This was headache inducing.

The room was small and only just sufficiently lit by warm lights. This was to say nothing about the utterly dodgy state of the computer terminal in front of the Section 8 liaison assigned to this case. More of an informal investigation or curiosity than anything else.

Documents, tapes, old drives, and even holo-projections had been called up for production so that it could be properly reviewed, assessed, and then duly catalogued into the increasingly tempting pile of irrelevant material. All of which would no doubt return to cold storage and never again see the light of day, not that there was any.

What had prompted this apparent curiosity from up high was an incident that felt equal parts anecdotal and easily explained. A wing of Alliance ships had been launched to raid the nearby system of Inverness, and subsequently encountered what the pilots referred to as a "collection of Nomads" in their way. This was by no means novel or monumental in its own right, even the most unassuming of Freelancers might survive encounters with stray Nomad interceptors on the far frontiers of Sirius. Some might even defeat these creatures and gloat about the accomplishment for generations. In total ignorance of the fact that there are far worse things to be found where man is unwelcome.

Eventually, the box of blackbox tapes in question are brought to the desk and lowered with a thump. This in turn causes the monitor to report that it had "lost signal" before defaulting to a black screen. A frustrating occurrence, because now a game has to be played with a cumbersome cable, pressing and twisting until it brings the wallpaper of a white star back.

"Can't you just put these things on the floo-"

The nonchalant but sharply dressed PA pointed rigidly to the floor, now overrun by brown boxes that smelled distinctly of naphthalene.

There was no argument to be had - just agony for later. Still, these drives needed to be reviewed at any cost. And so tired hands once again went through the chore of loading them into the terminal's rectangular port. This prompted a series of clicks, scratches, and whirs to overtake the noise of nearby ventilation outlets for a handful of moments. These drives have to be loaded in this manner one after the other, and there's easily more than a dozen in this suspiciously damp box.

Eventually, and with more than a little disgust, everything has been copied over and unpacked for review in what appears to be an open source video player. The starting few seconds of all feeds are choppy, indicative of the turbulence that comes with the use of jumpholes. All the snubcraft these tapes were pulled from are then transitioned into a dim blue nebula, bordering on purple, and utterly unremarkable. They take a moment to organize, enter formation, and start moving out.

Almost as soon as the "smoke" clears, the wing of snubcraft are confronted by what would easily be seen as abject horror. A line of large Nomad warforms all primed to fight and neatly ordered to to consume or subsume anything in their wake. Panic is in fact the natural response from almost all the pilots involved. Cleverly suppressed by not openly broadcasting over the secure comms-line between ships. Some curse repeatedly, some pray, and others begin to breathe more rapidly and shiver.

A further element of chaos manifests with many of the pilots beginning to fall prey to psychic assaults, hearing voices that never spoke a word, or seeing things that do not actually possess a form. The comms-line is rife with chatter now between pilots, and the occasional interjection of static.

-
"That is a lot of them, what the hell!"
[static]
"Huh? What'd you say?"
"I didn't say anything!"
[static]
"Who is that?!"
[static]
"Shut up! Don't say that!"
[static]
"I said stop!"
-

This repeats down the line, colored in a variety of different ways, with each pilot having their own adverse reactions to an unseen influence that pervades their senses and tests for weakness. It seems as if the wing might lose cohesion and retreat under such circumstances. And from a cursory review of the reports of Ramsey's specialized infirmary, the most common side effect of exposure to forms of such a magnitude range from catatonic to raving madness, episodes that last days, weeks, or even months. Cocktails of drugs, constant observation, and sometimes reassurance solve a minority of these cases. But a majority are either written off as dead in the interim from further complications, or put down.

Static soon overtakes the line in ordered bursts, as if the unseen is having its own conversation, or perhaps initiating the final crescendo of an orchestra designed to break resolve.

And then it parts.

-
"Clear comms!"
-

A voice that oozes authority barks. Rewinding the tape multiple times, from multiple perspectives has the same result, the interference ceases from all perspectives at this exact moment.

