Sabine Wren

BTW, Sabine is 10.

Today was the big day. The day where everything I ever worked for comes into focus. The day that my skills will be proven, not just speculated, to be better than all others.

The day I become a storm cadet.

Of course, it's not settled yet. There's still a final test. The ones that have already went clammed up, and I can only guess at what excitement it is. Will it be the well, like we've done for the past months, or will it be the shooting range that I scored an all-time record in? Will it be an obstacle, or a team effort? Oh, I can hardly wait!

I sat in my room in front of my easel. The blank canvas on it was driving me nuts. Everywhere around my work, my room, my walls, everywhere, was art of different types and mediums. I just couldn't get anything on canvas. I've gotten scolded, before, for my doodling, but I just couldn't help it! They said what I was drawing was con-Empire, but hey! I just love drawing birds. Birds…

I raised my spray can, now affixed with a blaster, and turned it the paint side up. Humming the Imperial march, I began to outline the shape. A curve, then a few stokes to level it out, then the head. I grabbed another can and began to spray, creating gradient and shadow to the fabulous piece. The eye came to life, my star bird seeming to soar into the sky. I kept drawing, oblivious to my commander standing behind me, eyeing me. His eyes froze, his mouth twisted into a sad version of a frown, and a sneer.

I can never do just one thing. I always multi-task, even when I'm painting. At this point, I began to wonder about my parents. I'd never known them, never seen a picture or heard a voice. What were they like? What did they look like? Did my mother have light blond hair like me, with curls that reached down onto my shoulders? Did my father have a love for art, for drawing birds so lifelike they seemed to fly off the page and into your heart? Were they storm trooper agents, or commanders? Sometimes, it seemed that imagining was more fun than knowing.

I heard the creak of the door closing, and I whipped around to see who was there. Only then did I notice my commander standing there, silently shaking his head at me, his hand resting on the door. "What's wrong?" I asked, utterly confused.

He kept shaking his head, but when he looked up, his eyes were full of determination. "You are under arrest for treason."

I was shocked. "But, but why? I haven't done anything!"

He grabbed me by the hair, and I screamed, my voice sending a chill down my spine. He leaned in close to me, and in my ear, he whispered something. My eyes widened, my throat catching.

"But that can't be it, I've worked so hard for this!" I whispered, tears filling in my eyes.

He nodded, no longer showing any compassion or restraint. He grabbed a pair of cuffs from his belt, the old kind that was made of iron and impossible to break. (Can anyone tell me what they use for cuffs in Star Wars Rebels?) I yelped as he slapped them on my wrists, and with it, all hope lost.

I sat on the floor of my cell, shivering. I didn't want to sit on the stone bench, to show any sign of weakness. My mind kept replaying that scene over and over again, and I couldn't take it anymore. Groaning, I rolled backwards and lay on my chest. I peered under the bench, if only for something to do. Then I noticed something weird. Engraved under the seat were symbols. Symbols that I strangely know. What language was it? Was it one of the ones I was taught, or is it some other language that my eidetic memory made it easy learn? Either way, I couldn't believe what the message said.

It said, "Push if you believe the Empire should fall."

My mind debated over this. I wanted to press it; my fingers itched to feel the words, to run my hand over the groove and have a miracle happen. If the cameras saw me, what would they do to me? I was already convicted of treason, sent here to live the rest of my life in misery and sorrow. What did I have to lose? My inexistent parents? My double-crossing commander? My rank that I was never again going to fulfill? What hope was there? There was nothing I could do, but someone, possibly someone as smart as me, had left this message here for future prisoners. But what if I reported this to the Empire? They might be so happy that I exposed a traitor, that they welcome me to storm cadet level with open arms. I mentally battled myself, debating over and over what I should do. My life is on the line, but my life had ended when my commander said those words. The words that will scar me for life.

"You should never have continued drawing, never have touched a can of paint again. It doesn't pain me to do this, to expose you for who you really are: a rebel."

I pressed the engraving.