She's a Rebel [Star Wars | Luke Skywalker] *EDITING*

Failure

The door to the holding room slides open, revealing the ashen faces of our comrades. There's nothing in the room except a desk, a chair, and a computer terminal. Colonel Phillips, Brigadier Mitchell, General Jackson, Captain Edvard, General Voski and many of the Bothans and other Rebels are gathered together parallel to the computer terminal. However, I don't recognise the Bothan to whom I gave the stolen plans. They must have made it out.

Quinn, Tom, Dex, Colonel Erfad and I are all marched in, our arms held in place by either Stormtroopers or low-ranking Officers, and we are forced to stand in the line with the disgraced.

I don't look up at any of the Officers once my arms are released from firm grips, I just stare at the floor. I notice blood slowing collecting in a small pool on the floor next to my left boot, and I glance over to find Quinn holding her right arm to her side, blood dripping down from under her sleeve. She must have sustained an injury while we attempted to escape, yet this is the first I've heard of it.

I'm distracting from the pooling blood by the door opening. Jerjerrod, who did not follow us initially, steps inside, followed by whom I assume to be none other than Olev. He's a stout, flabby looking man dressed in a khaki tunic two sizes too small, his paunchy legs bursting out from the top of his shiny leather boots. He's followed by yet another Commander and a Major. I glance down the line to find Voski and Edvard glaring at him, Edvard's bald head slowly turning crimson as sweat drips down his brow.

"Commander, please take the Rebels and those creatures out of my sight," Olev spits at the young, blonde-haired woman Commander who followed him in, and she nods, ushering our Bothans out first as they're flanked by Stormtroopers and then Voksi's group of Rebels. "Now, I do believe our good friends were conspiring with these four," he continues, waving a flat, chunky hand in our direction. "Rebels. Though one is very familiar."

He stalks his way over to me, taking big, clumpy steps in his shiny leather boots, staring down at me with his small, green eyes. He lifts a leather-gloved hand, pushing back some of his greying and greasy dark blonde hair from a liver-spotted forehead. "I remember you, Miss Hawkins," he snaps.

I raise an eyebrow at him cockily. "I believe my correct title, instated by both the Rebel ranks and indeed your own, is General," I reply, raising my chin.

He narrows his eyes, making them even smaller. "Such a shame. You would have made a good Grand Moff had you continued to ascend the ranks."

"It's my pleasure to disappoint you," I smirk up at him.

His wiry, grey eyebrows knit together in a frown, and he steps away from me, glancing once at Quinn, Dex and Tom before snorting and moving to his treacherous Imperial compatriots.

"If you have any last messages for your wives and children, I will hear them now," he says, pulling down the front of his khaki tunic.

They do not respond, staring forward in a silent defiance.

"Very well," Olev continues. "I will pronounce sentence in both the Emperor and Lord Vader's absence. Jackson, you are under arrest."

Jackson gives him a solitary glance, lifting a hand to smooth back his soft white hair.

"Colonel Phillips, Brigadier Mitchell, Captain Edvard, General Voski, and the Colonel, who's name I will not mention, along with these four Rebels are condemned to death."

"General," the Major, a stern, tight-lipped man in his forties with light brown hair, begins. "My orders are to take these prisoners alive."

"Noted, Major," Olev snaps, staring at him with his beady little eyes.

"I'd like a blaster pistol, please," Jackson requests in his slow, soft voice. "For personal reasons."