-
"Come with me and kill these beasts!"
-

Static briefly threatens to creep back in soon after these orders are relayed, but as the formation tightens around the lead craft, it gradually dissipates into clarity. This is once again something that can be universally verified, even from the point of view of a straggler that's nudged back in line. More curiously, the flight leaders voice is never once hampered by any interference. Instead, the pilots steel themselves and nurse well developed hatred into action.

Even more curious is the absolute lack of reports about pilots of this wing by Ramsey's previously mentioned infirmary. None of them were found to be suffering from adverse effects, given clean chits and simply put back into active service. The reports had clearly downplayed the magnitude of the threat these pilots faced, and yet they were unscathed. Not only this, but as the feed continues on, they appear to be winning?

Trained pilots, seasoned veterans, and even heroes of the first Nomad war had been lost facing down forms of this scale. The human mind is only capable of so much.

But these were not trained pilots, at least not in the sense required, they lacked the experience, and were woefully ignorant of the true extent of danger the Nomads posed to unprepared human minds. But they still prevailed.

How?

Frustratingly, this requires a complete repeat of all the tapes. Every perspective, every second, every word spoken, and every scratch of white noise. But there is only one common denominator. A connection made as the PA's polished shoes click and clack their way back into the room to deposit one final tape in the reviewer's hands.

The flight leader's..

Spirituality and Ramsey did not go together. In fact they were perhaps the last things you would put together, let alone in the same sentence.

But desperate times made for strange habits. And the lives of the young were oftentimes spent in search of something. Meaning, kinship, companionship, or comfort. Sometimes all these things are sought out but never found. It was unlikely that any of the young women that were at work in this disused corridor would be alive by the end of today's assault on the California gate. So it was in these moments that they allowed themselves to be more like their actual selves than they otherwise might be.

Conditioning made way for insecurity and anxiety. And while a plague there was a form of respite available. What better to look up to in times of uncertainty than exemplars who came before you? Though Ramsey's storied military culture was not rife with heroines that had associated legend. But there was one icon of exactly such a caliber.

She was an oddity, even among something as seemingly undisciplined as the Alliance. She defied their traditions, culture, and instead challenged the status quo on the sole factor of her own value. And she proved it. In her time, short as it might have been, she was quickly recognized as one of the best pilots that had ever been recorded in Liberty's colonial history. Few people knew her by her real name, fewer still could remember what she looked like. But people like these? They remember what she represented.

And so it was that this dead end access-way that had been forgotten to time and relentless expansion was turned into a humble shrine. Keepsakes and dim warm lights dotted the walls and floor in stained tapestries of glass that resembled webbing. And a holo-sculpture of a grandly posed and determined woman was recessed into the sealed bulkhead at the far end. Almost like a church.

In the days that went by they came here often. Whenever they had time, making small offerings of what they could manage to tie a semblance of sentiment to. Though they would wistfully note their depleting numbers with each passing day.

But it was on the eve of the assault itself that an uninvited guest stumbled his way there in the hopes of finding a less packed and more convenient route to the hangars on the far-side.

Cobra.

Commander of the Alliance, and known to be the Widow's confidant and rumored romantic partner. Although this was many years ago, a tension gripped the room, the expectation was that he might take offense to the things on display here. That one of his own, someone he might have loved, was portrayed in such a manner.

But he was quiet until spoken to, and even then polite and well meaning on the face of it. Asking for names and trying to make light of what was to come. They knew he was just keeping up a strong front for the sake of morale and appreciated it all the same.

What truly shocked them was his request to pay respects to their shrine here. Specifically to light one of the few real candles they had managed to procure from the quartermaster, or rather stolen given their novel nature and lack of real practical use. Nobody would notice until weeks later and by then there would be no need to really investigate such an oddity.

