My name is Jennifer Tracy. I didn't know John all that well, but... well, let me start from the beginning.
I managed to escape from the Earthian Empire in 12 BW, when I was barely more than a kid. It was everything I could do just to pay the my way out; my father had been conscripted and killed years before, leaving my perpetually absent brother the breadwinner for my mother. Not that they would've followed me, they never had the same fear of the Empire as me, never found the rounding up of undesirables as distressing. So I ran away, spending everything I had to get away, even if meant leaving my family behind. I thought I'd be safe in my new home; Corella was a neutral colony! Who could possibly imagine us being invaded?
Well, we all know too well how history unfolded, and over a dozen years later, I was as shocked as anyone when the Empire invaded. It wasn't for a whole year that I joined the resistance, after my dear friend was... well... it wasn't for a whole year that I joined the resistance. I'd run once before. But I was a grown adult now! I wouldn't run, and I wouldn't just stand by and starve, or watch everyone around me disappear in the night. No, I'd take up the good fight! I'd kill some Whiteshirts, I'd wear a beret and take up a nom de guerre, I'd blow up anyone who collaborated and steal bread and butter from the fascist pigs! I'd be the pinnacle of the fucking resistance!
And... well, that's exactly what I did.
A few months later, I'd found myself ordered to set up a bomb at a small clothier's shop that was supplying the occupation with uniforms.
So in the middle of the night, well past curfew, I broke into the shop, setting the timer on the bomb and leaving it in the back. I was sneaking out of the broken window, and had almost made it around the corner, when I bumped into him.
He was tall, incredibly handsome-- and of course, a fucking Whiteshirt. My eyes shot down to his pistol, and when I glanced from that, to the obviously broken window, I was sure that I was dead. I'd be just one more of those people who disappeared in the middle of the night. I looked at his rank patch; Patrolman. Well, his shirt might've been clean then, but he was guaranteed a promotion for this kill.
"It's awfully late to be out, miss," he said to me. I didn't have anything to say, there wasn't anything that would help. But he continued: "There's a report of a rebel running around. You better get home before you run into trouble."
And then he just walked away! My pounding heart practically skipped a beat; was that I wink I saw? Well, needless to say, I wasted no time getting back, and sure enough, the bomb went off that night. I was shocked; they must have accidentally recruited a good man into the Whiteshirts!
The next time I saw him, it was in a cafe in the middle of the day. I'd just gotten passed a missive, orders to kill some collaborator at a certain time and place; five minutes after my contact left, I was just about to do the same, when four Whiteshirts burst in, holding my contact prisoner. He was terrified, but he didn't look at me not once, even while the commander was shouting for him to identify who he'd been here to see. Among the Whiteshirts was the one who'd saved me, John; a Lieutenant rank now, and when they searched us all, he was the one to check my bag. And once again, he looked the other way! He reported that I had nothing. I continued to be taken aback by this amazing Whiteshirt with a heart.
I'd thought of him all the time, even up to two weeks before the liberation of Corella. There'd been a series of bloody crackdowns; churches set ablaze with whole parishes inside just for being suspect of harbouring the resistance. We had them scared, but too scared. We needed to strike at their heart.
So I was in the front of an armed assault on the City Commander's office. My men blasted their way in, while I made my entrance from the third storey window; I was quick, killing the guards with a stolen grenade. I burst into the office, and there he was. The man who'd saved me before, he'd risen the ranks to City Commander. He had his pistol drawn, and I had mine, and over the radio on his desk, I could hear the shouts of his officers and the sound of gunfire.
"Why... why?" was all I could ask myself. He just stood there, a gentle look in his eyes; how could this be?
"What are you waiting for?" he asked.
"No...," I said, staring at the man who'd saved me, that I had managed to fall for, both in spite of his evil uniform. "I can't do it. You're a good man... you've been my best ally. But... how could you...?"
"I've had my orders, and you have yours. But I'll never be able to explain it to my superiors if we both walk out alive," he said. He put down his gun; accepting his fate. "So do it!"
And so I did.
It wasn't until the next morning that I realized what I'd done. The one I was living with brought me a newspaper, excitedly, pointing out the headline proudly. "You got him, that's amazing! What a blow!"
I just stared at the headline, in horror, as suddenly, it all made sense. It announced what I'd done, how I'd killed the man who'd saved me, who really had loved me: "BRUTAL TERRORIST ATTACK MURDERS CITY COMMANDER TRACY."
Rest in peace, John Tracy. You were a good man-- and a good brother.