Numbness. Nothing but sheer numbness. My world spins rapidly—faster, and faster still. A lump of despair forms in my throat. A blanket of hopelessness wraps around me—consumes me in a cold spell. The pounding of my heart is so resonating is nearly as loud as the siren itself.

The half-open lackluster eyes of the former Yilan commander gaze at me. Out of the corner of his half-gape mouth, a drool of blood oozes out and paints his jaw red—a darker shade of the flashing illumination. He must’ve withered around in his dying moments as his posture is rather awkward; one leg lays straight as the other remains bent. One hand remains fixated on the base of the steel rod that had penetrated his chest as if attempting to pry it out. And his other hand…

The other hand reaches out for me. As if in his last minutes, Buttermilch wanted to make sure I was safe and sound. To make sure I lived… to make sure he kept his promise to my father. And yet despite his eccentric pose, Buttermilch looks so calm.

And yet it gives me dread. There is something about Buttermilch’s calm demeanor that is unsettling. I try to rise, but my legs give out, and I collapse to my knees. Unable to get up, I can only afford to crawl slowly to the lifeless commander. Is it because Buttermilch is calm that I find it disturbing? Perhaps because despite knowing he was at death’s door, he was still able to accomplish one last good deed—one final karma to tip the scale?

‘Karma works in mysterious ways,’ the unsettling voice of Buttermilch—the voice I will no longer hear for as long as I walk among the living—lingers in the back of my mind.

“Buttermilch…” with a lift of my arms I tug lightly at the collar of the man I once put my faith into, “wake up… won’t you?” A bit more force into the roughing of his collar, “Buttermilch… you can’t just… you can’t just die so easily…!” I raise my voice a little louder amid the deafening cry of the siren. His emotionless husk is briefly exposed by the illuminating emergency light. I expect a groggy response from the hard-ass leader—a coarse demand to make me stop.

But there is only silence and a dull expression. I stop shaking the man, and his head gently rolls to the side.

“What…” my grip on Buttermilch’s collar loosen “What part of this… is karma?” I ask the husk while choking on my words, staring into the blank eyes of my former superior, “what point… is karma if you’re…? Why…” I lower my head next to the rod penetrating his chest, “what use is me living if you can’t see it to the end?” I tighten my grip on the collar in between each sob of choke.

“Was it worth dying to achieve your last stroke of karma? To let me live at the cost of your own?” I utter—but the wail of the siren drowns out my proclamation.

The lifeless commander only stares at me with empty eyes as to mock me with affirming my questions. He’s dead, and there’s nothing I can change about it. No amount of yelling or yanking him by the collar will change that. This is no dream—this is happening. This is all happening, and Buttermilch is dead.

Is it my fault? Did I not go far enough to change the commodore’s mind? Are these series of events a consequence of the actions I took… or lack thereof? A chill runs down my back—have I already steered us into a forsaken future? Is the death of Buttermilch merely the catalyst? If he had lived, and I died…

No—I did all I could. We did all we could. Regardless of how I or Buttermilch did things, the same thing would’ve happened. The fault lies with Commodore Chal and his staff. If I had been there…

Buttermilch, why didn’t you ask me to go?! Why didn’t you offer to take me along?! I should’ve been insistent, I should’ve demanded to go. I put all my eggs in one bloody basket and now Buttermilch has paid for it. And not just him, but the rest of the detachments being sent to Lübeck and Ides—and possibly even Commodore Chal’s fleet besieging Side Baltit. This would’ve never happened… we would’ve been far better prepared! But the corpse gives no reply—only it’s dreading empty gaze. “What use are you dying if the rest of us will follow suit?” I cried weakly, “why have you kept your promise to my father—but forsaken the rest of us ? Me?” But then I pause.

‘—History tends to do interesting stuff when a certain actor takes center stage.’ With a glimpse into those dull pupils of Buttermilch, it’s as though his spirit speaks to me directly.

