The Choices We Make

A Star Wars: The Force Awakens Story

"Ben!"

The single syllable echoed about the chasm beneath the walkway deep within the recesses of the Starkiller base, a mere word filled with subtext—simultaneously a command and a plea.

Han Solo felt every muscle in his body tense in anticipation, his stomach filled with a potent mixture of hope and dread as he heard his voice dissipate into nothingness, as he watched the masked figure at the other end of the walkway pause before oh-so-slowly turning around to face him. From the platform high above him, Solo heard a low growl emanating from the throat of his Wookiee companion. In an instant, his left hand flew above his head, his open palm commanding his partner to stand down, to hold his fire no matter what the outcome.

"Han Solo."

The masked figure that called himself Kylo Ren stared at Solo from across the walkway, his visage hidden behind the abomination that was his mask. Solo winced involuntarily at the sound of Ren's voice: so cold, so emotionless, nothing like what he—

At long last, Ren moved toward Solo, his stride deliberate, unhurried, until the two men were less than five feet apart. "I've been waiting for this day for a long, long time."

Solo swallowed, Leia's words from earlier that day—was it really only a few hours ago? he thought to himself—ringing in his mind as he locked eyes with Ren's mask, his right hand slowly, cautiously removing his blaster from its holster before tossing it to the walkway. No, she had insisted, despite his protestations. There is still light in him . . . You're his father . . .

"So . . . You've chosen to disarm yourself. Foolish, as usual . . ."

Ren's words jarred Solo from his reverie. Shaking his head, wiping a strand of gray hair from his brow, the smuggler regarded the figure opposite him, the confrontation he had been running from for years finally upon him. "Take off that mask, Ben."

At the mention of his birth name, Ren flinched perceptively. "Ben Solo is dead, old man," he snarled, his right hand curling itself into a fist.

Solo shook his head. "Then prove it. Show me. Show me the face that used to belong to my son."

To his surprise, Ren complied with his command. A sharp hiss filled the air as the Master of the Knights of Ren removed his mask, his dark eyes framed by hair the color of midnight. Undaunted, Ren looked directly at Solo, his face impassive, emotionless. "Satisfied?"

In that moment, Solo wanted to yell, to scream, to grab his son by the shoulders and shake him, demand that he explain himself, order him to justify how he could have fallen under the influence of the Dark Side, how the boy he raised could possibly have inflicted such pain, such destruction upon the galaxy. Instead, he merely took a tentative step forward, his hand outstretched. "Ben, I—"

Ren's face darkened, his anger rekindled by Solo's continued use of the hated name. "I told you: Ben Solo is dead!" he roared. "I killed him! He was weak! He was foolish! He was afraid! He was everything I hate! He was . . ." His voice trailed off, his lip curling into a mirthless smile. "He was just like you."

In that moment, Solo wasn't certain which was worse: listening to his son rail against him, berating him, rattling off his litany of grievances, or realizing that, deep down, he knew that everything Ren was saying was true. It was Solo's turn to feel his hands tightening into fists, his instincts screaming at him to run, to flee, to take Chewie, Finn, and Rey and escape from this hellhole, to return to Leia and lie to her—as he had so many times before—to tell her that he had tried his best, but their son was too far gone, that nothing he could have done could have saved him—

Not this time.

Solo nodded in silent agreement with himself as he realized that Maz had been right: he had been running for far too long. His resolve strengthened, Solo stepped forward again, his eyes locked tightly upon Ren's. "You keep telling yourself that," he said. "But you don't really believe it. I don't believe it."

Ren shook his head. "You're wrong. There's nothing left of your son, Solo. I am Kylo Ren! I serve the First Order! Supreme Leader Snoke is my—"

Solo snorted in disgust. "Snoke? You think he cares about you at all, Ben?"

The hatred on Ren's face was almost palpable. "Stop. Calling. Me. That."

Solo ignored him, taking another step forward. "He's using you! You know that. He only wants you for your power. And when you're no longer useful to him, he'll—"

"ENOUGH!"

Ren lunged forward, his hands gripping tightly onto Solo's jacket. "Why did you come back, old man? Why couldn't you just keep running? What do you want from me?"

