled in combat, but I also have the Force. And I am always, always armed. So unless you want me to send you home to your mother in six hundred legal-size envelopes with Willie the Baby Wookiee stamps …

[Encryption Code: RA-0034 WJ 8282] says:
Actually, listen here, I'll pay you three thousand credits, just to forget about this whole incident! Hey, Luke, where are you going? Luke? Luke!


1654 hours: Hobbie is right. I can't kill myself, not when the perfect opportunity to get ultimate revenge has surfaced. Yoda would probably say that revenge is the way of the Sith, but at this point I'm beyond caring. Chip off the old block, that's me.


1207 hours: Force, the base is quiet at this time of day. Normally, I'd be in the sims with the Rogues, or playing cards with them in the mess, or eating lunch with them, or at a mission briefing, or … well, sending them on a mission codenamed "Operation Certain Death". Genius on my part, methinks.

1225 hours: Ugh, I hate that annoying little twerp in Gold Squadron who called the Force a hoax. I'll show him just how real the Force is, just you wait. Only Han's allowed to be all skeptical in front of me.

1230 hours: I hate Han too, just because I miss him.


1945 hours: I've been using the Rogues' absence to further my Jedi skills. I took great pleasure in having the twerp from Gold and all of his loser friends shoot me with their blasters while I deflected the shots back at them with deadly accuracy. Pity that they were only set on "stun".


1647 hours: It's been two weeks, and I've heard nothing from the boys. I can't take it any more. I'm talking to High Command.


1022 hours: Leia's generously let me use the base radio system to see if I can contact Wedge. Okay, here goes nothing …

(Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922) says (0122 hours):
Um … guys? Do we have a connection?


(Encryption Code: RA-0034 WA0933) says (0124 hours):
Thank the Force! Civilisation! We're saved! We're saved!


(Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922) says (0122 hours):
Wedge, where the hell are you right now?


(Encryption Code: RA-0034 WA0933) says (0124 hours):
Right now? Right now, I'm hiding in a cave in the middle of an active volcano with Tycho and Hobbie and a very stoned Wes while several tribal villagers are hunting for us so that they can put our heads on stakes and dip them ritually into a bowl of molten lava.


(Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922) says (0122 hours):
Wedge, you're fired.


(Encryption Code: RA-0034 WA0933) says (0124 hours):
No, Luke, you don't understand! You see, it's a really long story.


(Encryption Code: RA-0034 LS8922) says (0122 hours):
Well, get on with it then!


(Encryption Code: RA-0034 WA0933) says (0124 hours):
Okay, well we were landing in the middle of a plain, when the villagers spotted us and



1343 hours: They're back! They're alive! Thank the Force! I am never going to attempt to get revenge again. Ever. I think.


1907 hours: I've discovered yet another downside of being a Commander: paperwork. Looking through the boys' mission summaries in order to send one of them to High Command is not my idea of a fun way to spend an evening. I seem to be made to suffer. It's my lot in life.

Neither Wedge nor Hobbie appear to have one. Brilliant. Wes's reads as follows:

001111001 ERROR gjsebgw84--- ERROR ERROR 54g


Well, that only leaves Tycho's. I'm sure I can read it, if I get past the kaf stains on his datapad screen.

Right Luke, I'm going to make this brief, since you once told me that mission summaries were tools of the Sith and useless because nobody ever reads them anyway. Long story short, Wedge and Hobbie lost power to their X-Wings, hence their lack of mission summaries. Wes's … erm … condition … was not his fault, whatever you may think. Before the tribe sacrifices a victim, they get them spectacularly high in order to please the gods. I know what you're thinking. What a way to go, eh?

We only broke out of prison after they'd shot Wes up because Hobbie thought that seeing him high would be funny, using a blaster that Hobbie had sewn into his jacket lining. Says it's custom on his home planet. As you very well know, anything Hobbie does that even slightly deviates from the norm is custom on his home planet, so I'm not taking it too seriously. We got out by all squashing up in my and Wes's X-wings. Fitting two grown men into one cockpit isn't easy, but hey, we're not the most elite squadron in the Alliance for nothing.

I hope Wes recovers soon. I want to strangle him with my bare hands.

Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate leads to the Dark Side; the Dark Side leads to my father, who could probably murder all of these incompetent prats with one sweep of his hand …

Medbay report.

PATIENT: Skywalker, Luke
INJURY: Severe bruising, splinters.
TREATMENT: Splinters removed, bacta applied.
INJURY/TREATMENT DETAILS: Patient sedated due to possible psychological trauma. Must be kept on watch at all times.


1203 hours: This is the most humiliating experience of my entire life. I mean, honestly, who tampered with the ladder to my X-Wing? There's no way that I, with my super-amazing-awesome Jedi reflexes, could have possibly fallen down the whole thing. And broken it in half. With my rear end. In front of the entire hangar bay.


1345 hours: Force, the medbay is depressing. I've only been here a day and I already feel like killing myself. And I wish people would stop passing by to take a look at "the idiot pilot who fell down his own ladder and skewered his arse with splinters". Even if I do deserve it.