Perhaps… there is still a chance we can turn our situation around. It doesn’t sound like the Yilan has been boarded yet—and if we haven’t been boarded yet, then it means that whatever rammed the Jaguar has managed to somewhat resist the Madame Scarface’s force. We can still claw our way out of the predicament—but what do we do? Who is this certain actor that shall rally our fleet? What do we even do?

Despite the wail of the siren, I can make out several people groaning in my vicinity. I let go of Buttermilch and drag myself over to a console to balance myself with—and the sight is not pretty.

Dozens of servicemen and officers lay unconscious—or possibly dead, it can be hard to differentiate the two. A couple here and there manages to balance themselves on nearby command consoles or chairs. And…

There are remains of upright legs and shins torn from their bodies. Grim reminders that nobody—not even with the advancements of science—is safe enough from the merciless vacuum of space. The sight of disembodied limbs makes me recoil more than the impaled corpse of Buttermilch. My stomach is left in knots reveling in this depressing sight.

The siren is cut short and the blinking illumination follows suit. There is a second of pitch darkness before the bridge’s regular lighting is restored.

“Is… is everyone alright? How… how many are uninjured?” I work the courage to call out to them. A few inspect their surroundings—as well as the horrific ripped limbs. After examining the others still lying unconscious on the floor or dead, I am given the reassuring acknowledgment that most are simply unconscious.

“Do… do we have… any officers present that are not injured?” My feeble voice utters. They search around to locate Prince and Mazzareli. The two of them are quickly relocated, and I am informed they are still alive—but unconscious with no luck at revival. The highest surviving ranks are some warrant officers—a rank lower than me. A few are young like me, others are old as my father. Officers other than Prince and Mazzareli, that are either an ensign or higher ranked have either been not found, are incapacitated, or most likely died from oxygen deprivation.

I take a few deep breaths and look behind me at the corpse of the Yilan commander, still clutching at the rod pierced through his torso. The anxiety in my chest tightens and nearly leaves me choked for air.

That just leaves me, a meager ensign, as the highest-ranking uninjured officer in the bridge—and so far, it does not seem anyone has rushed to the bridge yet. Who knows if anyone will even come in the first place? What even is happening in the rest of the Yilan?

With all curious eyes trained on me, only one thought manages to cross my mind: Should I… assume command?

History plays out accordingly when certain individuals take the stage… that certain individual couldn’t possibly be me—not in this kind of situation. I’m only an ensign—this is way beyond my responsibility. Leading a formation of virtual ships in war-games is one thing, leading actual people during a time of crisis is another. Looking around, nobody has volunteered for the undertaking. There’s no telling if an able-bodied officer will rush in any minute now and assume command. Every moment wasted is one step closer to death—one step closer to joining the commander in death.

And I definitely do not want to look forward to that haunting near-death experience—or whatever the bloody hell that was.

I have no other choice. I will take center stage and prove my tactical prowess. I turn to address my bridge crew who hold their breaths with anticipation. “With all able officers out of commission, I will… hereby be taking temporary command until a proper chain of command… can be established.

“With that said—if you can, investigate all damage done, and activate our internal camera sensors so we can re-establish our eyes and ears of the unfolding battle,” I expect some objections but surprisingly I am barraged with acknowledged grunts and the bridge crew is quick to work.

I can’t risk them knowing about the death of the commander. His corpse and the rod are obscured from their view—a little white lie won’t hurt. They can find out about it when this is all over —if we make it through alive. It would certainly cause a panic if anyone discovered his body now.

I limp over to the communications console and pick up the receiver that dangles off the side of the table, and turn the dial to only broadcast a message to the Yilan. A message to the rest of the fleet can come later.

“Much of our officers on the bridge are wounded or out of action, including Commander Buttermilch and Lieutenant Commander Mazzareli. Please… send any doctors and nurses available to the bridge at once,” and with that, I turn the receiver off briefly. I turn to face the crew again, who attentively stop to await further instructions, “were any of you able to assess our damage from the bridge? I will order the engineering departments to assess it on their own, but in the meantime…”

"Ma'am! For the most part, I was able to identify that most damage suffered was to the bow. The Yilan has had minor damage as a result of the shock-wave, but if you wish to get more information, it would be best to consult with the other departments," one of them, most likely a junior petty officer judging by his shoulder insignia report.

