Sitting on the Dock of the Bay [Loske]

[Sarge Potteiger]

​

Across the waters from the galaxy renowned Varykino sat a home far less remarkable, at least when held in comparison. It's owner often pondered on the irony of the homes with regards to their owners. Varykino an island retreat, apart from others and nearly a maze with regards to the size and complexity of the interior. His own home far more functional and as it was in appearance.

In keeping with the tastes of the locals, the cream colored exterior was muted in color but elegant in style. The interior, however, took more from the owner than the culture. It was filled with earthy tones of browns, blacks and greys. Here and there muted greens and off whites were incorporated to break things up. Understated was a good term, and while it was clear significant thought had gone into the procurement and design of the interior and its furniture, it was far from lavish.

Standing on the balcony, a hand in his slacks pocket, he sipped tea from one of [member="Cira"]'s mugs. Spring had its ups and downs this year, going from cold to warm and then back, but today - despite its sunny beauty - was punctuated by bone-chilling winds coming in off the waters. It's why he sported a grey turtleneck with the sleeves neatly rolled up to just below the elbow.

Tired black eyes scanned the waters, and he turned his head to lay an eye on the chrono set upon the kitchen wall. Loske Matson had been invited to stop by - Naboo wasn't far from Sullust - and see the beauty of Lake Country.

She had more or less inserted herself into his life with her questions, and that meant he would be treating her like she was a part of his life. She knew more than most, and that actually meant something to the mercenary. But as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him, he realized that the upper class interior with its remarkable lack of overt weapon displays would likely throw her off.

The mantle over the fireplace held all of his medals - and there were too many to count - as well as various citations and pictures to go with. A single shrine to a long career fighting other people's wars. Shoes clicking on the marble flooring, he sighed faintly, taking another sip of the steaming tea as he made for the front door. The girl could already be outside, who knew.

She would have to come in through the 'back door' as it was facing the street. The front only lead to the boat dock. It would certainly be an interesting day.

 

[Loske Treicolt]

To say she wasn’t surprised to receive the invitation would be a lie. She was. Loske had really only met [member="Sarge Potteiger"] for maybe about half an hour’s time — but in that period of minutes, she’d probably met more of what made Sarge…Sarge, than most.

And she thought that was pretty cool.

There was a benefit to being an ingenue. Irritating sometimes, but it made other people feel comfortable. If that’s all she could do, granted - she’d be frustrated, but she’d take it.

Her X-Wing stuck out like an unpolished, sore thumb next to the neat N-1 fighters that lined the docking bays. She’d enviously glared at them, staring at them with no harm in her intentions and got lost in the sleekness of it all until a reminder on her chrono beeped annoyingly and pulled her back to reality.

There was a local transport that wove through lake country, and Loske boarded it gingerly. She didn’t like other people driving her around, so she sat stiffly, twiddling her thumbs nonchalantly and avoiding eye contact. Which wasn’t hard. The beauty of Lake Country kept her gaze quite focused on the passing scenery. It was beautiful.

It was serene here, like a hug from a person with a cool body temperature. There was an air of familiarity, although she’d never visited this place before. She leaned this way and that to get a better view.

As the transport speeder emptied, she was getting lost in the beauty of the lake country. The wind in her hair, this was the first time she’d let her ponytail loose in a long time. The heel of her hand pressed against her cheek, she oozed into her seat with a blissful smile. Her stop still meant she had to walk a bit, but she didn’t mind. It was gorgeous and it smelt nice.

Walking up to the door front, she couldn’t conceal the awe she was struck with. She was used to metal bunking; slim pickings and whatever the galactic alliance could afford. This place was already gorgeous, it’s pearly skeleton highlighting against the blue of the sky; mirroring the pristine white of the clouds that floated behind it. Her heels kicked up at random pebbles, and she couldn't wipe the impressed elation from her face.

Knuckles lifted and a heavy knock pounded against the door. Though the entire time, her eyes were wandering rather than focusing on whatever was going to happen next.

wow. wowowoowowow.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The quiet town was often filled with tourists - people spending the day, or even a week. Many of the homes in the area were for rent by the week; that was the shortest time, anyway. It had to be worthwhile to rent it to you, after all. But that thought rarely entered his mind. There were a handful of individuals who lived here year-round; people like himself, or Cira. Pulling back a curtain on one of the small windows framing the door, he spotted the shuttle that was coming into town to drop off the latest groups.

She'd be here shortly.

He re-entered the kitchen and filled up the mug with more Sapir tea. Turning back towards the door, he heard the gentle knocking. Smiling quietly to himself, he made sure the black caf was almost done and then headed downstairs.