Solo's expression softened. "I want you . . . I want you to come with me, Ben."

Ren's expression turned from outrage to confusion. "I . . . You what?!"

"You heard me."

Solo took hold of his son's wrists, gently dislodging Ren's hands from his jacket. "Come with me, Ben. Come back to your mother. She misses you . . . We both do."

Ren shook his head as unwanted emotions, emotions he had fought for so long to suppress began to cascade through his mind: family, fellowship, happiness, belonging . . . love. His face twitched, his hands began to shake as that which he feared most began to well up inside of him: doubt. The girl's words from less than an hour ago echoed in his ears, berating him, mocking him. You're afraid you will never be as strong as Darth Vader! You're afraid! You're afraid! You're—

"Stop!"

Solo watched, his heart breaking, as Ren covered his ears, his face contorted in pain, in unbearable agony. "It's okay, son," he whispered, his arm wrapping around Ren. "It's okay . . ."

"No . . . it's not."

Ren's voice was little more than a whisper as he looked upon his father, his eyes moist, his lip quivering. In that moment, Solo realized—truly realized—that Leia had been right, that their son was still there, and that he was now speaking directly to him.

"I've . . . I've done terrible things," Ren continued, his cheeks red with shame. "Unforgivable things . . ."

"None of that matters now," Solo insisted, his grip on Ren's back tightening. "Whatever you've done, we can put that behind us. You still have a choice, Ben! You don't have to keep being Kylo Ren. You can come home . . ."

You don't have to keep being Kylo Ren . . .

Ren turned his head, his mind suddenly focused, lucid, as words spoken to him earlier that day suddenly flooded his consciousness. It will be the greatest challenge you have ever faced. The greatest challenge . . . The greatest challenge . . .

Yes, Ren thought to himself, his fear and doubt dissipating like early-morning fog in sunlight. Yes, it will . . .

". . . we can get out of here! Ben, are you listening to me?"

His father's voice jolted him back to the present, clearing his mind. His decision made, his path clear, he spoke. "Help me," Ren murmured, his words barely audible. "Please! There's so much pain . . . so much pain! Like I'm being ripped apart . . . Help me . . ."

Solo stared into Ren's face inquisitively. "Anything. Whatever you need."

Ren reached for the saber attached to his belt, carefully unclipping it as he pressed it into Solo's palm, the hands of both men clutching the weapon's hilt.

"There . . . There's something I need to do," Ren said, each syllable carefully formed, each word deliberately chosen. "But, I . . . I don't know if I have the strength to do it."

His eyes pleaded silently with Solo, begging him, imploring him. "Will you . . . Will you help me . . . Father?"

Solo felt his spirit soar as his son addressed him with that long-forgotten title. "You know I will," he said. "You know I will."

Ren brought himself to his full height as he regarded his father. His fingers brushed against the cool metal of his weapon as he nodded almost imperceptibly. "You always did try to do the right thing, Father," he muttered. "And for that, I must admit that I am most grateful . . ."

Solo frowned, not understanding. "Ben, what are you—"

Ren leaned forward, his face mere inches from Solo's. "Goodbye, Father."

Realization dawned upon Solo, realization that his son was lost to him, that the monster that had once been Ben Solo had made his definitive choice, that nothing he could do could sway him from his path. Guilt, anger, shame . . . a tidal wave of emotions washed over Solo in that moment as he realized that he was responsible for everything his son had ever done, that he was responsible for Kylo Ren's very existence, and that Ren would never stop—never stop—unless . . .

As he felt Ren's finger slide toward the activation button upon the saber, Solo felt a lifetime's worth of survival instincts rise from within him—and he chose to give in to them. Knowing what Ren was about to do, knowing that if he did nothing thousands upon thousands of innocent beings would die, Solo reacted.

With an ear-piercing snap-hiss, Ren's lightsaber sprung to life, its master's face filled with elation as the blade pierced through flesh and bone. Ren's glee turned to pain, then to confusion as he realized his father had twisted his wrist just before the saber had been activated, that the blade—his blade—had made its way through his own chest . . . through his lungs.

