Author's note: This chapter is a bit… filler fluff. But I hope you like it all the same, and it sets up a conflict later.
OOO
Harsh wind whipped around me. Gritty sand stung my eyes. Binary suns blazed down upon the world, erasing all memories of Alderaan's too-cool climate. I maneuvered the house door closed, actively using the Force to combat the strength of the howling gusts. Sandstorm. Thank the Force I'd been near my home when it started, or I might've been cooked.
Still, in some small way, it was good to be back home. Because no matter what, home would always be Tatooine for me. I'd long accepted this.
Since my "theft" of the plans from Erso's home was planned for week from now, I'd gone straight back to Tatooine from Alderaan. After so many trips back and forth lately, I swore I was getting a hint of hyperlag. My head pulsed with a savage ache. My body felt no better. Or maybe it wasn't hyperlag at all; maybe I was just getting old.
Too old.
Quickly as it came, I dismissed this dark line of thinking. Thirty-three was hardly old. Besides, I was just the right age for all of this. Put simply, I had to be. The last Jedi…
A second surprise, this one not so imminently perilous as the sandstorm but perhaps more dangerous, greeted me when I got onto my small, crummy computer that evening. Since I hadn't checked it in a number of weeks and some of the dealers at Mos Eisley liked 'mailing me about my current water prices, I knew I had to check up on things. Well, no messages from them, but apparently Biggs had really meant what he said about staying in touch. Not one but three holomails had been sent to my account, LuckyLuke1 . (Stupid, I know, but I made it up when I was in my early twenties and had just gotten the nickname from the locals.)
The first went as follows:
Dear Luke,
Thanks for giving me your holomail handle. It's cute. A bit of self-branding is nothing to be ashamed of. Guess you got tired of Camie calling you "Wormie," huh?
Anyway, I'm on my transport back to the fleet right now. Just thought I'd do what I said and send you a 'mail. It really was good to see you again.
Warmly,
Biggs
…
The second went like so:
Dear Luke,
Well, it's been three weeks and you haven't replied to my other 'mail. Maybe you are madder at me than I thought. If that's true, know that I don't hold it against you. Or maybe your computer broke. To be honest, I am kind of hoping that it did. Not in a mean way—but then I can still hold out hope you might send me a 'mail soon enough.
Either way, hope you're doing alright, and maybe I'll see you again on my leave.
Warmly,
Biggs
…
The third, sent only eight hours ago, went along these lines:
Skyboy,
Just so you know, I am NOT drunk. Nope. Not even a little. I did start drinking A LITTLE BIT of Corellian brandy a few hours ago, but I hold it well. Don't you think so? I hope you do think so—I hope you think about me. Because I'm thinking about you.
Four weeks with no reply and you're making me worried at this point. Is something wrong? Or do you just hate me? Maybe it's the second. Couldn't blame you. I never should have pushed you away at the party. I think about that all the time—I think about you all the time. And seeing you again—it made me realize what an idiot I've been. I should've come and talked to you long ago. Maybe, then, you wouldn't be ignoring my holomails. You'd be here with me, and we'd be—
A veil might with profit be drawn over the rest of the drunken message. Suffice it to say I wasn't even sure some of it might be physically possible. I briefly considered a search about it… but decided I'd only end up in some holonet cesspools I didn't want to delve into.
OOO
The challenge of what kind of reply to offer this string occupied me for several hours. I even meditated on it. Eventually, I settled on the simple and straightforward: Sorry. I've been busy. I signed it, and then sent it off. I just didn't know what else to say to all of that. On the one hand, I felt extremely—understandably, I think—awkward. On the other…
Well. If I'm being entirely honest, it was nice to know that, in fact, Biggs did care. Of course, it was irrelevant now, and for reasons that I couldn't entirely explain to him. At least—not yet. Someday, someday soon, I might end up a wanted man. Then, he'd understand. I took some modicum of comfort in that.
But these sentiments Biggs expressed—if they were true and not just drunken—addressed a different life, and a different Luke. Sometimes, I really couldn't believe I'd ever been that boy, so excited about his new T-16 skyhopper, eager to show his best friend, Biggs… Hopeful. Pure. Naive. In a way, my old self reminded me of Padmé, albeit in different senses for her.
And then, one day, that Luke had realized the depth of his feelings for Biggs. Realized he felt more than just friendship for him. Realized it at his going-away party to the Academy, and so suddenly kissed him out of an overflow of affection and grief at parting. Then, the grief had increased as Biggs had pushed him away.
Bigss's harsh words of rejection echoed in my mind now, confused by the affectionately and lustfully written words of the holomail. With a deep sigh, I turned off the computer. A different life, I thought. A different Luke.
Turning off the lights and getting into bed, I closed my eyes. Weary as I was from my travels, I expected to fall asleep immediately. But I remained awake for a long time, unable to help thoughts of that old Luke and his best friend, when Biggs hadn't been an Imperial corrupted by Sidious, and how one day they declared themselves "shooting stars that can't be stopped."
Maybe it wasn't all true, that. But I sure hoped that I couldn't be stopped. I wasn't so arrogant as to think myself some kind of huge hero like I'd once dreamed of being, but the galaxy needed the Jedi. They needed the Death Star gone. They needed hope. A chance of freedom.
They needed a wish on a shooting star that came true.
OOO
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