"To Your Good Fortune in Liberty, Sir"

[Zephyranthes]

Sleep. It was a roll of the dice whether or not sleep would come whenever Norman closed his eyes. If the past would come back to haunt him in any way, or if it would bring up the memories of yesteryear.

Tonight, it was the latter.

That darkness gave way to an orange-tinted nebula looming over him in the distance. A whole wing of Avengers, Defenders, and Upholders dashed through an asteroid field, dodging tiny pebbles and gigantic boulders. In the distance was a great looming hulk of green blocky metal that dwarfed anything nearby. It was a Rheinland battleship, putrid and wretched in its utilitarian and industrial design. O'Brien looked up, down, and in every other direction. He was merely floating along, looking at the scene unfold. Slowly, the sound of radio chatter grew louder and louder, and eventually, he recognized his own voice.

<"This is Lieutenant O'Brien! I've got a bead on the target! Making a break for it, over!">

His voice was filled with that same naive optimism he had managed to cling to, even past the events that had dimmed his vision of the world beforehand. That little lilt, that tiny vocalization of skipping through a field of daisies... It still existed in that young pilot's voice. For a moment, it seemed a permanent fixture for the scene.

<"O'Brien, this is Captain Davenport. Don't be so eager for the Westphalia, you got it? That cockiness might get us all killed.">

Captain Michael Davenport's old, grizzled voice broke that youthful idealism into a thousand pieces as the approaching fighters seemed to teleport straight into battle. Upholders formed up for bombing runs, firing their payloads straight down the gullet of the battleship. Some antimatter cannons and torpedoes hit their marks, others missed considerably. One by one, the fighter complement and anti-air defenses picked off the Libertonian bombers one by one, and for each explosion, there came an unholy scream, a plea for mercy, or a faint whimper.

<"I don't wanna die! Captain, save m-">
<"They're on me, I can't sh-!">
<"O'Brien! I've got one on me! H-">

Static punctuated their end just as poignantly as the violent eruptions of energy that rended the hulls of each Upholder. Gradually, however, their efforts disabled the shields of the Westphalia. In a sudden ripple of blue, the shields ceased to exist, and the various fighter craft dove straight for the hangar, ignoring all other targets. One by one, pilots emerged from the cockpits of the Libertonian fighters, wearing full combat armor and wielding assault weapons in their hands. And as O'Brien flew in with them, the scene changed yet again.

"We are not leaving! That's a direct goddamn order, and I don't care if I have to shoot you myself! I will personally court martial your ass and pull the trigger on the firing line if you show cowardice here!," screeched the unbearable voice Major George Starek. Once again, Norman was somewhere else, this time cradling the near-lifeless body of Ensign Helen Mendoza, her status only given the benefit of the doubt by some movement of her chest in between spurts of blood shooting out from her neck. Starek leveled a gun at O'Brien, and then at Mendoza. With a look only once found on the Teutonic berserkers of the bogs of Ancient Terra, he unloaded several volleys of energy into the dying woman, completely annihalating what little was left of her torso.

"No!," Norman yelled, pulling out his own sidearm and firing on the Major in a split-second. The reaction was almost natural, and it was only a few moments before O'Brien realized he had killed his superior officer. Only one other individual was alive to see it. Another Ensign, Cheryl Bronson. And as he looked at her, with a hole the size of the tip of his thumb in her abdomen, the scene changed once again.

"We're gonna make it out, okay? Keep talking to me. We'll be the two who made it out, just stay with me..."

"Norman, I..."

Run. The only word that raced through Norman's mind as he fired behind him at shouting in German. Lasers flew past his head as he carried Cheryl over his shoulder, refusing to look back. He was almost to the sole surviving Avenger in the hangar. All he would need to do was climb aboard and speed away before she bled out. The shouting over the PA systems of the ship advised of another Liberty battlegroup entering the combat zone. If he could just reach them in time...

"Come on, just hold on a little. Help is here, we can make it. Please, please... Live," he pleaded. And once again, he was teleported into another scene. The hangar of a Liberty Dreadnought. This time, there was no sound. No noise or anything. Just silent sobbing as O'Brien cradled the body of Ensign Cheryl Bronson below the nose of the scarred Avenger.

He received a promotion for that day. The day he became the sole survivor of the 12th Tactical Rapid Boarding Squadron.

---

He woke up in the middle of the night. Again. This time, it wasn't a bed. It was that one couch on Honshu, in that fortified compound the Battlegroup's leadership loved to make their personal retreat. Hastily, William rose from the plush seating and ascended the staircase leading to the outside balcony. It was another rainy night, and the stars could still be seen in the patches free from cloud cover. Space was cruel. And that day in Bremen was just a reminder. William leaned on the railing and closed his eyes. He was thankful no one could see him weep.