Jake Tessler as Jackson Hazard

“Lieutenant! Comm. up from Telvetica!” the ensign’s voice cut through the grinding sound of the platform’s machinery. The place was rolled in soot and dust and hot as a furnace, smelling like grease and sweat. There was no escaping it, even in crew quarters – you worked on Naughtshead, you lived with the grit and the heat. It got to the point where the cool, cool vacuum of space started to actually look refreshing. But then, most the Marines who came out this far didn’t want to be refreshed. They wanted to be punished.

Lieutenant Jackson Hazard paused in his work, nodding to one of his guys to come grab the chain for him. He steered his way through the ramparts and girding to where the ensign was standing, waiting. “Christ, couldn’t it wait, Banks?” Hazard asked irritably, shouting over the din of clanging metal and pounding pistons. “I got two guys down with the flecks. We’re short-handed.”

“Sorry, sir, they wouldn’t wait,” Ensign Banks replied, shaking his head. “The guy says he’s from Isely.”

“Shit.” Hazard closed his eyes a moment and then nodded, moving to follow Banks. Two-thirds of the ore they brought into this floating refinery would eventually become the metal innards of an Isely ship; military-owned, of course, but Isely-built. Like everything else in the damn galaxy. Now the company was telling the Marines what to do, way out here? What the Hell?

The comm. room was cluttered and sooty, but the machines in it were clunky and durable. Jackson didn’t even have to take off his gloves to hold the receiver. It was quieter in the offices, such as they were, but the distant rumble of the refinery’s belly was always audible. “This is Lieutenant Hazard,” he greeted shortly.

“Lieutenant Hazard, thank you for answering the call.” The voice was smooth, articulate and pointed. The type of guy one would think someone like Jackson would hate…but he knew how to appreciate any man who could run his own game. This voice was definitely the voice of a man running his own game. “My name is Cary Tyler and I’m the CCO of Isely.”

Jackson remained unimpressed. “What’s you business with Naughtshead, Mr. Tyler?” he asked. “Not to sound impatient, but you pulled me off a station shift that’s two men short.”

“Of course. My business is with you, actually. I’ve been granted permission to pull you out of Naughtshead for a very important research expedition Isely is engineering.”

That got his attention. Fast. “You got permission to pull me out of here?” His voice scaled up with disbelief. “Okay, you smug son-of-a-bitch, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m a God-damn Marine and you don’t have any authority to take me off of my post.”

There wasn’t even a beat missed on the other end. “I was granted permission to request you to join the expedition, Lieutenant. I meant no disrespect. Naturally, this is entirely your choice.”

“Mr. Tyler, you obviously have the wrong man. First off, there’s no reason Isely would want me as part of any research crew. Second, not to sound pretentious as all fuck, but I’m pretty essential to this operation out here. I’m the highest-ranking officer. This is my platform. No one knows it better than I do, and I’m not sure I have anyone here that can take over for me.”

“That’s all been taken care of, Lieutenant,” Tyler replied smoothly. “Naughtshead was scheduled for a refurb six months ago. You’ll be gone for no more than two weeks and the platform will be shut down and upgraded during that time.”

Jackson cocked his head, impressed at the finagling. “What about my crew?”

“Two weeks paid leave.”

Jackson chuckled roughly. “Not bad, Mr. Tyler. You want me that badly? Why?”

“We need a security officer on board and you were the best choice. In fact, your record is very eye-catching. You have a certain…fearlessness…that could be invaluable on this trip. Your constant requests for transfers to more and more dangerous assignments, your dedication to even the most hazardous of tasks…all very appealing, considering our need.”

Jackson’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t fearlessness or bravery. It was a death wish. A constant flip-off to Fate and a gauntlet thrown down before God. Because half of him believed he didn’t deserve to live, and the other half didn’t want to live without her.

They had known each other three months and he was dead gone for her. Dead gone. Sell-your-soul, cash-in-your-chips, this-is-it gone. She was beautiful, smart, kind, wise, mysterious, exotic – well, Ghosts are always exotic, but Nova was beyond that basic mystery. He couldn’t get enough of her. A thousand lifetimes wouldn’t have been enough. He had planned to tell her as much when they woke up that one morning, the morning after the night his life was destroyed.

