prompts: Mitaka deals with the aftermath of TLJ 😘
(Mitaka!!! Ohhh rfuhr my baby boy you know I HAD to do this one first)
–It’s not that they don’t have regulations for worst case scenarios. It’s not that they don’t train for the inevitable casualties of war. They have evacuation drills, exit routes, actions to be taken when the alarms blare; the details of which are ingrained into his mind like the threads ingrained into his uniform.
It’s just that this is not a worst case scenario.
It’s impossible.
It’s unreal, insane, it’s – it’s oh, it’s awful.
His father told him that once. Explained it to him. That the things the rebels had done had been things they just… couldn’t prepare for. That sometimes things would happen and all you could do was watch.
Dopheld did only that, him, and the other twenty-six bridge officers aboard the Finalizer, shadowed in the black of space beneath the slice of brilliant white streaking across the viewport. Like a meteor, or a star, has shot passed them. A glistening beacon. A knife.
Silence weighted their boots to the tiles as they stared, as they watched the hull of the supremacy shift against itself, rising and lifting, one ship now two.
The other destroyers followed suit.
“Reporting nine hit in the fleet.” Someone said behind them.
The entire crew turned to look at their comms director, her face empty, white.
“Including the Supremacy.” The stardust outside reflected speckles in her eyes. Mitaka felt as if he’d almost never seen her before, despite having been on the Finalizer his entire life.
No one responded at first, before the targeting operator looked around at them, his brown hair falling from his cap. “Standard crew of 74 thousand–”“Troopers.” Mitaka reminded gently. They were always separate on the docket, but they were still… they still–
“That’s 82 thousand.”
“Times eight.” He directed the younger officer. Young. They were all young. All of them.
“Stop it.” Someone behind them said.
“Eighty two thousand times eight is six hundred and fifty six thousand.” Someone else said. They said it into the viewport as blue starlight began to burn a bright red.
“Of the destroyers alone. The supremacy itself–”
“You’re not counting the crew of the Dreadnaught, it’s not even been a whole cycle.”
“Stop it!!” The scream came louder then the sudden blare of an alarm, and everyone turned to watch the officer crumple, parade gloves hiding their face. “Stop it!”“It’s important.” Mitaka replied calmly. Remembering his father. His mother. His memories of collecting posters.
MIA. MIA. MIA. MIA.
The letters hid in his name like a curse. The curse of Imperial children.
Children. That’s what he saw as the targeting operator helped the crying officer stand. As they turned back to watch the ships crack and glitter, like sand in the endless ocean of space. Dust.
Toys. It looked fake. Simulated. The proportions of their eyes taking in the size of each ship in their fleet was unable to understand the true breadth. The true magnitude of their homes.
Homes.
74 enlisted. Category regulations for city titled destroyers decreed that lineage ages 10 and under were still written as enlisted. Children amongst children.
Half a million for a handful of the resistance.
Pointless.
“Captain.”
Mitaka turned, distantly aware that he too, was still in charge of his own 82 thousand relatives.
It was the targeting operator. Who had a name he didn’t remember now. “Procedures say to assume a fraction of evacuees.” “Yes.” He nodded. “Send out a call to all border destroyers for this coordinate to help with retrieval. And make an open call for compensated aid.”“To who, sir?”“Anyone.”
