Miranda drops to her knees. Her mother’s shouts ring in her ears. She does not know what to think, nor where to begin if she were to speak. Her shadow is tainted by guilt—for she believes she could have stopped Yuuta—yet, her heart is a specter made of hope, for her mother hasn’t left her.

As Diane’s fist hits the thick glass before them, Miranda snaps out of it. And the hope she once felt—it dissipates once she sees her mother’s eyes, a reflection of her own, but filled with rage. Cold, cold rage.

“What’s wrong?” The question leaves Miranda’s lips before she can take the words and shove them back into her throat.

“What’s wrong?” Diane echoes, pure anger sewn into her tone. A thin strand of hair detaches itself from her bun and lingers across her face, now distorted by the lines of her scowl. “Miranda, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Miranda straightens up. She parts her lips and raises a finger in the air. “I—” What is it? she wonders, what is it that made her say such an absurd question? Was it her attachment to the idea of family? Was it born out of the fear that had yet to surface in her life up to this day? Was it egotism?—Miranda doesn’t quite know. “What’s wrong is that we couldn’t save them,” she says. In her opinion, it isn’t entirely a lie, for she does think it unfair that—no matter what, in this situation—two people would have had to suffer for the safety of others. And, perhaps it is out of spite towards the fact that she is glad to be out of danger and they are not, but her statement soon turns into another. “We must save them,” Miranda adds, each of her words carefully pressed between two layers of urgency. “Mother,” she rises to her feet, afraid of what she has become, haunted by a poltergeist who goes by the name of conscience. “Mother,” Miranda says again as she grabs Diane’s shoulders and raises her voice. “If we don’t help them, they will die!”

“They are already dead,” Diane says as she shakes off Miranda’s hold from her suit and turns her back to the place where the abandoned station once stood. “We cannot do anything for doomed men.”

Miranda gasps; it is small, insignificant. “What are you talking about, mom.” Her voice shakes. She tries to catch up to her mother who marches forward without ever looking at the past behind them. “They still have a chance! They’re excellent at what they do! Don’t you think you’re giving up a little too easily? Don’t you think we could still do something to—”

Diane pauses. The noises of chatter and communal life, civilians walking by and laughing, can now be heard from their home station. “This isn’t a fairytale, Miranda.” She turns around to face her daughter. There isn’t a bout to doubt in her glare. “You will learn to move on. In battle, nobody is safe.”

“But they weren’t in battle, mom!” Miranda takes a step forward. She motions to the invisible footprints they’ve left behind, during their travel across their path of return. “They were right there in front of us, and we could have saved—”

“Don’t insult their sacrifice, Miranda.” Diane turns back to their home station once more, where warm, yellow light emanates from the transparent door before them and bleeds into the hallway. “We’re going to report back and announce both their deaths to the head of command, and then their families.” She walks off. “It’s the least we can do,” are her parting words for Miranda.

Miranda nods in silence. She bites back her own words, the ones that say she isn’t convinced; the ones that would have told her mother she does not see why Xander and Yuuta should be declared dead when they are still alive. The least we can do? the question runs through her mind as she takes a step into the light, then two. I don’t think so, Miranda thinks whilst marching forward, a fire of determination blazing from within her gaze—sorry, mom, but this time, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you.