After being dismissed, all mike wanted to do, was find a cheap bottle of rum or vodka, and a dark corner, but today would not be so kind. finding himself empty of words worthy of his fallen teammates, he returned to his room, and found the dress uniform he despised so much. the fit was perfect, the color a deep, and rich shade, the cut striking and fit for royalty...or a funeral. 

mike loathed the uniform. despite all the hype, he saw a wool blanket. it was too hot, too tight, the brass to bright. he continued listing the problems with the uniform in his mind, as he took out the iron, and sat the uniform on a collapsible board, waiting for the iron to beep. 
he had made sure to clearly state he wanted to be buried in fatigues, he tried to press that the service be held in fatigues, or plain clothes, but it had been "revised without his notice"

the iron gave a cheery tone, and mike began to smooth the imaginary wrinkles from the dark material.
a short time later, mike stood in the gear bay, trying like everything not to look like he wanted to shred his uniform and leap into the comfortable confines of Prowlers cockpit.

"DETAIL! A-TEN HUT!" Blade's voice bellowed, bringing mike to the present. listening with the determination that can only be found during a funeral, mike looked at the coffins. it wasn't until he was dismissed, that any animation could be seen. mike immediately loosened his collar. he joined the slightly enlivened crew to file into the mess. 

picking out a decent bottle of cinnamon whisky, he poured a generous amount in a cup, and filled the rest with cider. hearing Blade's toast, he tossed back a third of it, rasping out a enthusiastic "ROUGHRIDERS" with the rest, before eyeing his drink. he didn't think it was that strong. considering the last day, he could use it. sharing a sad smile, and remembering the fallen, mike floated among the group.