She lay there in the wreckage, bloody and beaten, her face on the floor and obscured by her singed hair. She wasn't moving, wasn't making a sound; there was no way to tell if she was dead or alive. Her shredded uniform contrasted strangely with the bright sunlight coming through the collapsed ceiling, the sound of the birds singing with the dozen bodies strewn around what was left of the bridge.

Slowly, she lifted her head. A large gash on her forehead was dribbling blood down her face, the rest of it was black with dirt and grime. She looked around her, taking in the dead and dying crew, the destroyed ship.

She was crying.

Silent tears were running down her cheeks. She didn't seem to notice. All she could see was the destruction, and the exhaustion and the pain and the death and the failure.

He could tell by the look in her eyes that she thought she'd failed. He knew those eyes too well for it to mean anything else.

He lay there, unable to move, unable to reach out or touch or say anything to her.

Her world had just come crashing down around her, and the only thing he could do was watch her die inside.

End