Vega is breathing hard, his heart's hammering against his ribs and he's as keyed up as he can be. His hands, holding a pistol again like the day and night of the zombie battle, are shaking. He can hear them coming, he can hear the boots on the deck of the ship and the far off yells and (occasionally) the shots as he bites his lip. His hands tighten on the gun, his finger on the trigger is light but the rest of his grip is like a vice.

There's always been a tiny part of Vega that recognizes the danger that other members of the Backdraft Group could pose to him. Even though he never thought about it, even though it's never crossed his mind, he hasn't been entirely oblivious to the mutters and sideways glances and jealousy of other pilots. How cold some of the superiors are. He's always had Sarah to guard him.

But Sarah isn't here. And he is. And his Zoid isn't. And he's said things he shouldn't have said and he isn't at home doing his job like he needs to be so they're here and they want to take him away.

He doesn't know where to, but he knows it isn't good. He doesn't want to go. He uses his determination to push down that he's already seen them killing here. Vega's hands start quivering again. The others. His friends. The adults. He doesn't know if they're okay or not. He saw the blood and he ran.

Like... like a coward. Like a little boy. He got scared and ran away and the thought of that gives him a small surge of anger that helps steady him.

Vega narrows his eyes. It makes him more than a little bit sick and lightheaded to think about it but if they're coming for him he's going to fight them and if they're going to shoot the others, he is going to have to kill them.

He can do that.

Maybe.

No.

Maybe.

Yes.

N- yes, definitely and no more arguing!

He's decided. And so he waits for them to find him here with his back pressed against the wall, clamping down on his own fear as hard as he knows how to.

Vega quivers and bites his lip. Big boys, after all, do not cry.