He was holding her, dozing, not ready to sleep and stop looking at her. He was thinking of all the little things he’d do to please her, how hard he’d work to make her happy. Suddenly she sat up, rigid, in the bed. Her eyes were open but she wasn’t seeing the room. It was a vision. He knew she received precognitive portents, being a Ghost. This time, though, her hollow voice stabbed him. She spoke of the future and her own death. A bloody, agonizing death that would come if they remained together. It had chilled him, broken him, and when she finally had collapsed back and slept again, he knew she wouldn’t remember the event. It was a dream vision, poured from the aether of her powers. She had had them before and never recalled them when she woke.

He had stayed there, at her side, sweating and shaking from chills, stricken. He almost stayed, almost didn’t tell her, because he wanted to be with her that much. But, in the end, he did what he had to do – he slipped from the bed, dressed, and left her. He was terrified of spending even one more moment with her, so afraid it would lead to her death. He hid from her, got an immediate transfer to a colony, and refused to respond to any of her communiqués. So many times he had thought to just let her know he was all right, that he loved her, that he always would love her…but then that night would come back to him and he knew it was too dangerous. And his life was meaningless without her, so he dared the universe to take him out of it. Harder and harder assignments, farther and farther away until he was here, four years later, at Naughtshead.

So, fine. His boys got two weeks paid leave, and he got to go on an expedition dangerous enough to need his reckless courage. Good. Maybe this’d be the one to take him out of this fucking worthless existence.

“When do I leave?”

“Two weeks. Port Alhambra.”

Jackson smiled grimly. “What have I got to lose?”

It was the quiet that woke him up from hypersleep first. Naughtshead was always loud; regardless of morning, noon, or night either on station time or planet time. The dull thrum of the machinery could be heard in the deckplates and bulkheads without exception, and without reprieve. So it was the absence of that rythmic thrumming and clanging that woke him, the cool steel grey of the bulkhead over his head a contrast to the dull rust color of Naughtshead. Taking a slow breath, Jackson spun up into the bed and dropped his feet onto the cool metal of the floor beneath him.

The Tokyo class cruisers were designed for comfort in mind, though the ones comissioned into the GAF Navy had had some of the creature comforts removed. Still, as a personnel transport, it gave a nice mixture of comfort and economy; the only problem being that men like Jackson Hazard hated comfort. The ship was too smooth, too quiet; there wasn't the clanging of metal on metal as ore was ground, nor the static-laced and loud music of the crew. There wasn't the acrid scent of chemicals released into the air from the refinement process; instead, the Edo's clean air filtration system provided only the best in O2.

Only the best, and only from Isley Corporation, of course.

There's be at least one or two more furloughs until he reched Port Alhambra, he thought as he got up and stumbled towards the head. Passing his hand over the scanner, the bright (but not too bright, of course - thank you, Isley Corp) light panel flickered to life. Even Jackson had to admit he looked like hell - worn out eyes, and a few days worth of unshaven facial hair. In it's way, he thought, it didn't matter. Death would eventually find him, and it didn't really matter what he looked like; either he'd continue to give the Big D the old fashioned American Bird, or he'd get taken out of this sorry existance without...

Shaking his head, Hazard cleared his mind like one clears the fouled chamber of a pistol, ejecting the shells of his thoughts onto the floor where they belonged. She was long gone, and there was little point in thinking about it... besides, the upcoming mission would likely be just dangerous enough to finally end it.

Nine years and four months ago...

-----------------

Lieutenant, Junior Grade Jackson Hazard sat down in the Captain's chair and managed to hide the irrational surge of excitement that came over him as he did so. It didn't matter to him that the USS Yorkshire was off duty, in orbit around one of the moons of Televetica with most of its crew, including the CO and XO, down on planetside for shore leave. It didn't matter that four different sets of officers had to be off ship before he was, technically, in command of the UK Class frigate. He was there, on the bridge, and technically now on his first command post.

The comm unit crackled to life, sounding about as paniced as the ensign's voice that came over it. "Comm., Sensor Room! Three signatures coming out of the magnetic pole of the moon, on attack vector!"

... Shit, he thought, mentally considering the time that it would take to get the shuttles and command staff back from planet-side. Even without years of experience, he knew that with three ships bearing down on them there would not be any time.

"Navops," he called, "get us moving, full burn! Sensor room, get me a reading!"

Hazard felt the small frigate lurch forwards as the engines roared, and the sensor room responded.

"Three signatures... bigger'n us," the ensign down in the sensor room replies, "configuration reads as Prezcheck... cruiser size or more."

Hazard saw the pilot's face pale as he muttered over his controls. "Jesus... three cruisers against one bitty frigate. We're fucking toast."

