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The problem, you decided, was that Wes Janson was an idiot.
This wasn’t new information to anyone who knew Wes more personally, but it was still an issue that needed a clever work around.
He isn’t stupid, that’s not what you mean at all. There’s no way he would’ve survived in an x-wing, must less the Rogue Squadron, if he was. He’s masterful with a blaster, a quick hand on the throttle, and can come up with a plan with a snap of Wedge Antilles’s fingers. But he lived in his own Wes Janson world. It must be parallel to ours, but consequences and actions worked differently there. As amusing and impressive as it was, it meant your normal moves have had no effect. Wes Janson was a man who would require a completely new and absolutely outrageous strategy.
Thankfully, that’s nothing new for you.
It was a lot of fun spying on Wes. One of the reasons you liked him so much was his unlimited enthusiasm. He lived up to it - not even his time in the barracks was dull. There were pranks, of course, and contests and celebrations and the odd talent show. There was always something going down that Wes had a hand in, you only had to ask.
Then there were the quiet times, although those were much less often. Times where he poured over mission reports and research (where no one could see him and ruin his reputation, obviously), when he snuck naps in store closets, when he offered to write letters home to the loved ones of fallen pilots because he knew them best.
Compared to other members of Rogue Squadron like Commander Antilles and Colonel Celchu, Wes wasn’t seen as much of a strategist or planner, but if someone watched closely (which you always did), they could see him process the plans and options in his head. His years of knowledge and experience were a rich catalogue of experience he drew from that was more valuable than some others would give him credit for. Just because Wes joked around didn’t mean he wanted to die - or let anyone else die - on a mission. Even when he was still, Wes’s spirit was still overwhelming.
You only happened to be at target practice at the same time as him a few instances under the guise of having to practice to renew your own certification (although you would be happy to sit in on every session, but that may be too obvious, if not to Wes, then at least to the other regulars and people who staffed the range).
The first time you went, Wes had run through a holo obstacle course. There was a video of the simulation on the outside, usually reserved for assessment, but Wes’ reputation meant it’d always be on for spectators. The course was set on a customized level of difficulty reserved for “special cases,” one that tested the talents of the best slicers the New Republic had to offer. Their goal was to utterly defeat the person running the simulator. Whoever designed this one was merciless, giving no chances to take a breath between targets.
Wes had walked out of the room with only a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, mostly looking bored.
There was one time - only once, which seems like a miracle considering the pressure of members of Rogue Squadron - when the protective shielding Wes had thrown up around him had cracked. It was an accident that you saw it, for once you weren’t trying to spy on Wes, you were just in the right place at the right time.
You heard the story from one of the mechanics in the mess. What was supposed to be a routine cargo freighter escort trip turned into a rescue mission. Halfway through their route, they were hailed by a distress beacon. It was a short hop away and Wedge spared first and third flight to go check it out, with two flight staying on their course.
The source of the distress beacon was a huge colony transport, one of the long distance ones that could be lived on for decades and were completely furnished with whole home suites, a marketplace, gardens, and most other reasonable amenities someone could think of. After receiving no responses from their hails and seeing no lifesigns on their scanners, First flight landed in their hanger. The power was on, all life support systems working fine, no toxins reported.
Wes volunteered to go to the bridge, having studied the layouts of this type of ship before and knowing it was a confusing route. He wasn’t sure what he expected from a ship with no lifesigns, but this wasn’t it. Everyone on the bridge was dead. It wasn’t just the command crew, there were children in there too, once playing on the spacious deck. Now they were all slumped over and frozen in place in their chairs or the floor, looking like if the heat came back on, they would immediately resume their work and play.
He gently moved who must’ve been the captain aside and accessed their log. The last entry was dated a little over a month ago, the ship must’ve been floating along on their predetermined path this whole time, the grave looking captain recording the devastating news.
They’d all been poisoned.
They were refugees, innocent people running from a ruthless and murderous leader. This ship was part of a compromise, they would give up their homes and everything they knew and leave with their lives. Of course it couldn’t have been that simple, the captain regrets not being more skeptical and careful, but they wanted to hope the horrors were behind them.
Hidden in the air filters were blocks of crushed and powdered xubnicye - a poisonous plant that was undetectable unless you knew what you were looking for. It was usually used as a liquid for exterminators due to the humane way it killed, but their leader’s scientists had figured out a way to make it airborne. It took longer to kill, but it was deadly nonetheless. They hadn’t discovered it until it had been almost all dispersed and by then, it was irreversible.
They hadn’t told anyone on the ship besides their most trusted advisors, wanting to give their people their final moments of peace of joy. They would all fall asleep around the same time, all move on to their next journey together.
The captain had intentionally set the distress beacon to go off in thirty standard days, long enough for any residual traces of the toxic gas to be purified through their filters. They knew they couldn’t be saved, and they wanted whoever found them to be safe. Their last words were a plea, to whatever powers out there, that they may go to their planet and save the rest of their people… if there were any left.
After downloading the entire log onto his holopad and reporting no survivors, Wes returned to the hanger, standing silently by his x-wing until the rest of the Rogues returned.
You found Wes in the sparring room on the fourth level of the base. Hardly anyone ever came here because of its poor ventilation and cramped space, but you had a fondness for the well worn equipment that reminded you of simpler times. You weren’t trying to be quiet, but Wes couldn’t hear you over the sound of his fists hitting the punching bag that had been painted to be a stormtrooper dummy.
You watched, partially hidden by stacks of equipment, as his punches and kicks grew sloppier yet more forceful. The impact of his hits had to hurt himself as much as the dummy. His labored breathing became groans and grunts until a scream wretched its way out. His knees hit the floor and he kept pounding away at the mat, sobbing in anger and frustration at the cruelty in the galaxy and the little power he had to change it all.
You had to cover your mouth with your gym towel to muffle your own crying. You wanted to run to him, throw your arms around him and hold him and let his tears seep into your clothes and skin rather than the cement floor. But you couldn’t. You were frozen in place, overwhelmed with grief just watching him, and fearful that the interruption would embarrass him.
And what if he didn’t remember who you were? Selfishly, you didn’t want that pain either.
You both calmed down around the same time, Wes shakily standing as you stayed hidden behind the equipment. He cleaned up the mess he made, unwrapped his hands and hissed at the fresh wounds on his knuckles. Scolding himself, he left and went to medical.
After seeing that, after seeing the indomitable Wes Janson crumble and get back to his feet, you think you grew to love him even more.
It had taken weeks to finish reconnaissance, but at the end of it, a plan started fitting into place. There were only a few corners that would have to be held in with a lot of force and a prayer, but it was a solid enough thing and you had sixty percent confidence it would work. That’s a lot higher than your usual plans and most of them seemed to work out in the end.
Today you would talk to Wes Jason.