[b]Captain John Lockman[/b] 

John wasn't sure how long he sat in the station's docking bay. Pressed against a wall with his helmet off. The docking crew bustled around refueling and prepping the bird; not from any order but because it was the normal thing to do and no one had countermanded them. 

Not that John noticed. The sounds around him muted as he stared at his flight suit's gloves. Stained. 

Blood. There had been so much blood. 

Back at the base splattered over the walls, the inert forms of the marines and militia. Firefights and screams of terror coming closer as they prepped the bird. 

Then Amanda and Dmitri. They hadn't donned their helmets yet; their eyes on full display full of horror and fear forever. Their blood stained the lowered ramp of the shuttle; a reminder John had tried to ignore as he disembarked. 

Sounds. Muffled. John ignored them until a light kick hit his boots. He jerked; hand flying to his holstered blaster as the offender, a weapons tech, took a step back with hands raised. Sound came back slowly till the bay's clamor, and the man's words, were back in full audio. 

"You hurt sir?" John blinked for a second before he realized the still drying gore across his suit's front. 

"Not mine." The words were graveled. Adrenaline having stolen his energy and his hydration apparently. A few seconds of awkward silence before John's tongue touched his dry lips and basic needs came to mind. "Place to get something to drink around here?" 

The weapons tech regarded him wearily. The line's of John's face and the exhaustion evident in the pilot's eyes'. 

"The Drink. Head that way and follow the signs. Can't miss it." John didn't say anything say hauling himself to his feet and staggering down the hall with the gait of someone trying to find their feet. His helmet swinging limply in his grasp. 

The weapon's tech gave a shake of his head and turned back to the shuttle. At least there was no need to replace the bird's ammo; an easy refit. Probably the last one in the days head for his crew. 
******

John barely registered the bar's occupants as he staggered in. Collapsing into a stool and tossing his helmet onto the bar. 

"Give me a bottle. Strong stuff." A handful of hard credit chits pulled from his thigh pouch and shoved towards the tender. He was a sight; perspiration from his recent brush with death still coated his features. Blood sprayed a pattern across his chest armor, suit sleeves and gloves. His survival knife was missing and a gash adorned the back of his armor. The only part of him with any color was his squadron patch; a field of blue with six stars in a semi circle surrounding a green one.