Opening the door to a clearly distracted [member="Loske Matson"], Sarge raised a singular brow.

Gone was the armor and the danger, replaced instead with a man who could probably pass for a young, trendy university professor. Slacks, turtleneck, nice, polished shoes. He'd even trimmed up as he did every couple of months. Cira liked it, but he secretly did too. He enjoyed thinking of himself as being worthy of nobility in his more amused fantasies. "Miss Matson." His smooth baritone rumbled from the depths of his throats, as quiet as ever.

"Come inside. You don't get the wind back here, but... it still finds its way down the streets."

And if she came inside, she'd find herself immediately surrounded by a tastefully decorated foyer with a single staircase leading to a second floor. Straight down a hallway behind him, however, were the balcony doors with the edge of a piano visible around a shoulder. "How does the day find you?"

 

[Loske Treicolt]

“Hi!”

Sarge’d called her Loske on the ship, now it was Miss Matson. Her nose twitched obviously, twisting slightly. She wasn’t a school teacher, she didn’t need a prefix, and her last name didn’t mean anything to her. "Just Loske,” she chirped, not slipping into some dark abyss of self loathing “Unless we’re going to be really formal, then First Lieutenant Matson’ll do.” A wink evidenced with an accompanying grin. The blonde took her first step into the foyer, grinning happily at the invitation and the acceptance.

“And are you Lord Potteiger?” Loske asked simply, wryly indicating the swanky digs she found herself in. And the change of attire.

“Curious.” She chimed simply, eyes looking down at his feet and all the way back up to his combed beard. Then over his shoulder. And to the right. And to the left. She felt severely underdressed in her casual garb. She’d just climbed out of a star fighter for goodness sakes. She was not fitting in to the luxurious dress of vacationers and homeowners on Naboo.

She hadn’t been in a home this large before. Nor this ornate.

Lips curved into a surprised ‘o’; and loose strands slipped over her shoulder as she peeked around him. “What. is. that.” She immediately asked, coming in and stomping around with her questions once more. A point manifested, springing from her palm and indicating toward the piano. “Do you play that?”

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

A smile creased his thin lips, and he gave her an amused look for a moment. "No Lord, but I do own the house." A dry attempt at humor. "I was actually Lord Protector, though, if you're going for titles." It would certainly explain the formality. "Some tea? Water? My manners." He motioned for her to follow as she looked around and settled her gaze on the piano. As if sensing, however, that she was out of her helmet, he gave a bit of reassurance as they got to the end of the hall.

"Don't mind my dress - it's not what you expected, I know, but it's comfortable. I like comfortable." Giving her an easy grin, he took a left and went into the kitchen area where the tea still sat, warmed and ready to pour alongside a pot of black caf.

The kitchen was all dark woods and new appliances, and the center island was more or less just a table with a few cabinets under half of it. It was at this island he now stood, a sink to his back and the stovetop just in reach. His attention was on her, but her attention would probably be everywhere else. Especially on the living area behind her. The home had more the feel of a cabin than anything else.

Not much stood out, as the designer had stuck true to form - darkly upholstered furniture in autumn tones, more dark wood for end tables and a caf table, and stone for the fireplace. A fireplace covered, as mentioned previously, in his plethora of medals in small display cases. The piano was set just behind a couch and some lounging chairs, all pointed towards the hearth. "I do play. A traveling... bard, I guess would be the term; they taught me how to play, years and years ago.

Grandma used to love to play, though she couldn't sing. She tried to teach me, but I wasn't interested. Wish I had learned though, now. So I eventually did."

But if she were paying attention to what wasn't there, she'd find plenty. Despite some shelves of books, various games tucked away and a whole lot of 'I have money and enjoy educating myself' thrown into the design of the home - all the pictures were of landscapes, or battles. There was little personal here in the way of, well... anything save the medals. It was a home, but it lacked the trappings of a man living a normal, fulfilling life.

[member="Loske Matson"]

 

[Loske Treicolt]

Everyone on Naboo was beautiful. Their clothes were too. As soon as she touched the space port, brilliant blues, golds, burgundies, greens and other jewel tones stretched over well-built bodies. Intricate stitching speaking to the price of the skirts and tunics the people wore. She should have supposed [member="Sarge Potteiger"] would not be strutting around Naboo in the same gear he sported on Sullust. Loske frowned slightly - comfort was important. She tried to reflect on her most commonly sported outfit, her pilot suit. It was somewhat comfortable, but being a onesie it did have the odd wedgie to contend with. "Is all your armour quite comfortable?"