Solo felt his own eyes grow wet with tears as he looked upon Ren's bewildered expression, their faces separated by the deadly beam of red light that protruded from the side of Ren's weapon. Barely able to speak, barely able to control his own actions, Solo heard his voice speaking as if from the other side of the galaxy. "Ben, I'm sorry," he heard himself whisper, part of his mind wishing to whatever higher power might exist that this was all some God-forsaken nightmare, the other part of his consciousness knowing that this was all very, very real. His cheeks were wet now, and he no longer cared. "I'm sorry . . ."

Ren—Ben—looked at him as he fell to the harsh grill of the walkway, his face betraying no sign of anger, of betrayal or hatred, but rather appearing more peaceful than Solo had ever seen. As his son stretched his hand toward his cheek, Solo deactivated the saber, the red light of death disappearing into nothingness. Cradling his son within his arms, Solo allowed the dying Knight of Ren—the erstwhile Jedi-in-training—to touch his cheek.

"Father . . ."

Solo felt his hands tremble as he held his boy, ignorant of the torrent of blaster fire that had erupted between Chewie, Rey, and Finn and the stormtroopers who had been watching Ren's final moments. He saw Ben's face grow wet as tears fell from his eyes onto his son, heard Ben struggle for breath.

"I had to, Ben," he heard himself say, over and over again. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry!"

A faint smile pulled at Ben's lip as he patted his father's face. "Thank . . . you," he choked out, his breathing now ragged and weak. "It's . . . gone. The pain . . . The struggle. It's . . . all . . . gone . . ."

As his son's hand fell from his face to land motionless at his side, as he saw Ben's eyes close for the last time, Solo was certain he heard someone screaming the most horrific scream he had ever heard—a cry of crystallized, unadulterated anguish. It was only when he felt Chewie's arms around his waist, when he felt Finn press his blaster into his hand, when he heard Rey screaming for them to escape before the charges blew that he realized the voice he had heard was his own, and that, no matter what he did, it would not be silenced.

"This thing? This . . . This is your ship, Dad?"

He laughed, tousling the five-year-old boy's hair as the two looked upon the Millennium Falcon. "That's right," he said, kneeling beside his son. "Now, I know she's not as fancy-looking as the ships you've been travelling on all your life—"

"Yeah," the boy said, nodding. "They all look new and shiny. This . . . This looks . . . old. Does it even fly?"

Had it been anyone else, he would have broken their nose at the insult directed at his pride and joy. Instead, he merely shook his head. "Okay. I guess you're too young for this after all. We'll try again when you're ten—"

That approach had its desired effect. The boy frowned, folding his arms. "I'm not too young!" he protested. "I want to see! You promised!"

He grinned, kneeling beside his son so their faces were at the same level. "Well . . . All right. I guess you're old enough after all."

The boy's face was practically glowing. "All right!" he cried out, sprinting up the Falcon's ramp, his father in hot pursuit.

Father and son made their way to the cockpit, the boy's eyes wider than ever as he stared at the dizzying arrays of controls and sensors. "Wow . . ."

Solo slid himself into the pilot's chair, motioning for his son to sit next to him in the copilot's seat. "Now, remember what we talked about this morning?"

The boy nodded. "Don't tell Mom?"

Solo grimaced. "No! Well, of course we're not going to say anything to her. If she knew I was doing this, she would . . ." He paused. "I mean, the other thing."

His son placed his hands in his lap. "Don't touch anything unless you say it's okay."

"That's right," Solo said, flipping a number of switches on the console. "Because if we touch the wrong thing at the wrong time, the Falcon tends to get a little cranky."

The boy frowned. "Then . . . Why not get a newer ship?"

Solo stopped, his hand moving to rest upon his son's shoulder. "Because, Ben . . . Because she's family. And you never give up on family."

Ben frowned. "How can a ship be 'family', Dad?"

Solo sighed, wondering to himself if all fathers had to answer such profound questions from their sons at so early an age. "This baby's saved me, your mother, Uncle Luke, Chewie, R2, and 3PO more times than I can count. So, yeah. She's like family."

The boy cocked his head, deep in thought. "Does that mean 3PO's family too, Dad?"

