He was dead, and only his body and his friend didn't know. Huh, he had used the word friend to describe the idiot who still thought he could be saved, pulling the broken speeder bike. Face…Face was a friend; it felt good to have one. He never did have any, not after Endor anyway, not after the beam of durasteel had come down, red hot, on him.

He did not regret his life since then, he only regretted that he had let his future die there. It was only a matter of time before he became so much machine that Commander Antilles would no longer let him fly, until the New Republic could not afford to even keep his current replacements in repair. What would he have done then? Return to the life of a Doctor? He had tried, and failed at that. All of the women that had come into his life since then were right, he had nothing to offer but his battered and increasingly mechanical body. No Future, no life, nothing but the burning hate he felt at the Empire and its remnants for taking that away from him.

Hate…the last years of his life had been defined by hate, should his death be too? Shouldn't it? Hate had been a constant in his life, but it felt wrong to make it a part of his death. Then it occurred to him…it hadn't been the Empire that took away his future, it had been his hate. If he had been able to just get past that, move on, then he could have been a doctor again, could have had a future. He had destroyed himself and all he had to show for it was more replacements and the friendship of a man trying to pay off sins he had paid off long ago.

Then he saw it, Iron Fist, the flagship of the Wraiths' foe, the ship they had sworn to destroy or capture. From here, the arrow point in the company of all the stars, it just seemed so peaceful for a ship of war.

"It's up there again," he said to Face. He heard him say something back, but he couldn't hear them, couldn't respond, for his lungs had stopped moving. As darkness came into his vision, he found himself, for the first time in a long time, at peace.