"Can the shit, Engisn," Hazard replied, already trying to plan some way out of this, "and bring us on a full burn towards the magnetic pole. Make it sharp, or you're gonna be the rightest dead person in the Marine Corps."

Math was never his strong suit, but tactics was; a trait he was thankful for as he leaned back in the chair and felt the ship's inertia change. In his mind, he envisioned the other three ships on the standard Prezcheck attack pattern, the location of the moon, and the gravity and magnetic fields it would produce. Pulling up a side panel scanner, Jackson patched into the sensor room to watch the signature readings - sure enough, standard Prezcheck tactics of two flanking and one holding back.

It would still be a few minutes, even under full burn, until the Yorkshire could attempt to lose them in the moon's magnetic pole. The first prang sound echoed through the hull with a dull reverberation, shortly followed by three more. It would be at least ten seconds while the enemy ships pulled their hooks back, recompressed, and launched again. Maybe eight, he thought, if they were efficent.

"Ensign, call the time between their shots. Give us an estimate of what we're dealing with here."

As the ensign began counting, Jackson went back to thinking. These fight were always slow things, dogfights yes, but not the rapid turn-and-cycle of airplanes or the like. It was a matter of counting off minutes, moving incredible amounts of mass with huge intertia, and playing that inertia off their opponents.

"Twelve seconds," came the reply from the Navigator as the next round of echoing hits landed on the hull.

Hazard laughed softly, more out of nerves than humor. "Good thing those Prezcheck pilots are lousy shots, eh?"

The nervous laughter from the second string bridge crew was just enough to break the tension as they each turned back to their instruments; seconds ticking by into minutes as the echoing of the grapples hitting at bad angles continued to reverberate through the hull. It was agnonizing, Hazard thought - the continual echoing making enough noise to rattle hardened soldiers, let alone the boys left to mind the store with the CO off ship. As the minutes ticked by, the comm. unit opened again.

"Comm., Sensor Room! We're in the moon's magnetic pole. We're off their scopes... but ours are just as screwed by this."

"Confirmed, Sensor Room. Launch a class one beacon and request reinforcements. That should keep them from noticing our signal."

"Roger that, Lieutenant. Good thinking there..."

"Save it for when we're free of this, Ensign," Hazard said, though he had to restrain the urge to smile at the Ensign's relief.

Now it was time to play hide and seek, he thought, as he watched the pilot duck them into, and out of, the magnetic pole; each time letting them get an idea where the enemy ships were, but also rvealing themselves and then having to burn hot to get away.

---------------------------------

Five hours later...

The XO was a bastard, and all but everyone knew it. All but the CO, of course, who felt he walked on water. So when the XO asked to see him in the officer's lounge, Hazard knew it was for no good reason.

"Sir," he said crisply, coming to attention as he entered the small room.

"At ease, Lieutenant," said the Commander, as he began looking over the papers on his desk. It was a tactic he used to try and make people sweat, Jackson had learned; as if by making them wait, the sheer and staggering weight of their own guilty, real or assumed, would soften them up.

"Would you like the list, Lieutenant?"

"Sir?" came the reply.

"Breaking orbit without authorization. Engaging the enemy without clearence from a member of command staff. Inappropriate use of fuel, as the repeated full burn on the engines ate through almost 37% of fuel stores, requiring Yorkshire to remain at Televetica for refueling for another two days. Issuing a distress call that brought four additional cruisers from a nearby system unnecessarily. What do you have to say for yourself?"

It was bullshit and Hazard knew it; anyone else would've done the same, and it was better than sitting there and getting shot out of the sky. Fuel could be replaced... an Isley ship couldn't. Still, Hazard was smart enough to know when to play dead.

"Nothing, sir. Very sorry, sir."

This elicted a number of moments of the commander's papers being shuffled, and Hazard pondering just what the XO would've done, and if it would've resulted in the XO being stuck on the hook in front of the Captain this way.

"Well," the XO finally said, "We'll be making a note of this in your record, Lieutenant. It's unfortunate that the three cruisers ran off before the fleet could capture them. The Captain's asked me to skip the court martial on this one... but we are making a note in your file. Dismissed."

"Sir, yes, sir." Hazard responded, turning about face and walking out of the lounge.