Still, surprise gave way to warm hospitality as they accepted the Commander's request. Permitting him to be the first "visitor" that was allowed to pay respects outside of their own personal circle. And they watched eagerly as he approached to do just that, undivided attention paid towards how he lit the candle and looked up at the face on display. They were sure then that the rumors were true. That they really were halves of a whole.

And while his respect and receptiveness had been encouraging. His words felt burdened by a lack of closure and regret.

"Do you still believe I can do it? Would you even still believe in me now?"

There was no further talking between the group and the Commander, just an exchange of respectful nods as he left soon after. And while it might have otherwise been alarming to know a leader of one of the largest movements in the cause had his own doubts, something about this felt.. comforting? If she believed in him, then perhaps they could, and perhaps tomorrow would spare some of them to carry on this legacy.

Someone would remember.

For a moment he was nervous. He'd let "Captain" Belle talk him into another one of these speeches. At least the audience out there couldn't currently see Damien pacing back and forth backstage, unsure if he had found the right words to say or would even be able to say them. He was acutely aware of what was at stake, of why he was doing all of this. A small part of him just wanted to cancel this appearance and get on with more important things, but his better judgement knew that would be a terrible idea. And so he went out there, letting his well rehearsed mannerisms carry him up to that podium and hide the fact he had been internally debating himself for a solid 30 minutes and had no actual script on hand.

His posturing at least means that he doesn't have to ask for people that had been waiting there for an hour there to be quiet, the sight of him brings them into perfect silence, somewhat placated by the fact that decently brewed coffee had been served just moments prior. His voice - which comes after a few moments of assessing the room is calm, clear, and reaches every pair of ears in this large hall.

"I’m not here to give you a victory speech. We’ve had enough of those over the years. This is different."

At this juncture it seemed like the audience was very much paying attention but were uncertain what they were in for. Was this going to be some long winded lecture about how a strong economy would keep tyranny at bay? Was he going to wax poetically about the struggle? Some of his critics were no doubt looking for any excuse to remove him from the running and prevent a possibly imminent reelection. After all, the casualties of the battle for Ontario had been horrific.

"We held Ontario. Let that sink in. We didn't simply bring down a trade-lane, bomb some cobbled together outpost, seize an undermanned garrison, or just scrape by. We held. We planted our flag, and it stayed there. This system is ours now. Not on loan. Not in dispute. Ours."

There was tension in the air now. He was hitting the right points, keeping their attention and never letting himself speak too much at once that would risk the perception of rambling.

"I know what it cost. So do you. You’ve seen the lists. Some of you wrote them. Some of you buried the names on them. Hundreds gone. People we trained with, fought beside. Friends. Family. And despite that, I can stand here and say this: If that price bought us a place to build something better—if it means our children don’t have to fight the same war—then it was worth it. No doubt. No hesitation. Our people knew this and went willingly. They went gladly."

There were some quiet murmurs. It didn't sound like derisive chatter, his eyes could pick out an individual who had broken down at this specific mention, they were being comforted by those standing shoulder to shoulder alongside them. His senses compelled him to act on this.

"But I look around this room, and I see more than pilots and marines. I see the people who are going to shape what comes next. The future teachers, engineers, doctors, governors, presidents—the source of generations of heroes that haven't even been born yet. Maybe you’ll raise them. Maybe they’ll sit where you are now one day, and ask what it took to give them this chance. And you’ll have an answer they can be proud of."

Their rapt, undivided, and total attention was his now. That was dangerous. So many eyes and ears to disappoint with the wrong word. And never any real certainty of what the right words were. Hesitation would be perceived as weakness, and he allowed himself none, instead his voice and energy escalated ever so slightly as his nerves served as fuel.

"You can tell them that you were there when we sent the Lehigh howling back to California with fire trailing off its ass. That you were there when those torpedoes struck the Robert Peary and sent it to hell. And that you were the reason Congress looked at Ontario and realized that they couldn't stop us!"

There was a small-scale ignition of applause and some cheering from sections of the audience, the sort of thing that was infectious if he kept going and could do better with his delivery and the words used, even more so if he was to let himself become personally invested.

