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Before the launch the suit techs had their own seperate briefing. They were all reminded, pointedly, that for many of the pilots theirs would be the last living faces they would ever see. It was not ordered, but it was strongly implied that they had an obligation to give the pilots a sendoff they would never forget, even if never was only a few minutes away. They giggled, pawing at each other and making kissy noises. They  wanted to do it anyway. Didn't need to be reminded. 

The reminder wasn't really to help them remember, the chief suit tech thought as she watched her girls file out, rueing the fact that it no longer worked for her. The reminder was to help them forget all those faces of the pilots that hadn't come back. The sendoff they would never forget well... that worked both ways didn't it? As she minced to the launch bay she was lost in reverie, filtering out the laughing of the younger girls in front of her, not noticing the tiny tug of her emergency life support pack at the small of her back, or the tightness of the seal at her throat. The erotic properties of her situation and her own hypersexualized packaging were long since lost on her. Now, ironically, she yearned only for death.  

It was true, suit techs didn't tend to die in the void of space, asphyxiating or incinerated or boiled alive or any of the other many ways it was possible to die in space. But they left pieces of themselves behind anyway, in unstable orbits, the only markers for pilots lost in void combat ever likely to be found - little tendrils of ice in their hearts waiting to ambush future lovers like tigers in a crystaline jungle. 

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