Chapter Text
Principal Fox is pretty well-known.
People know the basics: that he is young, at least for someone who is already serving his second term as Principal of the Academy, and for someone who carries himself like a man twice his age. He walks the academy halls with quiet purpose, a steady and calming presence around those who seem to run on ambition and adrenaline. They know that he is immensely kind to the new cadets, stern with the officers, and unwaveringly righteous in a way that never feels self-serving.
They know about the Henry Fox—there’s hardly anyone who doesn’t—who followed his father's footsteps to become one of the finest captains of all time. They know about his faithful crew and the legendary SC Imperial, who carried out numerous high-risk missions into uncharted space, navigating the most difficult of frontier expeditions.
They know that an injury forced him out of the field right at the prime of his career, cutting short a future full of even greater accomplishments. They know that even as he retreated from the frontlines to the role of teacher and mentor, his love for space, for exploration, has never wavered. It lingers in every lesson he gives, every strategy he deconstructs, every story he shares. It shines through in the way his eyes still flicker with that same unyielding fire when speaking of the stars.
And they know that he is always, always alone.
"Cadet Forrester, class already ended 10 minutes ago, unless you plan to stay here indefinitely." A posh voice pulls Amber out of her train of thought. Blue eyes meet hers across the room and she feels her face heats up instantly.
"I'm—I'm so sorry, Sir." She flusters even more when realizing she's the last one, hastily gathering all her things and shoving them into her bag.
"No worries. Take your time." He doesn't seem irritated—Principal Fox is never irritated, or angry, for that matter. Amber has been at the Academy for almost three years and never heard him raise his voice even once. Which is quite rare, to be honest. Teachers at the Academy are mostly retired officers, many are strict—understandably so, training future space explorers is no trivial matter—but some edge towards harshness, while a few just seem impatient and uninterested. After years of space missions, there's little they haven't seen, such that students' opinions are often brushed aside with a sigh as if nothing new could come from them.
Principal Fox is different. He actually listens with genuine interest. Or at least he acts like so—in which case he's a damn good actor. He takes each answer seriously, weighs it, and gives his own thoughtful dissection. He always makes the students feel heard, even when the idea is so obtuse that makes him let out a rare, low chuckle.
Amber watches Principal Fox gather his things—not many, an old-style paper notebook and a tumbler—and moves for the door after a polite goodbye. She follows him out, eyes flicking to the back of his head, where not a single blond strand dares fall out of place. His uniform is always impeccable. His posture always precise. His steps are steady, with a barely noticeable limp. She knows that on rainy days or in the colder months, he uses a cane—a plain black carbon fiber one. She's noticed.
"Is there anything you need, Cadet?" Principal Fox slows down a little bit, so that Amber can walk side by side with him, "Perhaps some parts of today's lesson that I haven't explained well?"
"No, Sir… Actually, I wanted to ask you about the essay," She stammers a little bit. "If you have the time."
Principal Fox leads her to his office. She's been here several times and never stops being amazed at his book collections. A lot of them are about space travel and tactics—he keeps hard copies even though all are available electronically. Some others, she recognizes, are vintage titles from hundreds of years ago, while the rest are books from other civilizations, with their distinct script and binding techniques.
He motions for her to sit in the chair opposite his desk, then settles into his own. "So, do you have problems choosing the topic?"
"Well, I have looked through the ones you suggested and noted down some I prefer. But yesterday I came across one that really fascinated me, but it's not on the list. I wonder if I can go with it."
"Of course. The list I proposed includes classic expeditions that I think are suitable for your current level and might save you from the hassle of diving through a plethora of possible topics. But I’m always glad when someone finds something that sparks their interest." Principal Fox says.
"Thank you, Sir." She fumbles for her tablet, scrolling quickly for the notes she took yesterday, "Um, it's the expedition of SC Liberty at the Kali Realm, stardate 221296.1."
