Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

What do you know? We don't all have the luxury of deciding when and where we want to care about something. Suddenly the Rebellion is real for you? Now that you've got a stake in it, and - and - now that you don't have another life to go back to? Some of us live this Rebellion. I've been in this fight since I was six years old. You're not the only one who lost everything. Some of us just decided to do something about it.

There is more than one sort of prison, Captain," Chirrut said. "I sense that you carry yours wherever you go.

I’m not used to people sticking around when things go bad,” she said, by way of explanation.

The Force is with me,” he repeated. “And I am with the Force.” Did he believe the words? Did it matter? Had it ever mattered?

He hadn't known her, didn't know her, of course. There wasn't the time.

Was this hope? Facing fear after fear, for oneself and for friends and for the galaxy, all out of some desperate need to accomplish the impossible?

I don’t need luck,” Chirrut said. “I have you.

What chance do we have'? The question is 'what choice'.

Stardust," Jyn said. "It's that one." "How do you know that?" Curiosity and urgency mixed in his voice, as if he wanted to say: Be sure. Jyn was sure. "I know because it's me.

She'd done better than most; it would take the Empire a whole battle station to end her.

Rebellions are built on hope.

The Empire doesn’t care if you surrender. The Empire doesn’t care if you’re hopeless. I’ve given up before, and it doesn’t help. It doesn’t stop.

He saw a figure in white robes near the bridge entrance and turned the tape over in his hand. He approached the woman and said, his tone respectful, "Your Highness. The transmission we received..." The woman looked toward him. He'd seen her face many times before, knew it well. She was young, seemed younger every day, even as her responsibilities grew and grew. He held out his hand. Childlike fingers took the tape. "What is it they've sent us?" he asked. Prince Leia Organa looked at him as if he'd placed another burden on her shoulders - another responsibility to add to a count of thousands - and she was proud to bear it. "Hope," she said. Raymus believed her.

Hope?" She eyed Cassian dubiously. "Is that the best the Rebel Intelligence can do?" Cassian might as well have shrugged. "Rebellions are built on hope," he said

Jyn had been at the Empire’s mercy before. Sometimes she’d even deserved her troubles—she couldn’t blame some petty dictator for ordering her dragged off the street and slammed into holding when she really, truly was planning to blow up his ship and steal his guns. She’d had rifles pointed at her, felt stun prods deliver jolts to her spine, and generally suffered the worst a stormtrooper was authorized to deal out. What

You give way to an enemy this evil with this much power and you condemn the galaxy to an eternity of submission.

She looked like she’d stepped out of her own cremation to take vengeance on the world that had done her wrong.

Jyn shrugged, unable to feign a senator’s diction any longer. “Rebellions are built on hope.” “There

The rebels had already begun to die. But death was not failure.

The Jedi were dead, but their power persisted.

Delay defeat long enough, and a triumph might eventually find its way home.

History will forgive me or excoriate me, as is appropriate. I only wish it would forget me.

We don't all have the luxury of deciding when and where we want to care about something.

He was not the Empire - not every moment of oppression and indignity and torment she had ever suffered. He was an Imperial, a petty, spiteful, scared little man who'd forgotten his own atrocities.

Chirrut shrugged mildly. “The Force did protect me.” “I protected you,” his partner replied.

Orson Krennic, advanced weapons research director and father of the Death Star, died alone on Scarif, screaming in fury at Galen Erso, at Jyn Erso, at Wilhuff Tarkin, and at all the galaxy.

Jyn thought through all the trite, meaningless statements the woman might make. "I won't forget what we did to you," Mothma said. Jyn stared and tried to comprehend the sadness in her voice.

Her faith carried him with her.

At the age of fifteen, during the winter when she’d discovered smashball, romance, and her parents’ profound imperfections, Mon Mothma had decided to devote her life to studying history; decided to turn her back on her family’s political dynasty and to spend her days in a cramped study reading thousand-year-old diaries and letters and cargo manifests until her eyes burned. She would be detective, coroner, and philosopher all at once, examining means and motive and cause of death for entire civilizations. She hadn’t become a historian, of course. By the next summer, Mon’s moment of rebellion had been forgotten. Inertia and family pressures and a genuine love of governance had returned her to the road to politics. She’d gone on to become a senator (far too young, she thought now) and scrabbled for votes and smiled and kept her head above water until she’d learned how to play the game for real.