Loske followed Sarge's footsteps into the kitchen. She was doing her best not to steer her own direction and staring; despite this being such an anomaly. Casually, she leaned on the other side of the island, plopping her elbows against the surface as he waited for her order in response to his manners. "Tea would be lovely, thank you - just a bit of blue milk if that's okay too." Her ankles crossed behind her and she continued her lean, watching idly about the kitchen and wondering if she could ever cook. She couldn't reflect on a time using so many space and utensils to make anything.

He then explained that yes, he did know how to play and how he came about it. "That's nice, to have an entertaining talent." She smiled happily and closed her eyes for a moment, as if she were about to start humming something but ocean fluttered alive once more.

"What was the first song you learned, was it one of your grandmother's favourites?" Again there was that reference to family. Between the Taliths and this conversation, it seemed the galaxy was bountiful with blood ties. The ember of envy glowed warmly in her belly.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Talent? Skill. Talent is natural, and I assure you that the only thing entertaining about my first attempts was that they were - at the very least - attempts. I was awful, just as most are. Sheet music never clicked in the head." He shrugged his broad shoulders, then raised a single bushy brow in the girls direction. "Tea in your milk? Alright."

Another mug was obtained and her tea was poured, and not ever having put milk in his tea he simply got some of that readily available blue goodness and came back over. The mug was set on the counter and a small measure of blue milk went into it. Cira sometimes put milk in her tea, though not often, so as best he could figure that's what it was for. He'd look like a right ass if she just wanted a mug of tea and a glass of milk.

...and there went his anxiety, popping off again.

It was just a pilot with an interest in apparently being his friend. Why was he nervous? Had it really been that... yes, yes it had. To the outside world, a shift had come over his face. He'd stopped halfway through capping the milk, carton in one hand and fingers of the other still holding the lid. There was a moment where the lightbulb visibly went off and his eyes fell, though his face remained stoic.

Shaking himself, he capped the milk and slid her tea over to her. A gaping pit was open in his stomach that said he hoped he was doing this right, and that he didn't want to try and let someone in only to mess it up with silly things like ignorance. "I don't remember the first song I learned, but I remember the first one I taught myself. Was always a favorite of mine, honestly. I'd offer to play, but I think [member="Cira"] is using the study and I imagine she'd prefer to not listen to it for the umpteenth time."

[member="Loske Matson"]

 

[Loske Treicolt]

It sounded like he learned by ear, rather than by reading notes. She could understand that. She'd been forced to stare at languages she was assumed to interact with in her piloting lifetime, and all the different symbols sometimes didn't translate as clearly as they should have. It was a benefit to have an accelerated learning input or she'd be stuck on basic for eternity due to her buggy forgetfulness.

"Thank you," Loske offered, hardly noticing his visual falter - although her impatience flickered when the milk paused in pouring. It was that which cued her to look at him, brows furrowed in conflict. It was like a speed bump though, and [member="Sarge Potteiger"] recovered swiftly. He explained the difference between his favourite, and his first. The favourite was memorable to a fault, his first was forgotten. She drew the tea to her lips and took a sip, looking downward reservedly in this time, considering Sarge's reference to the elusive [member="Cira"] once more.

"Speaking of Cira and listening - have you spoken to her about what we talked about?" The mug set with a light 'click' against the counter top as Loske curled her fingers around it, tilting her ponytail slightly in curiosity toward Sarge and his response. She was certainly no marriage counsellor, and she wasn't 100% guaranteed in what the relationship between him and Cira was...actually...maybe it was time she asked.

Innocence was obvious when it came to the kid, and her bright blue gaze reflected her naivety when it came to her inquiries - perhaps that's why Sarge had felt so at ease on Sullust when he opened up to her in the first place.

"What is your relationship with Cira anyway, are you two married?"

Hashtag no filter.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge studied the fashionably dressed pilot set before him. Classically beautiful would, perhaps, be the descriptor for her. But so could, perhaps, innocent. At least with regards to naivety. For the first time, he realized that the power she had over him was that she was the first in many years who didn't use information for currency. Her inquiries weren't meant to stuff a mental bank account with secrets and facts that she could use against him later.

She was curious for the sake of curiosity, rather than curious for the sake of ulterior motives.

He could live with that. Looking at her as he brought the grey mug to his lips once more, he sipped at the still steaming tea and frowned, worrying his lower lip in thought. "Cira and I, we don't communicate in a manner you might understand." Even he didn't believe that.

But it was the first thing that came to mind. "Or, more accurately, we don't communicate. We talk in unsaids. I don't say 'I love you,' and she doesn't say 'I've been waiting to hear that.' We just kind of... look at each other and just know. It's wordless, imparted through touches and sighs, smiles and the glimmer in an eye.