There's a shift in Principal Fox's posture. The way he suddenly turns stiff but recovers quickly. It makes her stomach flip nonetheless, "I'm sorry, Sir… Is this not—"
"It's totally fine, Cadet." His voice is steady, softer, "But I must remind you, this one is difficult. What have you gathered so far?"
"Um…" She scratches the back of her head sheepishly. It was a midnight rabbit hole, she's got some basic information, about how it was a massive battle with impressive tactics that made the news for days after that. She tells him just as much.
Principal Fox nods, "I see you've got some groundwork. However, the ship wasn't simply ambushed mid-journey. It was attacked by targets invisible to our radars at the time, half of the laser cannons were damaged, the modular deflector transmitter was unstable. Automatic navigation was unreliable. Shield calibration turned off. On top of that, the warp drive was malfunctioning on the way back. In truth, everything that could possibly go wrong, did."
Amber blinks, momentarily thrown by the amount of information. Principal Fox clears his throat and his eyes shift to the room corner a little awkwardly, as if catching himself info-dumping on the young cadet.
"What I'm saying is, there were a lot of events and the captain's tactics were known to be… unconventional. Reckless, some would say. But brilliant. It's a great case study, but will require genuine effort to analyse properly."
She hesitates, then meets his gaze. “I’d like to try, Sir.”
For a moment, something flickers across his features—approval, a touch of fondness, and something heavier that she cannot quite name.
"Very well, Cadet. Tell me in case you need help."
The essay isn't due until the end of the semester, but Amber starts as soon as possible. The topic she's chosen is far too difficult to scrape together overnight, and she wants to save herself from the embarrassment of switching topics last minute, especially when Principal Fox has personally approved it.
Outside classes, she buries herself in old news articles, tactics reports, footages—any thing she can find in the Academy library. Most of them are patchy, partially censored records, but piece by piece, the shape of the journey starts to form. And at the center of it all, Captain Alex Claremont-Diaz—young, bold, brilliant. His name appeared again and again, his photos—unruly curls, bright eyes and dashing grin—standing at the forefront of every headline.
There are hundreds of articles celebrating the triumphant return of SC Liberty. They were of little use to her—all the general information for the public repeated and paraphrased. SC Liberty’s victory wasn't clean—far from it. It was chaos held together by sheer nerve, fearlessness and improvisation—something that, according to many, only Captain Claremont-Diaz could have pulled off. The more she digs, the more she realizes that the supposedly expedition-turned-battle was far worse than any headlines could capture. It was any captain's nightmare. The footage of the battered vessel pulled into the dock—damaged beyond imagination—tells its own truth.
And along the way, Amber starts noticing other archived threads and unofficial forums—ones that, much to her surprise, keep looping back to Principal Fox.
The public loved them: Alex Claremont-Diaz and Henry Fox. They weren't exactly no one—even during their training days—one was the son of the first female Earth Commander, the other the son of the legendary Arthur Fox, one of the pioneers in warp travel. Both talented, charismatic and good-looking to the point unfair to everyone else, it's no surprise that photos of them—from Academy days until when they became captains—still float around the net. People would say that they were rivals, that they were two ends of the spectrum—one methodic, one chaotic, but both genius, and both stubborn to a fault—that they could never sit in the same room without some kind of quarrel. There were anecdotes in the Academy, plenty of them, about their bickerings, about how neither would back down during an interstellar diplomacy simulation that the instructor had to shut the whole thing down, joking that it would start a war, how they argued over maneuvering strategies during joint exercises, or how Claremont-Diaz once rerouted a whole practice formation just to prove a point.
Most of them sound exaggerated to her—the public always craves drama—because their respective crews seemed to be exceptionally close—the kind of bond and trust that could not have possibly been formed if their captains shared no more than grudging respect. And for every article about their supposed rivalry, there’s another photo of them side by side.