0123 hours: Message from the boys: "Get well soon, hope that your behind is in good, pre-splintered shape."


1721 hours: Finally out of hell. Now if only I can remember how to walk in a straight line…


1905 hours: Leia called. High Command wants to meet with me about a very urgent matter.

"Oh," she added after a moment's pause, "Rieekan says to be careful while climbing the stairs. Don't want you to undo all those weeks of healing now, do we?"


1903 hours: Well, that was interesting to say the least. We have been temporarily assigned a new pilot to our Squadron following the girl's unexpected arrival at our base. She just … appeared, out of nowhere, wearing these really strange clothes. And normally, I wouldn't mind so much, not at all. It's just that this girl is, for lack of a better word, odd. There's something about her that I don't like, and I'm not talking about that grotty red thong that I found under my pillow today.

PILOT: Lt. Mari Soo
AGE: Seventeen (17) standard years.
TRANSFER FROM: "Londone", "Erf".
TRANSFER TO: Rogue Squadron
DETAILS: Mysteriously assigned to elite starfighter Squadron despite never even having seen an X-Wing before. When questioned, the officer in charge of the transfer mumbled something about "must … not … notice … illogical … plot …" in a strangely monotone voice, before inexplicably disappearing from the base. We still haven't found him, you know. It's almost as though he disappeared into a hole of sorts ...


0944 hours: So, we've made all the formal introductions and let me tell you, I have a bad feeling about this. The boys all just sort of sat and drooled at this thing for the hour-long briefing. Naturally, she lapped it all up … and she now keeps shooting me these "come-hither" looks which, according to Leia, are meant to be sexy, but which instead are really giving me the creeps. I've never been a fan of blonde hair and amethyst eyes anyway. Or maybe they're turquoise eyes. They seem to change colour. Is that unnatural or what?


1355 hours: Mari Soo came up to me after a flight drill today. She leaned over really, really close, so that her huge chest was practically resting on my shoulder, and whispered "Hey there, sexy."

I mumbled something incoherent and ran away as fast as possible. I may even have used the Force to speed me up a little bit.

1401 hours: Judging from the scorch marks on the deck, I did use the Force to speed me up a little bit.

1944 hours: Dear Force, this situation is getting worse by the hour. The boys are all obsessed with this Mari Soo. They keep ranting on about how gorgeous she is, but all I can see is some blonde bimbo in a really tight flightsuit. Who gives a bucket of Hutt slime how gorgeous she is? We're fighting a Sithing war, for the Emperor's sake! And why oh why am I now sounding like Admiral Ackbar? It's all this Mari Soo's fault. I hate her.

2035 hours: Have been fined twenty-five credits for damaging the deck. Even though I don't get a salary. Next time I have to blow up a Death Star I'm using Mari Soo for the torpedeo.


1732 hours: This is beyond ridiculous. The boys aren't concentrating on anything other than Mari Soo's rear end, and I'm being followed everywhere I go. Anyway, I should be safe here in the computer bay. No pilot goes here, unless he's been ordered to. We're all too scared of the techies -- damn, was that blonde hair behind that terminal?


2200 hours: Just found a whip under my pillow, with the note: "The maintenance closet in 5 minutes. I know you're interested. I've always wanted a summer wedding."


0653 hours: It's been two weeks and she's still not giving up. Two weeks of hiding in supply cupboards, of conducting flight drills where the pilots are too busy watching the bimbo execute her ninth successive barrel roll to do anything but comment on her skills in the bedroom, of being stalked everywhere I go. I'm not sure I can take this any more.


1222 hours: Message from Wedge: "You do like girls, don't you, Luke?"


1849 hours: She's stalking me, I can feel it. Everywhere I go -- the mess hall, the flight sims, my quarters -- she's there, just looking at me. Waiting. Biding her time. It's just like that trench run on the Death Star, cannons trained on my butt and no way out…


1647 hours: I've been using the Force to peek behind corners now. Han would be hysterical. Thank the Force Han will NEVER find out about this. No matter HOW many Corellian whiskeys he coerces me into having.


2153 hours: I see her everywhere I go. She's always looking at me, talking at me, touching me …


1851 hours: a Jedi knows no fear a Jedi knows no fear a Jedi knows no fear


0355 hours: There's something yellow in my room -- blonde! Blonde! -- no, no, it's just a towel -- a towel! No, it's her! HERS! She's been here and she's going to get me she's going to get me … no, not now Ben, I never wanted a summer wedding haha … no Master Yoda, I'm not talking to Ben … I'm not mad, not yet … oh hello Mari Soo .. Mari Soo? No no no no get the wedding ring off me I'm not officiating my own sithing wedding HELP ME SOMEBODjtrws37564trfkp

"l lkjyhliu76;k;''

pp999999999999999999999999lkjtdkcxk jkghfkdxsrewsrere

The following are notes from Alliance psychiatrist YEN XI LIU on a meeting with Commander LUKE SKYWALKER on DATE CENSORED.

Client is young, no older than twenty-five at most. Client seems averse to forming relationships of any sort other than platonic, with members of either sex. When asked if his upbringing and/or family forbade any such contact, client replied, "If you knew who my family was, let me tell you, you'd not have that stupid smile on your face for much longer." Client's hostility duly noted.

