A little under forty minutes later, Fel was in his berth, door shut, gripping the edges of his bunk. Well, I guess the Kid was sharing his bunk with him now, in shifts. So was it really his anymore? It didn't matter. Better that way. As long as nobody opened the door for the next fifteen minutes. He breathed deep, trying to rid himself of the tension in his shoulders and back. His head swam. He did what he always did in this situation. He stripped and cleaned his blaster. There was something mindlessly therapeutic about it. Something purely mechanical, where he could divorce himself from his emotions and just do the job. Do it right. The void knows, there was enough in his life that would never run smooth, never be 'right.' But cleaning a blaster was one of those things that had been drilled into him at the academy which stuck. A blaster in good condition saved lives. He wanted to save lives. Not all the lives, just his people. He could never save them all. Not since... 

The image entered his mind unbidden. The fire. His hands on the yoke. The voices of his wingman and squadron. He saw the buildings ablaze, the freighters. Saw his future. When he finally returned from that particular moment in history, he was sweating, his hands were balled into fists, and he wasn't exactly sure how long he had been 'gone.' That was usually the case. He threw the disassembled bits of his blaster on the floor, like clean-sweeping a tabletop. (though in this particular case, it was his lap.) He stood, momentarily unsure of himself, and where he was. When he was. He paced, kicking the bits he had just evicted, into corners. He was all nerves and frustration, and he didn't know exactly why. And for ten minutes, he had real trouble determining whether it was now, or whether it was ten years ago. 

Finally, he calmed, laying his head in his arms, atop the shelving unit across from the bed. Was he leading them into certain death? Or all of them getting pinched? No... he wouldn't go that way. Never again. If it came to that, he'd rather go down that get taken. But were they up for this? Were they acutely aware of what taking this job on, meant? It meant all of them having a price on their heads from the Imperials. Life on the run. Had he made that clear enough? Did they know they had a choice? That they could all walk away right now, and he wouldn't hold it against any of them? Jet would stay. He didn't really know why. The man could do anything, but yet here he was. Loyal to the last. And Wrench would stay. The little trash-can didn't really have much of a choice. Fel had tried to tell the old R2 to leave on countless occasions, but the little droid had thrown his lot in with him, and he had no choice in it. He wasn't sure about Zane and Aellyn. They were smart enough to go. They had reason enough to go. And they had reasons outside of this sardine can to live. He wouldn't have given them a hard time over it. Well -- Aellyn, yeah. But mostly because she deserved it. 

He needed to be clearer about their chances. And about the consequences. And he needed to give them all a chance to think it over and opt out if they chose to. He looked at the bit scattered on the floor, and retrieved them. Searched for five minutes on hands and knees to find one of the static pulse adaptors, but finally retrieved it, and reassembled the Power5. He could have done it with his eyes closed. Almost did. Feeling the familiar weight slide home in its holster, he chided himself for such a moment. Couldn't afford that, when there were folks counting on him. He splashed a little water on his face, and headed for the bridge...