INT. ORPHANED FLEET – KHASPIAN SYSTEM – PILOT BARRACKS

The barracks are too quiet for the end of a galaxy.

Bunks stacked three high. Personal lockers dented,
stickered, scratched with dates and inside jokes. Gravity
is set low; boots rest against the deck, untied. Someone
has taped a hand-drawn star map to the ceiling, annotated
in grease pencil.

At the center table, half a card game sits abandoned.

Rhea Calder (TORCH) lies on her back on the lower bunk,
hands folded behind her head, staring up at the flickering
lights. She doesn’t look nervous. She looks tired in the
way people get when they’ve already said goodbye.

Jakob Renn (GRIN) sits cross-legged on the deck, polishing
a helmet that doesn’t need it. He hums under his breath.
Something old. Something his grandmother taught him.

Lila Moreno (SWITCH) leans against a locker, scrolling
through a datapad. She stops, scrolls back, stops again.

                      SWITCH
                 (quiet)
           The oceans are still blue.

No one answers right away.

Across the room, Osei Baraka (STONE) kneels beside his
bunk, hands resting on his thighs, eyes closed. He isn’t
praying out loud. Just breathing in time with the ship.

At the far end, a viewport shows the star.

It is enormous now.

The light bleeds through shielding, washing the metal walls
in a soft, cruel gold.

                      GRIN
           You ever notice how it’s always
           quiet right before it’s over?

                      TORCH
           Because noise implies friction.
                 (beat)
           This is just gravity catching up.

                      GRIN
           Okay Nerd.

A tremor runs through the deck. Not violent. Structural.
The ship adjusting mass as another wave of refugees docks.

Outside, the planet’s terminator line creeps. Cities go
dark one by one—not from power loss, but because the light
has overwhelmed night entirely.

                      SWITCH
           They’re still launching.

                      TORCH
           They will until they can’t.

The intercom clicks once. Static. Then silence again.

STONE opens his eyes.

                      STONE
           The star’s breathing faster.

That gets a look.

                      GRIN
           You can hear that?

                      STONE
           No.
                 (beat)
           I can feel it stop pretending.

Another tremor. Stronger this time.

Through the viewport, the star’s surface buckles.

A ripple races across it—then another—then the light spikes
so hard the auto-filters slam down.

For a fraction of a second, the planet below is outlined in
white fire.

                      SWITCH
           That was the mantle.

                      TORCH
           Yeah.

No one moves.

No one cries.

They’ve all seen versions of this before. Different
systems. Different names.

The intercom CRACKLES again. This time it stays on.

                      FLEET PA (V.O.)
           All hands…
                 (static)
           …final launch window confirmed.

A pause. Too human.

                      FLEET PA (V.O.) (cont'd)
           Pilots, stand by.

Outside, the star begins to collapse inward, light folding
over itself, brightness turning sharp, violent, wrong.

The first shockwave tears through the upper atmosphere of
the planet. Not sound. Not flame. Just erasure.

The sky on the surface peels open.

Inside the barracks, the lights dim as power reroutes to
engines.

GRIN snaps his helmet shut, suddenly all business.

                      GRIN
           Guess that’s that.

TORCH swings off the bunk, boots hitting the deck lightly.
Purpose returns to her posture like muscle memory.

                      TORCH
           Mount up.

STONE rises, smooth, centered.

SWITCH clips her datapad into her locker, hesitates—then
leaves it. Some things don’t come with you.

The ship SHUDDERS as engines begin to spool. Not fighters.
The whole Fleet.

Outside, the star goes nova.

Not an explosion.

A blooming.

A vast, silent flower of annihilation. Expanding outward,
consuming the system in light so intense it bends sensor
reality. The last evacuation ring vanishes inside it. No
debris. No wreckage.

Just gone.

The Fleet turns as one.

Not fleeing.

Departing.

The ALARM hits.

Sharp. Immediate. Alive.

                      KLAXON
           SHIP PA:
           "SCRAMBLE. SCRAMBLE. SCRAMBLE."

Red lights flood the barracks.

