The Impossible.

You can't do any more good back there!

He's keeping clear. Away enough to not stay a target, close enough to still catch the transmitions. Away from battle, not far from fear, anxiety, cold... it's so cold in space.

Harder to breathe. Words on screen... the shot damaged the circulation system. Oxygen's level is down. Stars are falling... shining bright, going off with a scream. Wait! echos in his helmet with a sound of explosion and he waits... for something, for nothing, for cold, for heat of passing away... For light... there is light, bright and loud, even if there is no sound in space... felt, not heard... For darkness that creeps on him...

His astromech will surely find the way home.




We are, ah, we were Rogue Squadron. We do.

One word can change your world. With two... with two you can change the galaxy. We do. I quit. The right thing to do, after what, eight years in the fleet? Civilian.

It doesn't matter how right is what they do, it still feels wrong to fly without the crest on your wing...

What does it make you? To rebel against the government that started as a rebellion. Is it even possible?

Break oaths to keep the promise? Fly on a wing and a prayer against all odds? Twelve pilots against the moloch, with no support from those they're fighting for?

There is a name for that, and it's insanity. It's impossible. But doing impossible has for long been their job.