Sarge Potteiger
Emotional Damage
Corellia
Coronet
Lord Protector... it still didn't sit well with him. Actually, that was a lie he told himself. It suited his ego quite well, funnily enough. The position felt like something a long time coming. Most decorated soldier in the Protectorate, veteran of their expansion and countless wars and skirmishes. The only medals he didn't have, funnily enough, were the big ones. The ones marking an individual out for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
Perhaps he'd never gone over that line.
Perhaps it was expected of him.
Once that might have rankled, but now it didn't so much. He didn't actually care for medals or ribbons, but part of your ego always reared its head when you got a bit down and it was then he had to clamp down. But that was neither here nor there. A vacation had been in order, leave, as it were.
So he'd come to Corellia. Naboo was a little too far from Fondor to be good for a retreat, so he'd opted to come here. Cira's effects were gone, so she'd been here at some point. Without realizing it, his hand rested on where the clothes and datapad had been, and with a shake of his head he returned to reality. A hand lifted a small lighter and dipped it into a candle set on the counter between the kitchen and living space. Vanilla. Simple, but one of his favorite scents.
Every home had its own peculiar smell, but he'd prefer his not to smell like the small armory he had tucked away in the guest bedroom. Turning back towards the faint depression in the middle of the living room, he sat himself down on the long U-shaped couch that dominated the living space, sock covered feet kicked up on the table as he pulled up the nightly news. Arranged before him was one of the blaster rifles he kept in the gun safe, stripped down and prepared for cleaning.
News and gun cleaning. This was what his life had become.
Black eyes studied the parts, each of which was insignificant in its own right, but together... there was little more deadly. A smirk appeared on his tired face. "Well... sometimes what's most deadly is what you least expect." He mutters in the waning sunlight of dusk, red light filtering through the windowed doors of his balcony. Before long it would be dark, and the lights of Coronet would shine bright like the day.
But until then, he was left with the fading sun, a disassembled weapon and his own mind.
Coronet
Lord Protector... it still didn't sit well with him. Actually, that was a lie he told himself. It suited his ego quite well, funnily enough. The position felt like something a long time coming. Most decorated soldier in the Protectorate, veteran of their expansion and countless wars and skirmishes. The only medals he didn't have, funnily enough, were the big ones. The ones marking an individual out for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
Perhaps he'd never gone over that line.
Perhaps it was expected of him.
Once that might have rankled, but now it didn't so much. He didn't actually care for medals or ribbons, but part of your ego always reared its head when you got a bit down and it was then he had to clamp down. But that was neither here nor there. A vacation had been in order, leave, as it were.
So he'd come to Corellia. Naboo was a little too far from Fondor to be good for a retreat, so he'd opted to come here. Cira's effects were gone, so she'd been here at some point. Without realizing it, his hand rested on where the clothes and datapad had been, and with a shake of his head he returned to reality. A hand lifted a small lighter and dipped it into a candle set on the counter between the kitchen and living space. Vanilla. Simple, but one of his favorite scents.
Every home had its own peculiar smell, but he'd prefer his not to smell like the small armory he had tucked away in the guest bedroom. Turning back towards the faint depression in the middle of the living room, he sat himself down on the long U-shaped couch that dominated the living space, sock covered feet kicked up on the table as he pulled up the nightly news. Arranged before him was one of the blaster rifles he kept in the gun safe, stripped down and prepared for cleaning.
News and gun cleaning. This was what his life had become.
Black eyes studied the parts, each of which was insignificant in its own right, but together... there was little more deadly. A smirk appeared on his tired face. "Well... sometimes what's most deadly is what you least expect." He mutters in the waning sunlight of dusk, red light filtering through the windowed doors of his balcony. Before long it would be dark, and the lights of Coronet would shine bright like the day.
But until then, he was left with the fading sun, a disassembled weapon and his own mind.