When asked about his aversion to potential love interest LT. MARI SOO, client seemed to shudder and go into a prolonged seizure of some sort. Clearly, client has had some tragic experiences with women in the past. Upon being questioned about rejection by loved ones, it transpired that client "asked Camie to go out with me when I was seven, and she said no." Therefore, a reasonable conjecture can be made that client has been brutally rejected by his family and loved ones before and has very strained family relationships, possibly with a father or father figur



1030 hours: Right. I'm back. I can cope. I'm fine.

1031 hours: No I'm not. Dad, if you're somehow reading this, can you give me some help here?


This is a message from High Command. Imperial fighters have been spotted in the area. Prepare for an immediate evacuation. Fighter pilots to your posts.

The following is a transcript of the conversations taking place between members of the ROGUE SQUADRON during a battle and evacuation sequence.

LEADER: Rogue Squadron, this is Rogue Leader. Come in, Rogue Squadron.

ONE: Rogue One standing by.

TWO: Rogue Two standing by.

THREE: Rogue Three standing by.

FOUR: Rogue Four standing by.

FIVE: Um, which number am I again? Six?

ONE: I guess that means she's standing by.

FIVE: Luke, there's … there's something I have to tell you …

LEADER: Make it quick. Lock in hyperspace vectors!

FIVE: I … I love you. I've loved you from the very minute I laid eyes on you. I've been dying a little bit each day since you came into my life! And now I just want you to know that I'm willing to sacrifice myself for you, for you are the last of the Jedi and the light of my eyes …

LEADER: Cut the chatter Five.

FIVE: Aren't you … upset? Heartbroken? Crying that I'm nobly sacrificing myself for you?

LEADER: Frankly, no.

FIVE: You … I thought you loved me, you bastard! That's it, I've had enough! I'm going to die for you, so you can spend the rest of your life regretting what you lost!



2304 hours: She's dead! Gone! Dead and gone!

2305 hours: Celebration of another's passing is not the way of the Jedi. And the boys are all distraught … poor things … I really must strive for a proper attitude of sorrow and compassion…

2306 hours: Hallelujah! Hallelujah!


1537 hours: New base. And now, High Command has called a meeting.

I have a bad feeling about this.


By the Force, I'm so shocked that I can't even be bothered to fix the time recorder. My life feels like it's been broken into little bits, shaken around, reshaped and doused in alcohol and set alight. And that's just the last ten minutes.

Mind you, the Rogues aren't taking this any better than I am. Wedge is slumped against the wall, muttering incoherently. Hobbie is banging his head on his bunk, muttering something in a language I can't understand. Tycho is seeing how quickly he can inhale a bottle of Whyren's Reserve. And Wes … damn, I don't know what Wes is doing. At this point, I don't even care.

There's another Death Star. Another one! And of course, you know what this means.

Yeah, Luke Skywalker, rebel hero, is going to have to risk his neck again. Just because I blew up the last one. It's not like I wanted to make a career out of it, you know! One miraculous potshot and they all think I'm some kind of wizard. Who knows if I can pull it off again? I barely made it out the last time. I'm not a real Jedi yet! Just imagine if Luke-the-Alliance-poster-boy-and-last-of-the-Jedi-Skywalker went up in a fireball trying to make lightning strike twice. It'd be a massive blow to morale, right? RIGHT??

And … just a second, hang on, I've found Wes and it's not going to be pretty.

The following message was received from an UNKNOWN sender from an UNKNOWN destination.

I am waiting for you, my son STOP Soon, the galaxy will be ours STOP


Hah! Good news! Fett finally showed up with Han on Tatooine at Jabba's palace. The heck with the krething Death Star, I haven't seen Leia this happy in months. Makes me gooey.

Platonically gooey, mind you.

So anyway, we're off to Tatooine to rescue Han from Jabba. And I'm not even vaguely worried. What can Jabba possibly do to me that the Rogues haven't already? Feed me to a pet monster?

Yeah. I think we can handle the overgrown slug.

hi luke, wedge here. um, i hate to break it to you, but it looks like your caps lock key has gone as well. hobbie did it. promise.

anyway, we know that you went to rescue the princess and solo and everyone … so, we wanted to say bye. it's obvious that you're not going to make it back alive or anything. after all, we are talking about jabba here. plus, 58's an unlucky number according to hobbie. says it's tradition on his home planet. dear force, a whole planet filled with people with hobbie's insanely thick and weird-sounding accent. nightmare.

wedge you bastard. i hate you.

stop it hobs. luke doesn't have a delete key, remember?

oh yeah …

and you'd desert anyway. we all know you would, especially after reading this.

that was wes. thankfully, tycho has been abnormally quiet. must be the hangover.

so, thanks for being our commander for seven months. we enjoyed it, boss. maybe a bit too much.

wedge antilles


wes the great -- oops, i'd backspace that but you don't have one, do you?

tycho "ex-imperial scum" celchu


A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away …

-insert opening crawl for Episode VI-