He pulls back. Cameras catch the edge of the blast.
And then there's light.
Too much.
Something else erupts. Not just the satellite. Debris. Secondary systems. Chain reaction.
His comm cuts.
The screen goes black.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
Nova’s hand covers her mouth. I see her shoulders crumple just a fraction.
And I leave.
The memorial’s a blur. A hollow thing filled with too many uniforms and not enough Swan.
His picture’s up—cheeky grin frozen in time. There’s a folded flight jacket under a glass case. A few of his favorite tracks playing low through the atrium’s speakers.
I stand at the edge. Can’t get close.
Every word they say feels like static.
“...a hero.”
“...gave everything.”
“...bravest we had.”
I don’t feel brave.
I feel like the coward who stayed behind.
Like the ghost of a man who stole someone else’s future.
So I don’t say anything.
I leave before the eulogies end.
I walk.
No destination.
Just the edge of the field, over and over until my boots are covered in dust and my throat’s raw from yelling at nothing.
At one point, I punch the side of a grounded flyer.
Metal gives a sickeningclang.Pain blooms sharp across my knuckles.
I punch again.
Blood smears the panel.
Still doesn’t feel like enough.
