Station morning, grim and gray, was little more than a change of shifts. After two years of alert, one had forgotten what it was like to walks the halls without the wash of crimson warning lights. For Lieutenant Farrell Khzhtll, the short stretch of corridor between barracks and the morning briefing was familiar territory. The lanky coyote's pace was easy, though he did pause to run a paw through his tawny ruff once or twice, to shake out the last vestiges of sleep and the dull ache that still haunted him. Two days ago, a fire in the cockpit had the station's corpman yank him off the flightline.

With a small smile Farrell leaned into the wardroom door, pushing it open. The corpman should have known, you can't keep a Steel Eagle down. Even the new pup, Mika, had learned that first off. Despayre Filght Ought-Ought-One, Captain Kathreen's Steel Eagles were Despayre Station's starfighter talons and more. Friends, home, and pack. You lost track of the sorties long ago, save that the war had done more than just temper the small squadron, for ties forged in blood turned out to be stronger than even ties of family.

Clatter-clat, and Farrell set his flight helmet upon the table, his chair scraping the worn deckplates as he sat down. Folding his arms atop his helmet he rested his muzzle upon them.

He blinked, lettng out a small chuff of breath, glancing to the chronometer on the wall.

Usually he wasn't ever the first one in for the Steel Eagle's morning briefings.

... the Tornadoes were slow, and they might be oldest starfighters in the Cygnus Sector Authority's strike force, called obsolete. In fact, they weren't supposed to even be on the combat line any more. But they were tough, carrying more armor than their more modern counterparts, and they packed a punch that even a capship had to beware. And for two years they had served Despayre Station, after the swifter Lightnings and craftier Nebulas were all lost, when the Blacksilver crashed, the Darktower vanished and the Excaliber torn to shreds. Still there were those who believed in the sturdy little starfighters, and Lieutenant Dominik Tashkti was one of them. Steel Eagle number two, Mustang Tashki could barely even fit his large frame into the cramped cockpit. The control panel's telltales reflected off his mirrored visor, the scroll of data flowing in reverse lettering across its curved surface. Flying point as usual and the wardroom joke was that if there was trouble out there to be found, Mustang one would find it.

"...Mustang to Banshee, I don't have any good thoughts about this one. This is the third try we've made, they have to know we are coming in..."

"...cut the chatter Mustang, just find them before they find us..."

Banshee Kathreen nicAllison's voice was cold as ice, like the frost of her namesake's breath.

"...roger that Banshee, only thing out here is us and chunks of ice ... ever have the feeling someone."

Amidst the broken blocks of ice and stone of the system's dusting of asteroids, there was a sudden glittering of crimson and orange. A flash, betraying a brutal expansion of gas and vaporized hullmetal. It would have been pretty, like a firework celebration, if it wasn't the final truth of trouble finding Mustang Tashki...

The coyote swallowed, his breath caught, as he rubbed the length of his muzzle with one paw. As if he had been cuffed. On the markerboard, Lieutenant Dominik Tashki's name had been struck through by a single red magic marker line.

"Dommi?"

He took a second breath, harsh, letting it out in a single whisper.

"Keegan?"

"...Banshee where did they all come from..."

Lieutenant Keegan Mallory sent his little fighter into a rolling spin, weaving his way through the maze of energy bolts and swarms of missiles, sparks trailing from his drive cowlings, which sent broken vibrations racking through the structure of the battered Tornado. His visor was shattered, the first wave of the enemy's attack having slammed both him and his ship like crystal beneath a sledgehammer. He had pushed the remnants of the visor back, and was trying to ignore the blood matting his muzzle.

"...Banshee, three count them three on your six..."

He curved his slower starfighter out, its drives screaming as warning lights flashed red, watching th holographic display paint transluscent targeting data on his splattered cockpit glazing. Three count them three on his captain's tail and even she couldn't shake all of them. The lockon alarm screeched, and he lossed his own deadly missiles, seeking the closest of his Captain's pursuers. Intent, focused, his own systems redlining, Keegan didn't even pause a heartbeat, diving close, his own plaser cannons tearing holes through the second enemy starfighter...

"...Keegan...."

Intent, focused, sharp and deadly he struck.

"...break..."

No one took out his commander from behind.

He never saw the black starfighter that slipped in behind him. Never. Nothing, save for a flash of white. Keegan didn't even have time to scream.

"...right..."

The Banshee's warning faded, empty, as the broken bits of Steel Eagle Three rained across her own little craft like a winter's hail.

"... No ... "

Farrell can't believe.

Cold as hell, eyes of ice, Captain Kathreen nicAllison had forgotten everything. Mission, duty, honor, objectives, all lost save the hurt and pain of each dead starfighter, like pieces of her own soul. Her head rested against the canopy, her flight helmet tossed upon the flashing controls, no longer of any use as she slowly tumbled. Drives gone , internal systems destroyed, communications out, hardpoints empty, a little toy so broken even her pursuers had abandoned her to the vacuum's merciless equations.

One by one, the lights upon her console flared red and then sparked to a dead, dead black, another system failing.

Alone in the dark, each breath shallow, she slowly closed her violet eyes. Pretty they were, or at least that is what some folks had said. Those who had dared look past her grim valkyrie's armor. But those eyes, they would never see Vahalla, no. Vahalla was reserved for those who died in battle, not one tossed aside as flotsam, drifting through space until the there was no longer a breath to be had. And Vahalla would never open its doors to a warrior who had broken a promise, her word to Dominik Tashki, to Keegan Mallory, to Mika Ricksson.

For the first time in her life Banshee Kathreen nicAllison cried.

They had trusted her to get them home.

One name after another after another.

Struck out in red.

"... Banshee this is Fang ... "

"... Mustang come back ... Mustang ... Banshee ... Pike ..."

"... anyone, please come back ... this is Fang ..."

Lieutenant Mika Ricksson tried to slalom through the blocks of ice and scattered asteroids.

"... oh gods I'm alone out here ..."

A moment later, he wasn't.

And a heartbeat after, it didn't matter anymore.

It was at the end of the third watch when they found Farrell, still sitting in the empty wardroom.

His only company ghosts.