“We are now ka-tet,” said Roland. “Fate has linked our destinies.”

“Enough talk,” Scott said. “Let’s go save the world.”

The ka-tet remained glued to the table, an awkward silence brewing between them. Yoda, who had been snoring loudly, suddenly shot up in a fit of excitement.

“One angle, we have not covered!” he shrieked. “A pilot, we do not have.”

“Somebody call for a pilot?” A short, grinning idiot said. “The name’s Pete Mitchell, but my call sign is Maverick. This is my wing-man. You can call him Iceman.”

“I thought you were my wing-man,” Iceman said, clicking his teeth together.

“Bull-shit, you’re mine.”

While the two pilots bickered, oblivious to anything outside of their collective ego, a third man approached the table.

“The name is Captain Stephen Hiller and I’d be honored to fly you. I’ve flown alien spacecraft before, a few moons ago on Independence Day. I inherited this piece of junk from a guy named Solo, God rest his soul. So, where are we headed?”

“To the Death Star, please take us.”