Amber doesn't realize until now just how much of the light has faded from Principal Fox's eyes. Yes, he has always been calm and composed, even as a cadet, but back then there used to be something else. A flicker of concealed amusement, a fond raise of an eyebrow, a barely held-back smirk when Captain Claremont-Diaz gestured at something animatedly, the way he tucked his chin down to hide a grin while the dark-haired captain made no effort to hide his own, slinging an arm over the back of the other's chair during an event, leaving people to wonder what private joke they were trading.
There were photos. Lots of them. Cropped clips from official broadcasts. But at one point, they stopped coming.
She stares at one of the last news pieces about Captain Claremont-Diaz and his crew.
Missing in Action, Presumed Lost Beyond the Zarbe Drift.
Nine years. No wreckage. No signals. No explanations.
She was a little kid at the time, and the name Claremont-Diaz belonged to the far-off adult world that she didn't really understand—no more interesting than the cute neighbor or the virtual game console she'd been begging for. But she still remembers how every news channel broadcasted the mission, the reporters' faces solemn, their voices mournful. It was devastating, the young captain and his highly capable crew, simply vanishing into deep space without a trace.
It was a tragedy no one saw coming, and since then brutal evidence of what these space missions truly hold. It’s not just strategy charts and ship schematics. Not just the shimmering beauty of space and distant planets. Not just the victorious battles or glamorous ceremonies. It’s a sacrifice. A risk. A reminder of what it means to chase the stars.
Amber suddenly recalls the way Principal Fox stiffened when she mentioned the name, and now it clicks. It’s a fact anyone could find online, something every officer probably knows—but no one really brings it up anymore.
Principal Fox knew Captain Claremont-Diaz. Not just in passing, not as some distant colleagues who exchanged brief nods and polite smiles—they were actually close. And somehow, it just makes everything heavier.
"You don't have to tiptoe around me when asking about the essay, Cadet." Amber straightens, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. Principal Fox’s voice is steady, but there’s something gentler in it now, "I know you probably look into Captain Claremont-Diaz's… other missions, as well."
He probably can sense it—her uneasiness every time she brings a draft, the hesitation in her voice, the way she carefully avoids certain names.
"I'm sorry, Sir." She’s not sure if it’s for his loss—no matter how late, or for making everything awkward because she wanted to prove herself by sticking with the topic while trying to dodge the things neither of them says out loud.
"You don't have to be." He shakes his head, "To be honest, I'm glad that someone finally chose that one. You're the first student to pick one of Alex's missions, you know?"
"I am?" After weeks of coming to Principal Fox's office and discussing the topic, hearing Captain Claremont-Diaz's first name for the first time feels strange to her ears.
"Yeah," A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, "Most students don’t. Old expeditions are much more preferred. Simpler ships, simpler systems, tactics that follow the book, and plenty of essays to pull from." He looks at her then, something bittersweet in his eyes that makes her chest ache. "Alex… he didn’t always make clean maps. He sometimes made decisions you can’t explain. That’s what made him… remarkable."
The office falls silent. Principal Fox turns back to her draft, adding a few final notes on the screen.
"You two must have been close, Sir." She says quietly after a few moments.
His hand pauses, and for a second she thinks she's overstepped.
Then, quietly, without looking up—"We are."
Principal Fox never has a partner. Which is odd, because she's sure he has no problem pulling anyone. It seems like he never tries to, though. She once overheard a staff trying to suggest someone he might get along with, but he turned down with a polite smile, saying he hadn't thought about that.
He's present enough , like how a good mentor is supposed to be—he teaches with a quiet passion, he guides students with endless patience, he's dedicated and meticulous in his duties—Principal Fox is someone whose every action screams discipline and responsibility. But even then, there’s something held back. His smiles are always kind, but they rarely reach his eyes. And in those unguarded moments when he thinks no one is watching, there's a stillness in the air around him, like a man trapped in a fragment of time, listening to the sounds no one can hear.
