One more in here among millions out there.

[mm33dd]

Some squadrons were still returning from the mission. Although the battle had ended more than five hours ago, most of those who had made it maintained a sort of festive spirit, chatting, drinking, and smoking. Some worried faces seemed to somehow indicate they were awaiting the return of a particular pilot, someone who had perhaps departed in the first waves but of whom there was still no news. However, sadness or sobbing were unusual in that place; everyone knew that; most accepted reality as it presented itself: harsh.
Thomas just stared at the reinforced glass in front of the bar, whose view overlooked an ice asteroid, slightly modified to support two defensive plasma cannons that would defend the station if needed. Exactly 10 seconds had passed since he sat down, lit a cigarette, and placed his glass on the table, his gaze fixed on that view, toward the nothingness that existed immediately on the other side of the glass. It was not possible to infer his emotional state from his face… his eyes vanished beyond the asteroid, far beyond.

“Red-1 this is Fang leader, we’re going in, guns out and ready. Over”
“Solid copy boys, give’em hell, we will be close. Over”
“Target is 10K away and closer, torpedoes ready.”
[Unintelligible screams] “Watch out! We got company!” *loud static*

The cigar between his fingers slowly burned away, leaving behind the firm gray waste of ash. He no longer blinked anymore. Every detail of his Rebel's cockpit was with him, the controls, the snake sticker he'd stuck next to the fire controls, the lights blinking on and off, the high-pitched sound of the proximity alarm, the constant noise of engines burning at maximum capacity.

"Torpedoes away! Pulling back!. Over."
"Fang-2 to Fang Actual we are taking hits!. Over."
*static* “I HAVE ONE ON MY SIX, GOING EVASIVE”
"OH NOO!" [Unintelligible screams] "ENGINES!! ACTUAL GOING DOWN!" *loud static*
“Atention Fang-3 you’re on the lead now, be advised *static* you are being chased. Red-1 is on the move to your location. Over.”
“I got you Fang-3…Hold it boy!”

The deafening sound of the radio seemed to have come to life once more, the slow-motion detail of the Aggressor's right wing ahead exploding into a thousand pieces as the engine engulfed in flames now taking over any cognitive function in his mind.

[Unintelligible screams] “I NEED HELP WHERE ARE YOU” *static*
“Red-1, Red-1 pull back to the Rose, Fang team has been wiped out, you're about to be cut off”
“Come on, come on! not yet!”
“Hang the fuck up Fang, you’re not done yet!”
*loud static* HULL BREACH! HULL BREACH AAAAH *loud static*

The missile's trajectory was perfect... Now he could see it in detail. It impacted just behind the cockpit; there was a small explosion thanks to the fact that the remaining ammunition did not explode; his ship suddenly jolted as it passed immediately through the missile blast and through the pieces of the Agressor; his Rebel's windshield turned red. In that instant, his brain couldn't process what was happening, and his survival instinct overrode any attempt to rationalize what he had just seen; all he could focus on was living.

“Red-1, Red-1, this is Phantom Leader, you need to get out of there, we have visuals on you. Rose is 15K away to your left, make a hard turn, thrusters full, we got you.” *static*

The metal of his ship seemed to split unrealistically, the plasma cannons of the three interceptors behind him fired tirelessly, and the hellish jolt of his right-wing missiles exploding sent him into a kind of panic and adrenaline rush, gripping the control stick with both hands exaggeratedly tight and pressing the thruster pedal with a force that would crush a skull. A few seconds later, everything seemed unreal; the universe seemed like a peaceful and comfortable place to rest eternally, no fear no nothing. His thrusters were melted, and a good chunk of the right wing had been left behind a few kilometers, floating in that spectacle of lights and explosions that seemed to be leaving behind.
The mix of shouts, screaming and orders emanating from his helmet were still there, but for him it seemed to have ceased.

"Was I lucky? Fate? Wrong timing?" --He thought.

The sharp burn in his now slightly burned fingers brought him back. He hadn't even taken a single drag on his cigarette, a long ash of what was once his cigarette hanging unbroken from the filter.

-Attention all personnel. Pilots, please report to Hangar 2B for flight instructions.

He didn't even hesitate for a second; he left his glass on the table and, along with the others, headed toward the hangar. Without fear, without happiness, without worry, without anger. He finally understood how insignificant he was, how fragile he was, and ultimately, he understood his destiny and his duty: by the time death reached him, it would be too late to claim his soul.

---

I'm the worst snub pilot ever.