They're going to die out here. Hundreds of light years from Earth, and they're going to die.

These are facts, plain and simple. The Behemoth is destroyed, humanity is outnumbered and outgunned and with the Victory being the rustbucket that it is, its crew will no doubt be among the first to fully realize that. Maybe some terran pockets have chances of survival. Maybe...

Somehow, Rollins doesn't care. Or at least he's good at not showing it as he continues to stare out into the void of space. The carrier is far away from a jump node, but he can't help but expect some kilrathi starfighters to appear any second, their sleek, scythe-like shapes bearing resemblance to the Reaper's moniker. "Expect the unexpected" is what some at Confed say. "Expect nothing" is what the lieutenant thinks. Because very soon, that's what humanity will have. Nothing.

There's no words among the crew, swabbies, pilots or otherwise. Is it a sense of failure perhaps, an inability to protect the Confederation's last chance of winning the war? Have they managed to rationalize their guilt and transfer it onto Tolwynn? Or do some still cling to hope and therefore have no need for such thoughts, their minds filled with delusion? People shy from death, even the bravest. Delusion of what awaits one after oblivion predates recorded history. Even in the 27th century, things are no different.

These are facts.

And no-one can change them...