After Action

[Q. Samus Dage]

He took the flimsi with a cautious look in his eyes, watching Cirr with a level, half-lidded gaze. This was a dark line of dialogue, though one that he supposed was supposed to happen at some point. He'd had his words with s'Il, and the two had come to an understanding, but she had been the only one. He'd not even talked to T'yeellaa about what'd happened over Ossus, and about the each and every friend he had lost.

With a grimace the blonde leaned back, laying the flimsi down on one leg. He didn't ignore it completely, but his attentions weren't exactly focused on it either. Rather, he looked back up to Cirr.

"We all deal with it in different ways," he finally acknowledged.

[Cirrsseeto Quez]

"So maybe thjis jis about my own copjing?" He hazarded, then looked to his feet. "Maybe jit jis."

Ever since he'd taken command, Cirrsseeto had carried the burden with as much honesty and humility as he could. And as strong as he could be, sometimes the cracks couldn't be covered up. He was a man between worlds. Between his people, and the people of the galaxy beyond. And as far as he spread himself, there were so few people that Cirrsseeto could go to for his own healing. Lyanie was his sanctuary. He didn't have to be brave or strong in those moments with her. But beyond Lyanie, who else knew the story? Sanis might, but the divide between them was growing by the day. His mother? She loved and doted on him plenty, but could she understand this life he'd lived for so long? There were things he'd lived and done that he could never tell her.

This was the choice he had made. The life that he lived. And it was a hard one. But as hard as it was, he wouldn't delude himself into thinking his troubles were the worst at hand. Those families, and the ones that had gone before them, they had to endure their own grief, each so much more than his own. Cirrsseeto was strong, but they had to be stronger.

"jI can't wash away my hand jin jit. jI don't carre about the excuses. My hand was on the button, and jit was my watch. They need to know. They need to know jI'm sorry."

[Q. Samus Dage]

Samus only gave a nod. He could understand the weight of what Cirr's words held. He'd had to shoulder that weight himself, though perhaps his own method of dealing with the losses were unique to him. He had been in these situations so many times before, and while the passage of time did not make them any easier to weather, that experience made them a bit easier to understand.

"I've been fighting in the war for a long time," Dage finally conceded in a low tone, "... it doesn't get easier the more time passes."

It was his own way of trying to help smooth over the rocky bits.

"Me an' my best friend Marlon joined up with Dan when we were about 17. He and s'Il had been at things for a decent amount of time, and we fell into the routine easily. We went from planet to planet on whatever half-assed freighter we could find that had a semblance of flight capability."

He made a disgusted face.

"Lost a lot of good men, watched a lot of friends die in those days."

His features darkened then, and Dage lifted a hand to wipe across his brow, scratching at an itch in the process.

"And through it all, Me an' Marlon never thought we'd live to see the day one of us was buried by the other. It was just one of those things, I guess. We managed to scrape by through every assault, every insurgent campaign. And managed to toast a drink after every one. We just kinda existed like that," there was a sort of lazy speech that seemed to become more pronounced as he went on, as if the Myomarian country was being let loose.

"Ain't like we thought we were gonna live forever, mind you. We knew at some point we was gonna meet the maker, we just din't know when. An' the longer things went, the more we began t'think it wouldn't ever come."

The blonde frowned down at the flimsi in his lap.

"Never thought we'd say g'bye over Dan."

[Cirrsseeto Quez]

Cirr listened wholeheartedly to Dage's tale. The name Marlon piqued his ears. He'd known the Dauntless's XO well enough from his time in TF42. All the command staff were at least professionally close, but he certainly hadn't known him the way Dage did. He hadn't come up in the Rebellion with him. And that mattered. It mattered who you spent time with at your most vulnerable. The ground guys called it foxhole buddies. Up above in the stars, Cirr didn't know a name for it, but everyone that served on a ship recognized it.

"Marrlon Korrrji?"

Cirr nodded along, already knowing the answer.

"He was a good man. One of many."

And there it was. So many good men. Good women. Not just the innocents on the Levantine, but in the task force as a whole.

"jI can not...wjill not...beljieve he orr anyone else up therre went to that fjight on thejirr own choosjing. And that's the damnable thjing, jisn't jit? Who speaks on thejirr behalf?"

[Q. Samus Dage]

"Those of us who're left to speak."