The dulcet tones of the jazz singer drifted out of the GSO Cantina, spilling out like light onto the dimly lit hallways of Shakespeare Station. His boots clanking on the deckplates, Cmdr. Jackson Hazard slipped into the bar, feeling the odd vertigo that this place always gave him - it was as much a throwback to earlier days as a product of the Isley Corporate environment on Port Alhambra. The band at the corner of the bar could've been transported from the roaring 1920's of ancient Earth history, but the bar, tables, chairs, and lighting all bespoke the soft blue lights of the space station. The scent of recylced air mixed with alcohol and the undercurrent of acrid sweat - the product of Thomas' Bar being the prime off-duty location for the Stations GAF compliment, as well as a few aligned contractors.

Glancing over the crowded watering hole, he spied the person he was looking for and made a beeline between the tables to drop down into the booth across from him. The corporal's eyes widened faintly at the commissioned officer suddenly sitting before him, and made a move to leap to attention until Jackson raised a hand to stop him from saluting.

"At ease, Corporal Martin," he said with a chuckle, "we're all off duty here."

"You're Commander Hazard," the younger man responded, blinking as if he wasn't sure it was real.

Jackson nodded as the waitress sauntered up, eyeing the two Marines. Before she could speak, he shook his head to decline the drink, but added as an afterthought, "Put his drink on my canteen account, please."

She nodded, and stepped away as Coporal Martin stared at him. "What... what can I do for you, sir?"

Hazard leaned back in the booth, listening to the sound of the music for a moment. "I'd like to ask you about a certain transport, Corporal. Would've left Alhambra probably just in the last few weeks."

"I... uh... don't know anything about that, sir."

"You're the Navigation Comptroller for the Frost Dock, aren't you, Martin?" Hazard replied.

The Corporal's eyes glanced to each side of him, as if he expected armed Marines to appear out of thin air. He was silent for a few moments before taking another sip of his drink. "I am... but I'm afriad that the information you're looking for is highly classified."

Jackson nodded, amiably, letting an easy smile rest on his face that he truly didn't feel. "I'm sure it is, Corporal; I'm positive that any crew, passengers, or their assignments thereof would be heavily classified. I'm also sure that this... hypothetical transport ship that may, or may not, exist, would've had to have its flight plan on file, and that you, as the dutiful comptroller of the dock, would've been privvy to those flight plans."

When the younger man remained silent, Jackson continued. "Now those flight plans wouldn't be classified, would they?"

There was a long pause and Martin downed the rest of his drink before responding.

"I heard you've got an original Eagles collection, still on compact disc? Rumor says it's a hell of a artifact."

Watching the Corporal, Jackson suppressed the urge to rip him out of the booth and beat him against the bulkhead. He could see where this was going, and he knew that getting any information on the Captian would require a bit of subtly, and not brute force.

"I do. I might just lose it, however, and not bother looking for it - seeing as how busy I'll be tracking down unclassified flight plans."

The shifty eyed Corporal nodded, extending a hand.

"Deal."

The ship was on a night-cycle for active operation - their cruise back in from space was short enough that hypersleep wasn't needed, but even a machine as complicated as the Valdosta wouldn't fly herself and needed a night shift. Reaching across the panel to where his coffee cup sat, Hazard wrapped his hands around the warm mug as his eyes skimmed over the controls again. It had been a while since he sat in a pilot's chair at the helm of a starship, and even if the course required no actual hand on the controls, it was a novel feeling regardless.

In some way, he liked it best at those times - the ship almost utterly silent except for the thrumming of the engines and the feeling of Emerald's presence inhabiting the bulkheads. It was almost as serene as the time he spent with Nova in the Obluiette - and just as she found peace there... he found peace here.

It had been the image of the sky that bothered him most, the marine reflected - on a clear day, it was easy to see the misshapen form of Port Alhambra floating in the low earth orbit, or see the lights from New Tycho and New Vegas in the moons reflection. Above and beyond any other strangeness, or even the possibility that it had all been an odd Viridian dream... the idea of looking up into an empty sky and being forever barred from the stars had scared him.

Oh, he's not admitted it at first - certain that he could deal with it by ribbing the agents that had found the crew. As the day had worn on, however, Jackson had found himself trying his best to hide his emotions from Nova and yet still found himself staring at the empty skies over their location.

On some level, though - he'd had fun. It had been a good vacation, if he could bring himself to look at it that way, and some needed time with him and Nova. Even still, he was glad to be home.

"You're up late," came the disembodied voice from the panel.

"Evening, Emerald," he replied, "and yes... just thinking about our... trip. And those people."

"I truly do... feel.. badly about the mistake."

