Star Wars: Lost Tales
From the day he embarked on this life as an outlaw, this gun has never left Ren Dekker’s side. He remembers the day Doc stopped him as he left the ship. They’d been sailing for a little over a week, looking for work. Rumour among the crew was that they were about to land something big, and now Ren was looking in awe out the cargo bay doors and the dusty, smelly, bustling hangars of Mos Eisley. This was the adventure he’d always dreamed of. Doc’s rough hand on his shoulder stopped him as he stepped forward into the dust motes hanging in the sunlight. “Boy, if you’re gonna sail with us, you’re gonna need to be more than…well, a boy.”
“Every man on this crew pulls his weight, earns his pay in blood, sweat and tears. Can you do that?”
“I…I think so, sir.”
“And every man on this crew owes his life to at least one of his fellow sailors. Jakobs over there stopped a knife once meant for Owens’ back. Stopped it with his shoulder. Ri’lee got that scar taking a bullet covering Mollard’s team when things got hot on Kashyyyk a ways back. The crew has to pull together.”
“I can pull sir. I can pull as hard as any of ’em.”
The old spacer bent down, his hard black eyes level with Ren’s. “Aye, I believe you can. I believe you can be a man equal to any of us. But you’re gonna need something first.”
The grip felt right from the moment his fingers closed around it. Heavy, and deadly, and right. At that moment he knew there was no turning back. He’d breathed the smoke and oil of the engine room, seen the sunlight coming through the spaceport roof. He held his future in his hands. This was what he was born for.