"I spent my entire life wondering about the point of it all and my purpose, but now I know. You've shown me. You've shown yourselves. And we are never, ever, going back again. No matter how hard the days ahead might be, no matter how much more fighting there is, that white star is only on the wall because you put it there in outright defiance of all those people who laughed and told you that it wasn't possible. Let them say it now. Let them say it to us centuries from now when we've eclipsed them and outlived their petty empires. Let us now strike out and bring our people home."

He'd painted his last stroke right before the roar that gripped the room rendered even the speakers and connected amplifier useless.

Outer Hab, Cycle 0334, District 10 Canteen

It started with a thud and a tray of soy-cutlet protein slapping the floor like a dropped side of meat.
Aslan Herera—volunteer pilot, and member of the Xeno Alliance—lay sprawled beside the foot-length orange stripe marking the queue lane. By the time he stood up, whoever shoved him had already vanished into the midday surge of uniforms and flight suits.

Nobody said a word. Fort Ramsey had become like that—crowded, humming with purpose, and tight on manners. Too many new faces, too many stripes sewn by politics instead of strict hierarchy.

—

Office 9, Subdeck B-4 — Two Hours Later

“Replay it again.”

The barked command came from Sergeant Jhevari Zhen, her towering profile framed by dull, plasma-scored bulkhead lighting. She and Rifleman Trask watched the canteen’s static-cam feed for the fourth time.

“There. Frame 3417. That blur.”

Trask squinted. “You can’t ID a blur, Sarge.”

Zhen grunted. “Then we talk to the meat who can. Scrawny one that's behind him in the queue - I know him.”

—

"Interview" One: Ensign Darnel Hoss, Age 22

They found him in the rec room, bent over a terminal.

“You were three spots behind Herera,” Zhen barked, tossing him against a metal locker hard enough to dislodge a hanging jumpsuit.

“I—I didn’t see!” Hoss stammered. “Just noise and people.”

Trask pressed a stun baton lightly against the inside of his thigh and the boy screamed.

“Try again, Ensign.”

“Okay! Okay! I don't know his name but I see him around Lu all the time! The supervisor in the XAF workshops!”

That narrowed it to maybe twenty. Still, a crack.

—

"Interview" Two: Technician Lu Mardens, XAF Workshop Supervisor

She was less cooperative.

“I mind my business,” she said, sucking on a chem-stick, eyes defiant. “If Herera got bumped, maybe he needed to toughen up.”

Zhen shoved her against a wall and whispered low in her ear.

“Looking to practice instead of just preach, Lu?”

Trask tapped in an override that the Commander had been generous enough to provide, and her comm slate lit up—her recent request for leave had been cancelled pending “cooperation.”

“Really?!” she spat. “Guy with half-tat on his neck. Called himself ‘Dex’. Been bragging last week about being ‘done with waiting’.”

—

Deck 1 Barracks, Compartment 111-A

Dex Torlan. Logistics support. Half-tat of a synthetic dragon trailing from his ear to his collar. Didn’t even try to lie when they found him.

“That bug-humper was holding up the line,” he sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Ain’t like he died.”

Zhen stared at him in silence for three long beats.

“You shoved a member of the Alliance,” she said finally. “That’s a message.”

Dex spat. “Yeah. Message was move your ass.”

Zhen looked at Trask. Trask nodded once.

No more words.

They dragged him to Corridor C-7. No cams. No foot traffic. Just the smell of rust.

Zhen broke his nose first. Trask followed with a punch to the gut that lifted Dex off the floor. The man screamed for help.

Nobody came.

Zhen spoke as she kneed his ribs.

“They're the ones who watch your backs when the spooks and hunters show. They save your skin so we can seal your bulkheads when the seals finally rupture. Herera’s one of them, and that still means something on this rock.”

When it was done, Dex Torlan had two cracked ribs, a fractured wrist, and a cautionary note duct-taped to his chest:
“RESPECT THE LINE.”