Choose the Order. Choose a mission. Choose a Master. Choose a fucking big hologram projector. Choose refresher machines, starships, compact holocron players and lightsabers. Choose Force healing, high midichlorian count, and Trade Federation insurance. Choose fixed interest Tattooine junkyard repayments. Choose a starter meditation chamber. Choose your Padawans. Choose trooper armor and a matching R4 unit. Choose a threepiece robe on hire purchase in a range of fucking Jedi fabrics.

Choose democracy and wondering who the fuck you are on a Coruscanti morning. Choose sitting on that repulsor chair waiting through mindnumbing, Forcecrushing Council meetings, stuffing fucking Dex's Diner food into your mouth. Choose being one with the Force at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable cave, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up younglings you trained to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose the Empire... But why would I want to do a thing like that?

I chose not to choose the Empire. I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got the high ground?