"This is your last warning, Jean! Turn your ship around at once!"
"Too bad, officer, I'm outta here."
"You are leaving Confederate space!"
"I know damn right where I'm going!" That was a lie.
"Leaving Terran space is immediate grounds for excommunication!"
"Shut up!"
"There's no one out there to help you. You'll be dead in a few hours."
"I'm saving you the trouble then, aren't I?"
"Fine then. So long, Chad Jean. Border Squadron out."
An eerie silence followed. As the lights of the Confederate space platforms faded behind him, Chad Jean's ship crept into uncharted darkness. The small, damaged, one-man shuttle flew through the dark cold void of space for hours, slowly leaking a contrail of gas and oxygen in its wake. He knew his fuel wouldn't last long, his oxygen either. But that was fine. Chad Jean had no intent to return home.
Home. Right.
The air in the small, tight cockpit grew thin. He loosened his collar to help him breathe. It wasn't just that there wasn't a place to go back to, but that there was no reason. Surely the grip of death's cold hands would be more welcoming. No one wanted Chad Jean. There were many who wanted him dead, though.
Well, finally they'd get their wish.
He set the ship to autopilot and leant back in his chair, panting heavily. Each breath was a difficult chore. The cabin was getting colder. . .
His suicide would be the first act in a long time that would make them happy. Not that he cared what made them happy. Chad Jean didn't care. He hadn't cared in a long time. Not since. . .
The hum of the ship's engine faded into silence. One by one, the lights on the console blinked, then died. Then blackness of space enveloped all the stars as he slipped into unconsciousness. all the stars but one. Cold wrapped around him as he faded into black silence.
Then . . . blue.
"Too bad, officer, I'm outta here."
"You are leaving Confederate space!"
"I know damn right where I'm going!" That was a lie.
"Leaving Terran space is immediate grounds for excommunication!"
"Shut up!"
"There's no one out there to help you. You'll be dead in a few hours."
"I'm saving you the trouble then, aren't I?"
"Fine then. So long, Chad Jean. Border Squadron out."
An eerie silence followed. As the lights of the Confederate space platforms faded behind him, Chad Jean's ship crept into uncharted darkness. The small, damaged, one-man shuttle flew through the dark cold void of space for hours, slowly leaking a contrail of gas and oxygen in its wake. He knew his fuel wouldn't last long, his oxygen either. But that was fine. Chad Jean had no intent to return home.
Home. Right.
The air in the small, tight cockpit grew thin. He loosened his collar to help him breathe. It wasn't just that there wasn't a place to go back to, but that there was no reason. Surely the grip of death's cold hands would be more welcoming. No one wanted Chad Jean. There were many who wanted him dead, though.
Well, finally they'd get their wish.
He set the ship to autopilot and leant back in his chair, panting heavily. Each breath was a difficult chore. The cabin was getting colder. . .
His suicide would be the first act in a long time that would make them happy. Not that he cared what made them happy. Chad Jean didn't care. He hadn't cared in a long time. Not since. . .
The hum of the ship's engine faded into silence. One by one, the lights on the console blinked, then died. Then blackness of space enveloped all the stars as he slipped into unconsciousness. all the stars but one. Cold wrapped around him as he faded into black silence.
Then . . . blue.