It might've been a weak answer, but it was the best that he had right now.

Dage let his eyes travel from the flimsi to the table, and he grimaced.

"I had t'bring Marlon's ashes to 'is sister, back on Myomar. Both our parents were long gone; died ages back. But least she was still about."

His eyes closed.

"Ain't ever seen a woman weep like that."

[Cirrsseeto Quez]

How many tears had he born witness to? All of the dead he'd buried after his watch. The brave souls of the Wheel, handfuls lost in a terrifying Imperial skirmish. The dozens he'd carried medals for posthumously after the Ssi-Ruuk. The thousands of colonists, condemned to death because of something as goddess-profaned as The Greater Good.

People talked of scars when they talked of deep pain. A kind of personification of something even more intimate than their own tearing flesh. The idea went that as you experienced that hurt, your soul built up enough callous, and lost enough nerve endings to dull the ache. The only thing Cirrsseeto knew was that you endured your first taste of loss without a reference level. That first pain you felt...you've never felt a thing like it before. But you certainly felt it again. Again, and again, and again.

Water built in the Captain's eyes, and he furiously blinked it away, finding a point of bulkhead beyond Dage's shoulder to fix his gaze upon. He squared his jaw, pressing his lips thin in a line as he endured. Because that thing about scars, callouses, and nerves was a lie. He felt everything. Every time he gave his condolences, a medal, and a letter. He clung to the idea of sacrifice, duty, and nobility like a life raft, but the truth in the cold and dark was that he lived these moments like a day in Traanjirra's underworld. Chained to a tree, cut to a thousand pieces, and feeling everything until he was put back together once more to take it all over again.

Cirrsseeto would put himself back together again, but the agony robbed him of his voice at the moment. When it came back to him, his words cracked in his throat.

"Thank you...forr yourr...underrstandjing, Commanderr."

[Q. Samus Dage]

There wasn't anything that he could think of to say, other than the normal condolences. Because, even captains held hurt in their souls for every letter and comm they had to send out. Every family that they had to deliver heartbreaking news to chipped away just a little bit more of a man's psyche, and ground him into something less than what he once was. It was the worst part of command that Samus Dage had ever had to experience, and a large part of why he stepped away from it. He knew how to be an executive officer. He was good at it. His talents were best utilized in that capacity. But command?

Command had left such a sour taste in his mouth that he had given it up.

But, Captain Quez had not, and Samus had to admire the man's tenacity and desire to push onward.

Finally, he looked back up to meet Cirr's blue eyes.

"A guy has to be tough to send out all those letters. That you're still here as the commander of your ship despite all that," he pursed his lips, then went on.

"You're a strong man."

[Cirrsseeto Quez]

Cirrsseeto lied again. Not with words, but by actions. Like soldiers of old who wore red to hide the blood they might shed, he pivoted on a heel, pretending to find a point of starlight in the window worth his attention. The tear he'd suppressed before grew in resurgence. With his permission, it dropped to his cheek, quickly daubed by Cirrsseeto's thumb - unseen. No shining streak on his face to betray him. No admission of vulnerability. Even in this confessional of peers, Captain Quez resisted to the last.

"jI am tjirred...of bejing strrong."

The admission came in a raspy exhale, like a strained breath surrendered because of a heavy weight upon one's chest. Cirrsseeto's shoulders lost their posture, the only outward indication he would allow. Swollen eyes stared hard at the unknown star as the Captain braced a hand on the window.

"jI sjit jin my chajirr. Do what's asked. jI djid jit beforre, because we werre desperrate. You werre a rrebel, jI don't have to rremjind you."

Cirrsseeto gulped down his heart, closing his hand against the window into a fist.

"And jI'm stjill herre, because jI know that we'rre not done. A lot of people betterr than me took one look at the jink drry on that trreaty and they walked. jI djidn't. jI stayed on the ljine, because jI beljieved - jI stjill beljieve - the perrfect can't be the enemy of the good. The Alljiance jisn't perrfect, but too many people djied forr that prromjise forr me to walk away."

There was something that Dage hadn't said. Something Cirrsseeto wanted to know.

"You could have had anotherr command. You werre awarrded wjith djistjinctjion forr yourr serrvjice at Ossus."

Only now did he dare look his peer in the eyes.

"Why djidn't you?"