Cloaked in the shadow of a gas giant, the Resurgent hung in space like a ghost, silent as the grave. Its cavernous hangar bays and kilometres of corridor rang hollow and empty, each and every footstep inside those metal halls echoing into nothingness. She had left the shipyard some fifty years hence as the Castillon, another mighty weapon for the Gallic war machine -- but now, half a century later, she cut a dim shadow of her former self. Her hull was pockmarked and scarred from decades of war, her weaponry was hopelessly out of date, and the fervour of her crew was long spent. To be the last Valor flying the Crown's colours was a dubious honour indeed, and the vessel bore little resemblance to the proud warship it had once been. Her striking silhouette now only promised a fraction of the same menace it had had those many years ago.

The hangar bay in particular was a sorry sight -- berth after berth lay conspicuously empty, with only a scattering of aging strikecraft still littering their various pads. The XJ-series of fighters and bombers had always been renowned for their rugged construction and overall reliability, but every patrol flight added precious hours onto craft already well past their expected service lives. Bit by bit, their numbers were dwindling, and that was why the woman found herself alone on her way to her craft today.

The sight of her Lynx was enough to quirk the corners of the Kusarian's mouth upwards, her lips curving into a wry sort of half-smile. At this point, there wasn't much left to do but laugh, and take the small joys in life where she could find them. Her zeal had burnt itself out years ago, and the fires of hope had themselves been extinguished not long afterwards, but throughout it all a Lynx had always been her constant companion. This one was a tired, worn-out example of its type, but still its angular fleur-de-lis design comforted her somewhat. A hand stroked its hull, almost reverently, as she climbed her way into the cockpit.

Day by day, she'd felt herself slip away into a kind of numbness; she flew, she fought, and against all odds she had survived while the Royal Navy proper crumbled to dust around her. At times, thoughts of desertion had gnawed at her like rats in the night, but always fear of the unknown had curbed her ambitions. At least here, she knew where she stood -- no matter how bad things became, anything had always seemed better than the hold of a refugee transport bound for parts unknown. It seemed like a sure-fire path to poverty, a way to trap herself forever without wings in a sector that lived and breathed through spaceborne means.

Her pre-flight checks were reflexive by now; as easy as breathing, as long as she ignored the ever-mounting list of failures scrolling up her display. The cockpit hissed shut above her, sealing her into her craft.

Reunification had been the death knell for all but the most inexplicably extreme elements among the Enclave's faithful, but even then Komatsu had found herself pinned by circumstance. For her, a Legionnaire, no offer of amnesty had been forthcoming. Ten years she'd given to the Crown, lured in by promises of residency, pensions, and a better life once the war was put to rest; all of which had long since turned to ashes. Now, there was nothing left for her but a crushing, tragic finality, and after the sickening reality had finally slammed home for her, acceptance had weighed her down like an anchor about her neck. The last, desperate vestiges of hope that somehow, some way, everything might some day work out had slipped through her fingers again like so many grains of sand. They were doomed now, each and every last one of them, and all any of them could do was fight it out for one reason or another. For the majority of her compatriots, it seemed to be blind fanaticism or outright madness that kept them energised; but for her, a Kusarian, it was something else entirely.

Above her, the launch crane scooped her Lynx up like a toy, swinging it out wide and lowering her into the airlock's anti-grav cushion. The fighter thrummed to life as it prepared for launch, its whole chassis reverberating around her. Even after all these years, the sensation still set her teeth on edge. It was like an electric buzz in the pit of her stomach.

Death would find her soon enough, she reasoned. That was the fire burning at her core now; the caustic, grim excitement that coursed through her at every soft blip of a new contact on her scope. Every time she gunned the throttle wide, g-forces pushing her hard against her seat, the same breath of hope sputtered into life:

Maybe -- just maybe -- today's the day.

All at once, the doors beneath her Lynx swung open. The fighter dove, spiralling out of the bay before streaking off into the void. Its engine trails grew smaller and smaller, until they were just another blue dot among the countless stars.

The wine was a fine vintage -- a 734 Joigny pinot noir -- but the taste was like ashes in her mouth. Nothing held the joy it once had for her any longer; not the wine, not the cigarettes, and even Gallia proper seemed to have lost its lustre. There was nothing wrong with the wine, of course -- any sommelier would have told her as much -- but the bitterness churning in her gut meant it was like drinking vinegar. For Christ's sake, she thought -- even the year of its production was like a slap in the face.

That was the year the Crown had forced the Sirian question fully into the open, exploding onto the stage of Sirius with all the fury of eight centuries of resentment. For Lucie, what should have been the high point of her career had swiftly turned into a cavalcade of missteps and misjudgements. In her mind, Leeds still burned like a planet-sized monument to her failures; a blazing torch that served as the capstone to the whole sorry affair. The image of it was seared on her psyche; the sight of a world burning through the viewscreen of her Cougar, the rest of her strike wing hanging in silent awe at her four and eight. Her lips had been pressed thin even then; the burning of a world had put paid to any hopes of a limited peace. The war had turned from a matter of conquest into one of total annihilation overnight, and in the end they had all paid a terrible price.

She knew she wasn't directly responsible for it, of course. Figures of authority well above her had signed off on the affair, and she had never held any great love for the Bretonians in any case. The atrocity itself was not a burden on her psyche; what tortured her so was the stain it had left on her homeland's legacy. She herself was a fine scapegoat for it, despite her distance from the auspices of command during those fateful few days. If it hadn't been for the Kusarians and their ill-advised invasion, she mused, she would probably be dead now. They had given her and the rest of the Enclave an unexpected, desperate lifeline -- positioned them for a power play so audacious that they had been able to manoeuvre their way into the new Gallic government.

They had offered her a full pardon, and all it had cost her was her dignity -- the weight of shame squeezing her soul like cold hands at her throat. She'd felt the eyes of her most zealous on her as she stepped forwards, all of them disbelieving, spurned, and betrayed. She'd watched Cornett's mouth twitch in barely-repressed rage, his cold eyes boring into her with all the quiet, murderous fury she'd come to know him for; she'd watched as Roche, somehow, failed to follow in her footsteps, but simply watched her go with a strange sadness in his eyes. It had shocked her then just how many of her comrades-in-arms had chosen to struggle on, all of them heading back from the talks once negotiations broke down entirely. They had left her there, alone in a room full of enemies turned not-quite-friends, languishing with the other moderates. Was she a coward? Spineless? Or was the story she tried to cling to rooted in some kind of truth -- Gallia had always meant more to her than the Crown itself? Standing there, alone with her thoughts, Lucie had realised she didn't know anymore. Her conviction had been all she had, and now that it was gone, there was nothing left.

Now, years down the line, here she sat, empty and hollowed-out. Her old connections had vanished into thin air, calls not returned and messages left forever unopened. The few friends she'd had before the war were all gone -- some dead, the others missing -- and among post-war Burgundian high society, few of any standing were looking to make any connections with a disgraced ancienne Grande maréchale. The only thing that had survived the war intact was her accounts, but each new day brought with it more of the slow, creeping realisation that no amount of Gallic francs could lay her demons to rest.

She took another long, slow drag from her cigarette, tilting her gaze up to the stars once more. Above her, the skies of Nevers were clear and open, streaked with stars and spaceborne traffic alike. The world was a paradise -- warm, pleasant, and practically untouched by the horrors of war. By all rights, her retirement should have been one of triumph. Instead, as she reached for the bottle once more, intent on draining it dry like she had night after night for weeks on end, all Lucie could find for it was three simple, sad words.

What a waste.