“If most damage is in the bow, that just leaves us as somewhat of a severed ship, huh…” I remark but nod in acknowledgment. Soon after, another officer reports we can get our external sensors online, and there are a few projected windows of the outside. To our immediate view is the Jaguar, albeit it looks closer than it seems because of the sensors. It seems to have been dislodged from its initial ram position because of the other ship that had rammed into it—

“The Hualian?!” I nearly gasp. Those fools! But why? Another thought occurs—is Paul alright? There’s no telling where he was on the ship or if he and his crew were prepared at all.

No! I shake my head; I can’t dwell on those things right now!

The Hualian must have had a less successful ram into the port side of the Jaguar; the Hualian faces away from the bow of the Jaguar and away from us. This gives me the impression that it’s ramming merely scrapped against the side rather than into the plating itself. This leads me to believe that this is what pushed the Jaguar away from our bow. There doesn’t seem to be an indicator that assault shuttles were deployed from either party—so perhaps I was imagining a boarding party after all?

“This is going to be troublesome…” I say laconically, running a hand through golden bangs. Aside from our immediate vicinity, I can tell most of the pirate ships have managed to reach the minimum range of the battlecruiser lines. If I have to estimate—less than a hundred kilometers of distance.

“Acting Ensign Happ, what is your order?” A subordinate controlling the navigator system asks, “should we instruct the fleet to initiate a defensive withdrawal?”

But before I can answer, there are several gasps from behind me. I turn to see a few deep-struck nurses and doctors. Without thinking, I rush to the nearest one and grab him by the collar.

“Quiet!” I utter, “do not let the bridge know that the commander is dead—take out the rod and cover the body in a stretcher—tend to the others as well,” I whisper with urgency, letting go of the terrified nurse and resuming my spot at the communications console.

“Quickly, get some stretchers! And somebody help me with the commander!” One of the doctors barks to his assistants and they quickly get to work.

I turn to face the ship’s navigator again who, along with the rest of the crew, looks at me with perplex. “Right—sorry,” I begin breaking the silence “a defensive retreat? Hmmm…” I stroke my chin in ponder. “I don’t believe a backward withdrawal would be… ideal, at this rate the ships are advancing they would… I think, be past our minimum range. There’s no way we can keep our distance from the Madame— traveling backward has slower knots than forward, and I imagine the Scarface will want to get as close to our position as possible.”

Whoever the Scarface is, they certainly are a force to be reckoned with. I can’t help but wonder if it’s possible to get through this perfectly unscratched. It gives me a chill even to think about it, but I might have to accept that we might lose a few ships… a few hundred servicemen. Another knot forms in my stomach.

How many casualties will we take to return to Commodore Chal’s fleet? Would it be better to assume a defensive position, fire off what we can, and pray that the Scarface halts his fleet to reorganize his force and count his losses?

No, this is the Scarface we’re talking about; it would be a fantasy to assume they would not want to capitalize on the ambush. If they don’t, we will be able to unleash the full might of concentrated Federation fire on them. They have to close the distance; the pirates have no other choice.

I didn’t notice it, but I was biting down on my thumb, and it took me the tingling pain to make it realize it. What would Buttermilch or Mazzareli do—what would Alexandra or Prince do?

Buttermilch and Prince would possibly attempt to play it safe—initiate an immediate missile barrage to slow down the aggressors, and withdrawal accordingly. Then proceed to link up with Ides and perform a counterattack… but that’s something that would be effective against any other enemy pirate commander, right? There’s no way they would be able to paralyze the Scarface in our current situation.

And as for Alexandra…

Even in this bleak situation we’re in, I can’t help but scoff. She seems like the kind of commander that would rush full speed through the enemy formation—casualties be damned.

And just like that, I get an idea.