"Peace with the Dead"
KR
The silence was incomprehensibly stifling on the bridge. No one dared to move, for fear of breaking the spell, for fear of breaking the illusion that this was a dream.
If someone spoke, it would be real.
Gradually, a crewer at the navigation station turned his head to the general. He noticed other inhabitants of the bridge shift their eyes from the viewscreen to Solo.
He stood absolutely straight, hazel eyes glued to the vid where the image had shocked them all a few seconds before. His outward appearance was nothing different than the usual: the white shirt, Bloodstripe-piped pants, spacer's boots. Blaster rig hanging from his hips, ready to be drawn. His hair was mussed (a nice change from the stiffs back in Command) but drawn back from his eyes so he could see.
And that was the frightening part, to the navigator, as he discreetly viewed the general. Solo's eyes were wide, frantic almost. Desperate. He just stood there staring at the vid, eyes never leaving the screen, never moving at all.
Gradually, Solo opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His eyes had ceased their endless exploration of the vidscreen and now gazed wildly around the bridge, perhaps seeing nothing. Certainly not comprehending a thing his eyes might have taken in. From his gaping mouth, one word was breathed, more an accompaniment to a thought than a vocal utterance.
Leia.
With that one soft word, Solo managed to dispel the dream-like aura of the bridge. The navigator broke his eyes away from the general and glanced to the assistant beside him. She was shaking her head back and forth, and muttering useless prayers. Her mantra echoed the sentiments being expressed around the bridge, quietly bouncing from station to station, to dissipate in the air surrounding the still silent Solo. Some engineers near the hatch were even crying, quietly, their shoulders bobbing up and down from the effort. Solo continued to sweep his eyes across his surroundings, blind to them all, glancing past the navigator without a second thought. But when he had reached the engineering platform he stopped and watched the three crewers softly encouraging each other.
It seemed to bring the general from his stupor. He shook his head, muttered some thing to the XO, spun on his heel, and left, his footsteps echoing down the walkway where they were drowned out by the closing of the hatch.
The navigator continued to stare at the quiet chaos that raged on the bridge, his eyes roaming over countless faces in a variety of depressive states. He tried to hold back the tears as they collected on his eyelashes, tried to help his assistant form coherent words to express herself. But as he hugged her, he glanced at the vid monitor again.
On it, he saw a replay of the image that had brought them all to this state, had forced the general to take his leave. He heard the commentators of the newslink, reporting minute details and attempting to pull it all together. As they talked silently, he watched the link play itself through again and again.
An image of a petite, dark-haired woman, on a platform, passionately urging a massive group of elderly higher-ups, sprung up to encompass the screen once again. The image shook, turned (presumably after hearing a sharp noise), and then returned to the empty dais. It wasn't until the idiotic recorder thought to pull the vid down did the navigator see the dark-haired woman again. She was lying on the floor, face obscured by the first step of the dais and her left arm. The recorder managed to get close enough to see the woman's blackened torso, scorched where a blaster bolt had torn through clothing and muscle, and the entirety of her still form.
It was unfathomable, but unmistakable.
Leia Organa had been shot.
The symbol of the New Republic, and of the Rebellion that preceded it, was lying on that dais, not screaming, not moving, not urging the guards to find the attacker.
She wasn't breathing at all.