Jackson chuckled. "Don't worry about it... I'm just wondering if they're sitting up late one night thinking about us. If Kade is going to write his book, or what Doyle will tell people. I imagine Shaw's still pondering the science of it... but if I know her, Riven's sitting up doing the same thing I'm doing, and wondering what the hell we tell folks... if anything."

"I see," came the Viridian's response.

"Four hundred years, Emerald... and people haven't changed. Not really... hell, Doyle would've spent his entire life hunting for what we'd call 'alien life'... and even then, we've only just now found your people. People never change."

Though he could not see it, Hazard had the damndest impression of Emerald nodding, and then resumed his watch over the consoles as he stared out into the waiting stars.

TST 0932 hrs

"We can't alter route, sir," the young corporal said weakly to Hazard, "our flight plan is on file and any deviat-"

"I don't care about the flight plan," Jackson barked, banking as much on his rank as his reputation to intimidate the younger officer, "we're still three hours from dirt, and only thirty minutes out from Alhambra. My wife is going into labor, and you damn well better turn this sled around and get us back to port.

"But," the marine insisted.

"Now, pilot. Or I'll commandeer the ship and take her back myself. Flight plans be damned." Hazard said as he moved back aft to where Nova was already putting herself into a slow meditation, hoping to slow down the contractions long enough to let them get back to port. He cycled through the communications systems, getting routed through the station's comm. line chatters, until the screen brought to life Dr. Parr, the moving background behind him indicating it was his mobile communicator.

"What do you need, jarhead?" He grumbled amiably, "I'm just getting a few things from my office. Did you stub your toe?"

"No, Doc," the commander replied, "Nova's gone into labor. We're turning the shuttle around and aim to be dockside in 30. Think you can put off seeing the scorpion lady for a few minutes to deliver a kid?"

For a moment, Hazard was gratified to see Parr's expression of disbelief and surprise before the larger man ran a hand over her eyes. "Don't you so much as touch her, you ham fisted grunt. Just get her back dockside and I'll, once again, perform a medical miracle for your sorry Marine ass."

"Ooorah," Jackson said with a grin.

-----------------------

TST 2301 hrs

Jackson lifted the small, squirming, bundle into his hands and smiled as he looked down at the blinking, baby-shaped, thing in his arms. He gurgled softly as Jackson looked back up at Nova - her hair plastered to her face with sweat from the nearly thirteen hours of labor. With a smile that nearly split his face, the hardened Marine reached down with his free hand to touch his son's face, looking over him as if to memorize this exact moment in time.

"Hey little man," he said, watching as his son's eyes seem to look around at everything, "welcome to the world. "

Jackson Hazard regarded himself in the mirror carefully. It had been quite some time since he wore his dress blues, he mused, though the term never quite seemed to apply correctly anymore. He could still remember the blue and white formal uniform of the US Marines, all crisp lines and American colors. They'd done away with that when they did away with the US, and so even the formal outfit changed to the GAF gold-and-black motifs.

The badges pinned to his chest proclaimed his name, and the awards of his valor. The multiple clusters of doubled awards, service ribbons, and commendations. The black jacket matching the slacks, and patched with the logos of the Global Armed Forces on his left upper arm, and the Templar Fleet's crest upon his right. The three pips of his rank shone out, polished to a mirror-shine, on the stiff collar of the dress uniform.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he could hear Nova and Orion in the other room. It always struck him, how quiet the Ouibliette was - no metallic clanging, no engine sound thrumming through the deckplates; just the air, the trees, children laughing quietly as they played in the fields. After the faux-Versailles incident, he was glad for it, a welcome rest.

"Hey handsome," he heard Nova say behind him, watching her through the mirrior, "leaving so soon?"

Hazard smiled soflty. "Only for a day. I should be back by this evening, earth-standard. Four hours up, god alone knows how many in front of a review board, and four back. If the Admirals take longer, I may not be back for a few days."

She came up to him, gently touching her face. "I'll be here."

"I love you."

"Dismissed."

Hazard watched Lincoln turn crisply and stalk from the crew quarters. As he turned the security cameras online again, he reflected on the chewing-out he had just given the junior officer. Some part of his mind knew that he should have likely approached it differently, calmly and rationally, however he'd absolutely hit his limit with the other man, and Lincoln had committed a cardinal sin in Hazard's book.

Parr had called it the simple practicality of the Marine Corps. Live to the code, conduct yourself with honor and distinction. Make the best choices possible. It truly was that simple to him. First priority was the mission, and if that meant sacrificing a member of the unit, then that was what was required. Mission above all.