He has a telescope in his office, by the window—a vintage model that was discontinued years ago. She asks—half-curious, half-teasing—what he's looking at with that antique, because newer models give images with much better quality.
"I'm looking for Orion."
She will never forget the look in his eyes when he says that—a flicker of something so distant and fragile. His voice is soft, almost a whisper, and for a moment it feels like he isn’t really answering her, but someone else entirely.
It isn't until days later when she's finalizing the essay, that everything falls into place. She has come across it before, more than once—old headlines, archived reports. She's seen it, she's read it, but she's never thought much of it. The name of Captain Claremont-Diaz's ship in his final mission.
IC Orion.
Suddenly it makes sense. Why sometimes she feels that Principal Fox isn't entirely here , like a part of him is somewhere else, and the remaining part—the physical one—is just wandering, tethered to Earth, waiting for something.
For someone.
And she has a feeling she knows who that person is.
She is there when that day comes around.
It's a normal day—relatively slow with nothing but routine departure codes and station check-ins filling the communication feed—but she'd rather die than jinx by calling it easy. She’s still new but has worked here long enough to know what happened the last time someone—an intern in particular—did.
Principal Fox is here today too, leaning by the observation deck and chatting with Commander Luna. He's one of the few people welcome into the command center despite not officially working here—not just because he has friends and tons of admirers among the officers and has earned that right in ways that don’t need to be listed, but also because he always brings good coffee, and tea for those who share his delicate tastes.
She’s stationed by the systems relay console, logging reports and verifying fleet data—nothing glamorous, just routine. She’s updating an orbital traffic report when a sudden burst of static fills the room.
"..on—callin—mand…—opy—"
The communication officer, Martha, frowns as she types on her console. "Commander, I'm getting signals on an old emergency channel, 328-V."
The room stills. Heads lift.
The garbled transmission returns, a stuttering, broken string of sounds that is impossible to make out, but unmistakably human. Martha turns in her chair, looking at Commander Luna. He’s already striding toward her station, his expression tight.
At his small, approving nod, she takes a breath and pushes down the mic button on her headset. “This is Earth Command. Please identify yourself, over.”
The static stops altogether, completely, utterly silent. Not even a crackle. Her hands moved rapidly over the controls, isolating the channel and boosting the signal. The entire command center seems to hold its breath.
A minute ticks by. Long enough for people to start glancing at one another, wondering if it was nothing but a glitch.
Then—a voice comes through, much clearer now, and impossibly familiar.
"This is Captain Claremont-Diaz of IC Orion. Confirming position at Nebula Gate. Requesting clearance for return approach. Do you copy?"
The words hit like a physical blow. Gasps burst from around the room. Martha stiffens, her hands trembling slightly as the name registers, disbelief written all over the faces in the room. A name they had long since stopped daring to hope for.
Commander Luna is already there, standing directly behind the communication console, his face unreadable but his eyes bright. He presses on the transmit button, "IC Orion, this is Earth Command. We copy you loud and clear. Stand by for authentication." He releases the button and turns around, “Launch level one handshake protocol."
The center moves at once, officers scrambling to comply. “Handshake protocol initiated, Sir. Awaiting response.”
A few seconds pass—unbearably long. Then the console pings, one security tag after another falling into place, and Amber hears someone curse in shock when the screen lights green—the ship’s identifier blinking in clear, unmistakable text. "Sir, handshake successful. Encrypted tag verified. It’s them.”
Commander Luna draws a sharp breath and gives a single, decisive nod. "Entry permission granted. Alert medical and security teams to standby."
"Ship authentication confirmed." Martha says into her mic, steadier now. "IC Orion cleared to proceed to Corridor 6-C."
"Roger. Heading towards Corridor 6-C, initiating warp drive in 20 seconds. IC Orion, out."
“On the main screen.” Commander Luna orders, his voice rough at the edge. “I want eyes on them the second they exit warp."