I spent years in her office, watching her every day to ensure her safety. She didn't need to speak, because I understood her body language completely. I think the same goes for her with regards to me.

So have we talked? Not really. But at the same time... have we talked? Yeah."

 

[Loske Treicolt]

Loske nodded slowly at [member="Sarge Potteiger"]'s explanation of his and [member="Cira"]'s relationship.

Or rather, his half-explanation.

"So you're ..... not married?" Loske finished pointedly, taking a casual sip of her tea. She didn't mean to be intrusive, she just supposed relationships in the fantastic way that Sarge spoke to his, were supposed to be tied to white and rings. Things that happened in the prototypical approach.

Not that she'd had any exposure to that.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He shook himself, blinking.

"Oh, sorry, no, we aren't. I'm not sure she'd go for it. We may as well be, but... we aren't."

 

[Loske Treicolt]

Not sure she'd go for it?
The idea intrigued Loske.

Having someone who could read you like a book without having to have anything written - and not seal the deal? Her teeth clinked against the rim of her mug and she adjusted the trajectory to not have that problem again. STrange, she was super coordinated when it came to calculating angles, ranges, etcetera - life or death mathematics in the sky - but getting a mug safely to her mouth? All thumbs.

"Hm." Loske simply offered, coupled with a hearty bob of her head in understanding.

"Certainly sounds romantic." She added, almost wistfully. She was not a person to pine for the attention of men, but if she were to have it, she'd want to to be as real as Sarge had just described. Romance was such a novelty to the young blonde, that she'd want to support it any way possible - even if it were not her own.

Loske now rotated to rest the small of her back against the counter, rather than her elbows. A gesture manifested from her arms, indicating the direction to the mantle they'd observed when she'd first arrived "Did you receive most of those awards when you were protecting Cira and The Protectorate?"

She didn't much love the sound of the Protectorate on her tongue.

Only because [member="Sarge Potteiger"] had said she couldn't fly their ships.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He brought his mug to his lips carefully, a gentle gust of breath cooling the surface of his refilled tea. Romantic? He wasn't entirely sold on it. In some ways they were - wordless communication, total understanding, an ability to understand without needing to hear. But in other ways they weren't. Most couples went out together, had a circle of friends whom they spent time with when they could.

Not them, though. And he found that didn't bother him too much.

He was just happy with her. It only bothered him in the sense that he wanted her to be more social, because he knew it would help her heal and come out of her shell. But she wasn't having it, and that... that didn't sit well with him.

"Mm, yeah. Only medals I don't have are... the prisoner of war and the Medal of Valor? I can't recall if I got the Seal of the Lord Protector, but I know I didn't get the Lady. The only difference comes from the gender of the person in charge." So, basically, he'd never been captured and never died in the line of duty, was what he was saying. Valor often went posthumous, and like hell was Sarge going to wind up in a Sith Detention Center.

"I put a lot of work into the Pyre, and then into the Protectorate." A hand went into his pocket as he studied the plagues and pictures, a man in a black, grey and white dress uniform shaking hands. There was a funeral or two up there, as well, shots of him turning over a flag - the grieving person's hands the only thing showing of them; a sign of respect for those they had lost.

He even had a few pict-captures of battlefields strung up, literal reminders of fields of fire, air strikes and even a blown bridge. He wanted to remember all of his service, not just the 'good' that came from medals. Perhaps he focused on the negative too much.

Maybe he'd take down anything not medal related, seemed a good idea. "Lost a lot of good soldiers, especially on Dagobah. But that's the nature of war, isn't it? Almost lost just as many on Coruscant to those stupid Mandalorian hardheads."

[member="Loske Matson"]

 

[Loske Treicolt]

Loske's teeth clinked against the rim of the mug as she chewed on the china thoughtfully before taking another sip of the milked-down tea. "The Pyre and the Protectorate." Loske murmured, reflecting on the thought that Sarge had said. She wasn't unfamiliar with the titles - but the difference between the two was unknown to her. From what she understood, they were both bands of mercenaries that compiled a contractual government. Some very talented, free, people worked for them.

"They were two separate entities? I thought they were one and the same, but with different names?" She was not part of the generation that had really known the glory of the Pyre or OP - and thus curiosity was her fuel for knowledge.

"I thought they were now part of the Galactic Alliance - how does that work persay, if..." she paused, setting down the mug with a wry grin and a sway of her knees "The vehicles are still separate."

