Tycho feels good when he he's finished his patrol around the Death Star and is sliding his TIE back into the landing bay. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, everything by the book, and he's looking forward to getting some food and maybe a card game in the rec room before heading for some shut-eye and going back out again in the morning.

But as he sets his ship down at the end of a row next to his wingmate, the bay doors slide closed and a light starts flashing across the hanger: imminent jump to hyperspace. Tycho double-checks that his ship is properly secured, and a moment later, a jolt runs through the station. It's a short jump, barely a minute before another vibration shimmies through the Death Star and the light flashes again.

Tycho finishes his post-flight checks and climbs out of the TIE, sharing a look with his wingmate. “What do you think that was about?”

“Beats me,” the other man replies with a nonchalant shrug. “Far above our pay grade, anyway.”

“Right.”

Before he can say anything else, a voice blares across the loudspeakers: “All personnel in sector four-eighteen, report to the nearest hanger bay and form up in front of the docking doors.”

Tycho raises an eyebrow at his wingmate who merely shrugs and leads the way.

It takes only a matter of minutes for everyone to assemble, Academy-perfect straight lines filling the hanger. Because they were so close to begin with, Tycho and his wingmate are in the first one, standing at attention as they stare at the huge gray doors that separate them from space.

When people have stopped filtering in, a commander takes his place in front of them, gesturing to the control area before he begins speaking. But as the doors slide open, Tycho loses track of what he's saying.

Because out there in the vastness of space, amid the twinkling stars and beyond the slight waver of the magcon field, is a blue and green planet sprinkled with white clouds. Tycho almost smiles, but just manages to contain the expression, because he knows that world. It's Alderaan, his home. It's been years since he was able to visit. Perhaps if he can swing some leave time while they're here...

His wingmate nudges him, and Tycho realizes the commander has called at ease and hastily drops the salute he's been holding.

“-operational,” the man in front of them is saying, “and in need of a demonstration. You will recognize the planet Alderaan.” He sneers the name, and Tycho tries not to frown. “A planet whose senator, whose entire ruling class, have come to attention of our great Emperor as sympathizers and supporters of the terrorist Rebellion which plagues our galaxy.”

Tycho's heart thuds. It's well known that Leia Organa fought hard in the recently-dissolved Senate for causes of equality and justice, shouting down what many saw as the tyranny of the Empire. There's a large of him that respects that, though he still thinks there's more good to be done by fixing the system from within rather than this chaos of trying to overthrow it entirely.

But what had the commander said about a demonstration? Tycho's stomach churns anxiously, and he's not sure why.

“And so,” the man goes on, “this Death Star will demonstrate to every citizen in this galaxy that the Empire's might is supreme, and that no detractor, no terrorist may stand against us!”

And that's when it happens. A thick viridian beam shoots from the station they stand on, casting an eerie light over the assembly and everything in the hanger. The laser impacts with the planet in less than a second,

The explosion is immense. Secondary detonations, sparks, and debris are everywhere, the fire quickly dying in the vacuum of space. It happens so fast. One moment the planet is there, the next – a newly-born asteroid field is all that remains.

Tycho's ears are ringing, and it isn't from the sound. There wasn't a sound, he knows that, just his brain filling in what would have been. Dimly, he hears the actual sounds of his fellow Imperials gasping. He thinks he does himself, probably. He doesn't cry out.

He feels about to be sick, cold waves crashing through him again and again. Alderaan is gone. His entire planet – his – everything. His family is dead. His fiancee, his perfect future. Every friend he left behind. Every place he ever visited, every object he touched there, vanished in an instant.

He can't let any of his response onto his face. As much as he wants to cry and scream, drop to his knees and never get up again, he knows everything rides on this moment. Any type of response like that will show him as a detractor. They'll throw him in the brig, strip him of his commission, maybe even kill him. If this is the kind of demonstration they're willing to perform, what wouldn't they do?

The commander is speaking again, and Tycho tries desperately to focus on it, clenching his hands at the small of his back as hard as he can to keep them from shaking.

“Tell of what you've seen here today,” the commander encourages. “This will be the price for defiance. The Rebellion is finished. Long live the Emperor!”

“Long live the Emperor!” the assembly echoes, the call and response drilled into them through countless repetitions. Tycho finds he can't speak, but his lips move numbly with the words, hoping no one will be able to tell the difference.

“Dismissed,” the commander announces and strides sharply away.

Murmurs immediately break out among the ranks as the order of the assembly bleeds away. Tycho's wingmate turns to him with wide eyes. “Did you see that?” he asks breathlessly. “They said this station would be powerful, but I had no idea!”

“I saw,” Tycho manages, and it's a Force-blessed miracle that his voice comes out steady and at a normal volume. His wingmate doesn't know Tycho just watched his home die. The Empire drills into its people that when they leave home they become citizens of the Empire as a whole, their origins nearly treason to dwell on; even friends rarely ask each other where they come from.

His wingmate shakes his head wonderingly. “Wild. But the Rebels will never be able to stand against us now. If we can just blow up all their supporters, we'll have them sooner than even we thought!”

“Yes,” Tycho agrees, the word heavy in his gut.

His wingmate tilts his head. “You okay?”

Tycho tries a smile, thinks he kind of manages. “Just a little stunned,” he says, and it's not really a lie. “What do you even say about something like that?”

His wingmate grins. “It is pretty crazy.” He claps Tycho on the arm. “Should we grab dinner?”

“I'm going to go change first,” Tycho says. “Meet you in the mess?”

“Sure.”

They part, and Tycho manages to keep his face straight, his stride even as he heads for his room. Immense relief washes through him when he finds his roommate isn't there. Locking the door, he leans back against it, and finally alone, he lets himself go.

He knees go weak, and he slides down the door, burying his face in his arms and sobbing. This is not a dream, he tells himself. Alderaan is really gone. Everything is gone. His security, all his plans He's more alone than he's ever been.

The last embers of his hope for the Empire flicker out. He had thought he could do good here, that the rulers of the galaxy were at heart a system that would bring peace and prosperity. No more. Anyone who could do this cannot be trusted. Nothing could ever make this allowable.

He has to get out. It's so clear now. But how? He has leave stored up. Though generally frowned upon, it's not against the rules to use it. If he waits a few weeks, when a superior seeing the Homeworld: Alderaan in his file won't seem as suspicious... Then he can disappear, never come back.

It's the best plan he has for now. And after that, he'll find the Rebellion. Whatever it takes, he'll end this. He will be a part of making sure this travesty never happens to another planet again.

Tycho makes himself stand, brushes away the tears, pulls off his sweaty flight suit and changes into a clean uniform. He steps into the tiny refresher attached to his room and splashes water on his face.

Stares into his own eyes, red-bordered blue. Grief, betrayal, determination. He blinks a few times, tries to school his features into the way they normally look. Tries to figure out what that is.

His hair is next, and he mechanically picks up his comb to run it through the frazzled locks. It's getting long, he thinks automatically. It'll need to be cut again before he leaves.

He pauses, fingering the blond strands. He imagines, for a moment, twisting them into a mourning braid. An Alderaanian tradition, an outward symbol of the pain and chaos he feels inside. He can't, though, of course he can't. He just imagines what a loyalty officer would do if they caught him at it and shivers.

He drops his hands, smoothing his uniform and giving himself one last once-over. He looks just like he has on any other day, like any other good Imperial officer who isn't dying on the inside. He gives himself a weak smile and strides toward the door.

Just a few more weeks, he promises himself. He can pretend for just that long, and then he'll be free. And he will make the Empire pay.