“Yes, sir,” came the quick reply, officers working quickly to reroute sensors and orbital scans.
As the line falls silent, so does the room. Every pair of eyes is locked on the big central screen, which shows nothing but the endless black of space. Distant stars shimmered, calm and steady.
The space ripples—like a small wave in a still pond, bending the light of the stars around it.
The warp entry flickers to life. A blur. A shimmer in the dark.
And then—a spaceship. Sleek and steady, its smooth hull catches the light as it pushes through the last ripple of warped space. Long engines glowing with a steady blue, the ship cut through the void like a memory made real, looking just as it did in old photos and mission logs. Letters gleam across the side.
IC Orion.
A breath escapes the room, sharp and collective—and then everything breaks loose.
Cheers crash through the command center, disbelief dissolving into wild, unfiltered joy. Amber feels it crash through her chest, sharp and staggering, the kind of thing one will remember forever—the room, the light, the sound of it.
Principal Fox—
Amber turns just in time to see him. He doesn’t cheer. Doesn’t move for a heartbeat. His eyes are locked on the screen, wide and glassy. A trembling breath, a sound too soft to catch between all the loud cheers—and then he’s gone. Slips out of the door without anyone else noticing.
But she still manages to catch the sheen of tears trailing down his cheeks.
As IC Orion pulls into the docking bay, with medics already arriving on site, Commander Luna—with a small smile on his face and voice still bursting with excitement—claps twice and says, "Okay, please return to your respective stations. Officer Srivastava, please take over while I'm out." And with that, he turns around, leaving a few people groaning good-naturedly, joking that they wish they could sneak down to the docking bay too.
The camera feed shrinks to a small corner of the main screen, duties slowly resuming, though the energy seems to shift—something new, something alive that hasn’t been there before.
Amber keeps an eye on the small screen. There, a figure steps down the ramp—brown skin, dark curls and an old uniform they stopped issuing a few years back. He looks exactly like the photos taken before he left eleven years ago. And so do the crew following behind him, untouched by time.
For a long, suspended second, everything halts. The medics. The officers in the bay. Even here, in the command center—no one moves. An old staff stationed right across from her murmurs a what the fuck. Amber's heart hammers in her chest, feeling like being strapped on an emotional rollercoaster when she notices guards having their weapons raised just slightly.
Then Captain Claremont-Diaz—she hopes it's really him—says something, something none of them can hear. And the blond, who has been waiting at the bottom of the ramps, lunges forward, straight into his arms.
The command center erupts again, whistling, clapping, laughter breaking like sunlight through clouds. Amber laughs too, her throat tight, her heart aching in a way that feels impossibly joyful.
Spacetime is a mysterious, beautiful, but cruel thing. It bends and stretches, twists and turns, ripping people apart. But sometimes, against every odd, it brings them back—stitching the universe together where it was torn.
The story spreads like wildfire—across ships, stations, across stars—everywhere . What happened that day becomes more than a report or a headline. It becomes the story , one people would whisper about in mess halls and training yards and pass down like legend. The ship that disappeared. The crew that came back. The impossible reunion, a miracle of space and time, proof that sometimes the universe still knows how to be kind.
Amber doesn't see Principal Fox much after that. But when she does, he looks different—younger, somehow. His eyes brighter, his smile easier, softer at the edges, like someone finally letting go of a weight they’ve carried for too long. She catches glimpses of the man from those old photographs. And she doesn’t have to ask why.
She hears he steps down from his position as Principal and starts training again. And months later, when the news breaks that Henry Fox is returning to active duty aboard, this time as second-in-command of the IC Orion, it stirs up plenty of talk. They wonder why he’d take a rank beneath his supposedly old rival. Why he’d willingly step into the second seat, when for so long he’d been first.
But she knows that Principal Fox—now First Officer Henry Claremont-Diaz-Fox—is exactly where he's the happiest, by choice, and by heart.