Solo groaned as he flipped the primary ignition control. "That's not what I—"

With a roar, the Falcon's engines came to life, the sound startling Ben with its raw power. "Wow . . ."

Solo's trademark grin was on full display. "You think that's something? Watch this . . ."

The Falcon suddenly darted forward, her landing gear retracting as she lifted off from the docking bay. Faster and faster she flew as she rose through the atmosphere, until she was adrift in the wide-open embrace of star-spotted blackness.

"So," Solo said, turning to his boy. "What do you think?"

Ben stared intently at the vast star field that filled the cockpit window before turning to look at his father. "Someday . . . I'm going to see it all, Dad. Everything!"

Solo wrapped his arm around his son's shoulder, a sense of pride rising within his chest. "Oh, you will, son," he said. "You will . . ."

Safe aboard the Falcon, as the freighter sped through hyperspace back toward the Resistance base, Solo heard a knock at the door to his quarters. Not responding, he sat in silence, a half-empty glass of Correllian whiskey in his hand, not in the mood to talk to anyone, not even Chewie. Vaguely, he heard the door open, sensed a figure enter behind him.

"May . . . May I come in?"

He slowly turned his chair around to see Rey looking at him, her face filled with trepidation.

After several moments of awkward silence, he decided he'd had enough. "Well? What do you want?"

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. "I just wanted to say thank you. You saved us. Bought us enough time to escape. Made sure Chewie was able to plant the charges."

His dark mood was not helped by her comments. "Wonderful. Good to know. Now, go away."

She paused, not knowing how to phrase what she so desperately wanted to say to him. "I . . . I know it's not my place, and that I can't possibly understand what you're feeling right now—"

"You're right," he snapped, rising as his anger began to boil over, the alcohol fueling his outrage. "So why don't you stop? Because they way I see it, none of this would have happened if it wasn't for you. I would still be on my freighter. I would still be making my way around the galaxy wherever I want, whenever the hell I want. I wouldn't have had to take some damn droid to the Resistance, and I sure as hell wouldn't have infiltrated some First Order Death Star-wannabe, and—oh, yeah—I wouldn't have had to kill my own son!"

He had expected his rant to make himself feel better, to make the pain that tormented his spirit lessen somehow. Instead, it only intensified as he watched the young woman's eyes fill with tears. She turned to leave, her face set in an emotionless facade.

"Rey."

At the sound of her name, she turned back to him, uncertain if he was about to apologize or launch a fresh barrage of verbal attacks against her.

He brought his hand onto her shoulder. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault. None of this is your fault. I just . . ."

He turned away, allowing his weary body to sink into his chair. He looked at her intently, noticing that something seemed different about her, that she seemed more confident, more self-assured than when first they met. He gestured toward the weapon clipped to her belt. "You decided to keep that after all?"

She glanced down at the lightsaber, a nervous grin forming on her lips. "That's right. I think . . . I think I'm going to try to find him. To give it back to him."

Solo nodded. "Really? And then . . .?"

She paused. "I . . . I don't know. I think I . . . That is, on the base I found out I can . . ."

He inhaled sharply. "I see." He paused, weighing his words carefully. "If you decide to try to find him, promise me something, Rey."

She looked at him quizzically. "Anything."

In that moment, he felt even older than his considerable years. "Promise me you'll make the right choice. That you'll do the right thing. That you . . ."

He swallowed, downing another swig of amber liquid. "Promise me that you won't become like Ben."

She nodded, her eyes fierce. "I won't. I promise."

He smiled sadly. "Good. Because trust me: The choices we make hurt other people a hell of a lot more than they hurt us."

She looked at him intently. "Are . . . Are you sure you're okay . . . Han?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about me. Why don't you go check on Chewie and 'Big Deal' out there? Make sure they're not getting lonely."

She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped, choosing instead to do as he asked. As she left his quarters and made her way down the corridor toward the cockpit, she thought she heard the sound of a man crying out in abject despair, but it may have simply been the sound of the engines as they propelled the small freighter through a galaxy that suddenly felt much emptier, much less inviting than she had previously thought.

AN: An alternate possibility for the outcome of the walkway scene in Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Please review, if you would like.