But once the mission is done, then the credo that his own drill instructor, years ago, had bored into his mind in screaming tones every morning at Muster.

Unit. Corps. God. Country.

Mission above all. Unit above the Marine. Corps above the Unit. God above the Corps. Country above all. Everyone fights and no one quits - everyone comes home, alive or dead. Once the first priority, the mission, was done... then you looked to your crew and unit. You never abandon them, never leave them behind.

Hazard looked back at the closed doorway into the rest of the ship, and then back around to the GAF Baxley's crew quarters - devoid of the dozens of personal belongings of the crew. Setting his face into a neutral one, instead of the scowl that had been present as he tried to impress upon Lincoln, he began to slowly walk the deck of the ship. It felt different - Hart was right. The Baxley felt male for some reason, and finding that it was Major Harding's old ship made that even more prevalent.

It was an odd parallel, he thought, feeling the deckplates under his boots. Crane had had Gull shot because she knew he could take it, and Hazard had done what he could for the Captain before focusing on Nova because he knew she could take it. Knew that she'd been knocked down, but that she still had her identity as a Marine to come back to - knew that he'd saved the plaque from the Valdosta for her as a symbol and reminder. It wasn't much, he knew, but there was always a distance between himself and his Captain - a knowledge that her orders were paramount and that he, as the XO, would back her in whatever decision she would make. So in the end, he left her to her quarters with the plaque and the knowledge that he would back her, regardless of what she decided. He hoped it was enough, knowing the pain she was in for losing her ship.

It was abundantly clear why Crane wasn't there when he took Nova out into the main area of the ship, he thought, but Lincoln... Lincoln made the choice to stay apart, when his crew-mate needed him. That, to Hazard, was the bigger sin than taking her dog-tags off during a mental breakdown where Nova had lost what her identity was supposed to be amid the loss and pain of the crew. Crane was a Marine, and nothing would take that away - Nova wasn't... she was a Marine only by dint of enlisting to remain with her family, putting her unit above herself.

Hazard frowned as he arrived at the Bridge, watching the stars pass slowly by; it was only a matter of time, he supposed, until his private chat with Lincoln got back to Crane, and probably only a short time after that until he was on the receiving end of his own chew-out from his CO.

"Ah, well," he murmurs, looking over the sensor logs, "I've been chewed out before."

Commander Jackson Hazard, Personal Log:
Ship's Time: 24 December, 2428. 2300 Hours

Merry Christmas, kid. I wish I was there to see your first steps... see your first Christmas, and watch your grandmother fuss at us as we showered you in gifts you won't even understand yet.

I've started keeping personal logs instead of official, officer's, logs; in the hopes that when this is done and we return home that the Administration will not be able to subpoena personal records. I have to express myself, somehow, and my recent blow up at Lincoln is proof positive of that fact. Crew morale is at an all-time low; the loss of the Valdosta ]has hit everyone keenly, and the fact that we've gone AWOL to chase her down...

I'm not even sure, anymore. When we started this, it seemed to simple. I trust the Captain's judgment in almost all things and yet I'm having trouble keeping the faith. Gull and Lincoln remain as blithe as ever, the Doctor as implacable. You can see the concerns in Hart, myself, and Nova. Somewhat in Denton, but he follows the Captain without question.

She tries not to show it, but I can see the strain on the Captain, and I don't know how to change it, or if I even can. How do I serve as her First Officer when we've technically thrown our entire careers out the window? I know, for certain, that hunting the Hunter... I refuse to call him Orion... is the right thing to do; he is a threat to my world, my people... that I cannot even truly explain.

I've spent my life in the service, and the Oaths I swore to the Marine Corps, US or GAF, are such a part of me as to be like breathing. I don't know how to reconcile that with the fact that we've gone AWOL, stolen a ship, and are now gallivanting across the galaxy on what amounts to a grudge and a hunch. Hell, we've all but become mercenaries ourselves, taking odd jobs here and there as we go to supply ourselves as we search for the GAF Sadie Hart.

I've become what I've spent a lifetime fighting - a criminal. I can't even fault Wren for calling me a hypocrite - it's true, no matter how much I might want to go across the table at her. And yet, everything that is drilled into our heads in basic says we put the needs of the unit before our own personal needs or discomforts.

Unit. Corps. God. Country.

Where in there is room for us now? For sacrificing who I am, my life and career, to save everything?

When this is done, and we get busted out of the Corps, what will I be then? Damned if I can call myself a Marine at the moment.