                      AUTOMATED VOICE
           All pilots to craft.
           Repeat: all pilots to craft.

The calm breaks—controlled, practiced motion.

Helmets under arms. Gloves snapped on. Mag-locks engaging.

GRIN pauses at the door, glances once more at the
viewport—at the empty space where a civilization used to
be.

                      GRIN
                 (low)
           Hope somebody remembers them.

TORCH doesn’t slow.

                      TORCH
           The River does.

They run.

Behind them, the galaxy burns.

Ahead of them-hyperspace opens.

                                    CUT TO BLACK.

INT. KHASPIAN FLEET – HANGAR BAY – CONTINUOUS

Fighter clamps disengage.

One by one, sleek, scarred interceptors drop into open
space, engines flaring blue-white, precise and calm.

No music yet. Just comms.

EXT. ASTEROID BELT – FIGHTER FORMATION

Five fighters spread into a loose fan.

HUDs bloom with trajectories, mass estimates, spin vectors.
This is not dogfighting. This is surgery.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Alright, kids.
           We’re not heroes today.
           We’re janitors.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           Copy that.
           I brought my best mop.

                      STONE (V.O.)
           Watch the secondary drift.
           These rocks like to lie.

                      SWITCH (V.O.)
           I’m tagging rotational clusters.
           Anything bigger than a shuttle
           gets nudged, not cracked.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           You hear that, Grin?
           Nudged.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           I can nudge.
           I nudge respectfully.

The first shots fire.

Not weapons—impulse bursts.

Controlled kinetic taps slam into tumbling asteroids,
altering spin just enough to slide them out of collision
lanes. Smaller fragments get vaporized clean, flashing
once, gone forever.

A chunk the size of a courthouse spins too fast,
threatening the carrier’s envelope.

STONE rolls in smooth, fires three measured pulses—

The rock changes its mind about where it’s going.

                      STONE (V.O.)
           Clear.

                      SWITCH (V.O.)
           Nice touch.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           You ever think about how none of
           this stuff asked to be here?

Radio silence.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Only a rock-head like you would
           defend the rocks.

They work.

Efficient. Almost gentle.

Between maneuvers, the banter creeps back in. Not forced.
Not nervous. Familiar.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           So—
                 (breathing easy)
           —new galaxy, same chores.

                      SWITCH (V.O.)
           At least this one didn’t try to
           kill us before breakfast.

                      STONE (V.O.)
           Give it time.

A medium fragment shatters unexpectedly, sending shards
spinning.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Heads up—

GRIN jukes, laughs once as debris skims his shields.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           Hey!
           That one had opinions.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Focus, Grin.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           I am focused.
           I’m also still alive. Win-win.

They fall into rhythm.

Rocks move. Lanes open. The Fleet’s silhouette steadies
behind them—massive, patient, watching its children clean
the doorstep.

                      SWITCH (V.O.)
           Envelope’s stabilizing.

Fleet can park here for a while.

                      STONE (V.O.)
           Good.
           They’ve earned a breather.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           So have we.
           Let’s head home.

A beat.

The stars ahead are unfamiliar.

No constellations.

No stories yet.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           You think anyone’s out there?

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Somewhere out there.
           East of the River, maybe.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           You think they’re friendly?

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Jeez.
           I hope so.

That lands. Honest. Not comforting.

                      SWITCH (V.O.)
           Last cluster marked and drifting.
           Belt’s clear.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Copy.

The fighters slow, engines idling, hanging in space
together.

For a moment, no alarms. No orders. Just five small lights
floating in the dark while a displaced civilization rests
behind them.

                      GRIN (V.O.)
           You know—
           It look so quiet from here.

                      STONE (V.O.)
           Quiet, riiight.

                      TORCH (V.O.)
           Cut the chatter, kids.

She looks out at the void.

Torch cuts away from the group, spins once—a short,
unguarded laugh breaking through.

                      TORCH (V.O.) (cont'd)
           We’re still here.

The fighters turn back toward the Fleet.

Behind them, the cleared belt drifts harmlessly, rewritten
by human hands.

Ahead—whatever comes next.

                                    CUT TO BLACK.