Brooklyn lay on the thin mattress in her quarters, staring at the ceiling as if it might collapse under the weight of her thoughts. Sleep had abandoned her again. Her eyes burned, her chest ached and her body screamed for rest but her mind refused. It kept spinning, looping the same images until they blurred into something worse than memory: a nightmare.
The supposed allied squadron.
The dead comms.
The missiles.
It was like a film reel with no end, clicking and sputtering in her skull. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the contrails of death streaking across the desert sky, heard the thunder that wasn't thunder, felt the violent roll as her bird was swallowed in fire.
But then came the cracks. The questions.
Was there really another squad out there? Or had her trauma twisted what she saw, warped the chaos into something else? She could remember the enemy planes couldn't she? but her mind snagged on the silence that followed, the unbearable absence of voices she should have heard.
Her breath hitched, shallow. She pressed the heel of her palm into her eyes until color bursts danced in the darkness.
What if it wasn't them?
The thought slithered in uninvited, cruel. What if there was no allied squadron? What if I invented it... made myself believe it to survive like I used do when I was young?
She tried to push it away but the doubt clung like oil.
Her memory of the came to her again in broken shards: the sand burning her skin, the taste of blood on her tongue, James's voice through the smoke.
Brooklyn's chest rose and fell too quickly. She rolled onto her side, clutching the blanket like a lifeline, her fingers trembling. The cell walls closed in, sterile and suffocating, pressing the questions deeper into her skull until they felt like knives.
What if I'm the traitor they say I am?
Her mind recoiled... No. No. I didn't. I couldn't. But then came the whispers, her own thoughts betraying her cause she was once this denial when they asked her about using combat stimulants.
She dragged herself upright, pacing the room like a caged animal. The guards outside the door shifted once, probably hearing her footsteps but they didn't come in. She was left to fight herself in silence.
The hours bled together. One moment she was pressing her forehead to the cold wall, whispering James's name until her throat went raw. The next, she was curled on the floor, her breath shallow and sharp, convinced that maybe... just maybe they were right. Maybe she'd lost herself out there in the sand and the woman who walked back wasn't Brooklyn Grant anymore.
Her hands shook so violently she could hardly unclench them. She gripped the edge of the bunk, knuckles white, grounding herself in the sting of pressure.
"This isn't real." she whispered to the empty room. "This isn't me. I didn't do it."
But the room stayed silent. Every crack of doubt splintered wider. Every second replayed a different version of the crash, a different version of her. In some, she saw herself firing the missiles.
In others, she saw her crew's faces turning toward her, accusing. The sound of metal tearing, of flames roaring... it all blurred until she didn't know where memory ended and imagination began.
By the time the first light of morning crept through the narrow slit of her window, her body had surrendered.
She collapsed back onto the bed, her face wet with tears she hadn't noticed shedding, her throat raw from whispers she hadn't realized speaking. The sunlight painted pale gold across the floor, mocking her proof that she had survived another night, when all she wanted was silence.
Her body gave in, finally, to the exhaustion.
Brooklyn had almost slipped into sleep when the sound of the door's heavy lock jolted her back to reality.
Her body stiffened, every nerve ready for interrogation, another round of cold voices and colder accusations. But when the door opened, it wasn't a faceless officer.
Lieutenant General Vance, filled the doorway in his dark uniform, shoulders squared, silver stars glinting under the fluorescent light. His presence alone carried the weight of command but when he stepped inside, there was something in his eyes... something softer, something human.
"Captain Grant." he said quietly. His voice carried no bite, no accusation. "It's the day of the funeral, you should get ready."
Her heart clenched. She swallowed hard, trying to mask the tremor in her hands as she sat up.
Vance set a folded set of clothes on the edge of her bed: a black blouse, pressed slacks and polished shoes. Fresh, clean and untainted. A mercy she hadn't expected.
Brooklyn's lips parted, words caught in her throat. "Sir, I..."
He raised a hand gently, cutting her off. "No speeches. Just… get dressed, I'll wait."
With her back turned, she slipped into the clothes, the fabric strange against her skin. She smoothed the blouse once, her hands lingering on the buttons like maybe if she stalled long enough, time itself would stop.
When she finally looked up, two armed soldiers had stepped into the doorway, rifles slung, eyes expressionless.
Brooklyn froze.
"They'll be escorting you." Vance said, his voice low, steady. Almost apologetic. "I know it looks harsh. But it's protocol and for protection... someone leaked intel to the news. So people are furious."
Her stomach hollowed. Protection, they called it. To her, it was a parade of shame.
Vance must have seen it on her face because he added, "I don't like it either. But better to bear it than bleed for it."
She nodded faintly, the words sticking in her chest.
Together, they walked. The soldiers flanking her were silent sentinels, their boots hitting pavement in sync with hers. It didn't feel like protection. It felt like chains.