Word Count: 352
"If they remembered their training, they had their suits on and were braced for possible vent action." Tigh looked back into a glare from Tyrol. He knew what he had done, he knew that he had quite possibly killed every man and woman that were caught behind those blast doors he had just closed. Knew better than the man across from him how much it was going to cost. Both Saul himself, and the ship.
"There are lot of rooks in there."
"Nobody's a rook anymore."
They were words that had been told to him long ago by the officer who had found him weeping silently in his hands in a flight pod. It had been his first battle as a Colonial officer, a battle that was not supposed to have happened. They were still cadets, still in training and the front line was a long ways away. It was a day that Tigh had learned there were no front lines.
He could still hear those cries, the cries of so many that had reached out to anyone who could tell them what to do. Saul had come from a long line of military pilots, he knew what needed to be done even if he had never done it before. The first wave of raiders had destroyed the training base, and he had turned all those Rooks, low on fuel, nearly no ammunition into the teeth of the attack. They had died like moths in a flame, and yet they had held long enough for the Atlantia to jump into range and counterattack.
It was not enough comfort in the night, when he remembered that out of forty who had followed him into the fight, only six, including himself, were ever found alive. Three had died in life station after the battle. Alcohol numbed the pain but never stopped the memories.
Today though he had just added more weight to his soul, more blood on his hands. Eighty, a hundred more names to add to the list, and they were all but guaranteed not to be the last.