They were syringing the last of the bacta out of my ear when Nick dropped in to check on me. The Advanced Medicine Facility was kept at about fifteen degrees or so - perhaps because the Mendellians thought the bacta might overheat or something - which meant I was wrapped in the bacta reclamation towel and shivering.
The towel, incidentally, wasn't a high-tech invention or anything - it was just a really absorbent towel they'd dry the bacta off people with. Someone had finally realised that the bacta shipments were going to be few and far between, and that standard NR policy was to reclaim as much as possible anyway. Reportedly, some of the medics take their reclamation duties very seriously, but it seemed I'd been assigned one who wasn't an amateur proctologist today. Thankfully.
He dropped a freshly-folded pile of fatigues on a handy table, and asked me, "How are you doing?"
Good question.
I was only sitting here because I'd somehow managed to escape death by a series of bizarre coincidences. Again. As much as Vickie might quote, "There is no luck, there is the Force" at me, I still don't believe it. Maybe if the Force gave me superpowers, I'd hold that attitude - but it doesn't, so I don't. If Vickie's to be believed, the Force enjoys seeing me nearly dead, and endeavours to put me in that state as often as possible.
I'm sick of nearly getting killed. Once, just once, I'd like to do something incredibly dangerous and come out unscathed. James Bond-style witticisms and beautiful women optional. But that's not the way things work for me. One day, I'm in Paris, the City of Love, then I'm being shot, stripped naked by a Trandoshan (which just so happened to live in the Catacombs), questioned, beaten, chuckled at, and shot again, only this time by my best friend.
Yes, I know it was on stun.
Yes, I know it was pretty much his only option.
I still remember seeing his and Gavik's fingers tighten on the triggers, and just freezing up, thinking I was either going to get shot by them, or shot by Chuckles if his hand spasmed. I actually had enough time to consider all that before the bolts hit. And what could I have done about it? Nothing. Even if I'd been able to move, I just froze up and watched it come, probably with a stupid look on my face.
At least I'd found out enough - from Kristy, through Nick - to know I'd done some good back in Paris. Becki and the Evil Josh had been followed by some gendarmes, but they got out okay. I only hoped that what they'd been doing had been worth the lives of the MPs I'd shot.
Or at least, I hoped I did. It was hard to tell.
I'd thought I'd beaten the stormie, back in 2000. That hellish week where I found myself trying to kill on the slightest excuse. Where my friends stopped being people and instead became assets. Where people I previously disliked became inhuman obstacles, things to be destroyed. I'd been so confident I could handle Brad, but when he'd tried something I just went... not berserk, but I had no restraint. And no remorse.
At the time.
And yet, his droids pulled me off the Admonitor. He could have left me up there, and no-one would have ever known. Yet, every time I've tried to thank him, he just got all cold towards me, and the words just froze up. Understandable. I've never had to face anyone who's tried to kill me. They're all dead.
But even so, I thought I'd won. That I'd banished it forever, that reason and goodwill had won over regimentation and homicidal frenzy, that I was free to live a life where I didn't randomly try to kill people for no well-defined reason. But it came back. I can't trust myself any more. I don't know if, or maybe when, I'm going to arbitrarily decide one of my friends needs killing and unload a blaster at them. And I'm good with a blaster.
But I need to be able to do my job. My friends depend on me.
And that's the kicker.
When I was hanging, alone in the dark, fighting for breath, I gave up. I knew no-one was coming. I knew I was done for. I knew no-one could help me.
And they came and rescued me.
So how can I turn around and let them down?
But how can I let them rely on me, when I can't trust myself?
I could have told Nick this, maybe. I could have let him know. But he'd gone in to get me out of there.
So what did I tell him?
"Fine. I'm doing fine."