She just didn't let things go, man.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"The Pyre was a for-hire unit of elite mercenaries. We fought wars for cash, pulled bodyguard work, protected trade shipments through neutral territory. Things of that nature. The Protectorate grew out of the influence the Pyre gained along the Corellian Run and the Rimma Trade Route, among other places. It was, more or less, a government that functioned as the standing army and navy of the majority of the star systems under it's purview.

In this case, the governments could make laws as they saw fit, and the Protectorate would be law enforcement, planetary defense, and orbital security. It worked, considering most of the worlds didn't have the means following the plague to build their own standing militaries.

And I was in charge of it all for a brief time, before I realized our purpose had been fulfilled. People didn't need us to protect them anymore. And through it all, while the Protectorate had a standing military of it's own, the Pyre still did work as a mercenary unit. It was always 'separate' but can you really separate the two? Perhaps not, but I'd like to think they were." He exhaled a bit, eyeing her.

A faint nod was given. "The Alliance hires the Pyre. They're our vehicles, not yours. You pay for us to show up, use them, and we arm and maintain them ourselves using the funds you're paying us. Overall it winds up being cheaper than if you were running them yourselves, but we still make a profit."

 

[Loske Treicolt]

The recipe of the structures was something she chewed on while sipping on the tea. It was halfway done and she swirled the remaining contents in consideration to his wondering about separating the two. That seemed to be a common theme in the galaxy; things being more magnetic than they should perhaps be. If the leader thought something, the persons should follow. That's how it worked until mutinies took over.

Pouted lips pursed at the operations of the Protectorate, she was not a dealer, nor an executive of any means. She was just a bubbly pilot trying to contribute to the greater good; the talks of margins, profit, revenue, trade offs, employment, etcetera, was not her field of conversation specialty. It seemed legitimate - although less glory "Seems like a very businesslike approach. The Pyre's people are okay with it?

I feel like..so many people in recent years have been tied to titles and who gets the glory, ignoring who gave the guts. Y'know?" she set the mug down and rolled the bottom around on the countertop, balancing it between her palms idly. "Never mind, I don't know." She held up a hand, rolling her wrist to brush the imaginary thoughts under the proverbial rug to gather with other dust bunnies.

"So - what do you usually do out here in lake country when you can't play the echoing piano?" The girl jiggled her eyebrows in reference to the not wanting to stir [member="Cira"], who seemed to be referenced as lurking about somewhere, with the same song again and again. "Not stare at paintings and reflect on honourable memories? I mean," she turned again, and took a few steps to the nearest window and exhaled wistfully "Look at this view!"


[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

For once, he wasn't entirely sure what she was commenting on, at least at first. But he picked up on two. "Pyre was fine with it, honestly. Seperate, and whatnot. Business wasn't stellar for them, I imagine, but things were already slowing down when the Protectorate came to be. Really, the slow down was what pushed us into starting the Protectorate, looking back." He blinked at her remark, casting his eyes to the lake.

Bringing his mug to his lips again, he made his way to the balcony door and opened it. "May as well enjoy it outside." He says quietly, letting her go first. "What do I do? I read, help her on her trips as I can, take care of the house. I get incessant letters and calls from all manner of law enforcement and military here on Naboo, asking if I'll come out of retirement to act as an advisor.

I debate taking them up on it, but I don't know. Life's revolved around her so long, what's another couple of months while I destress."

Stepping outside, he leans onto the balcony, one forearm resting across the railing while the other continues to gently bring the tea to his lips. "Sometimes I fish, or go for walks with Ashai. Hiking is nice too, plenty of scenic areas around here."

[member="Loske Matson"]

 

[Loske Treicolt]

The little blonde pilot was eager to move from the kitchen and into the pleasantness of Naboo that those with the pocket change paid for. As soon as [member="Sarge Potteiger"] opened the door, the wind reached out and tickled her tresses. Blonde wisps stuck stubbornly to her tea stained lips and around her nostrils to the point she almost sneezed. It was rare for her not to wear a ponytail.

Still, the sparkle on the Lake's gentle waves was more than a distraction. It was more glorious a scene than the one painted inside - though she dare not make that comparison to her well dressed host.

She followed him, like a devoted puppy, to where he perched contentedly and looked over the sloshing shore below. While Sarge was content leaning, Loske insisted she be a little more obnoxious and limber than the retiree. Be it competition or ignorant youth- we can't peg it. Nevertheless, with a swoop and wiggle she was balanced precariously on the railing, her back to the ocean to offer her attention to her host and not think she was simply using him for that oh wow amazing view.

"An advisor, huh?" Loske pried, musing the thought over. He'd been everlasting thus far, seemed as good a guy as any to learn from.

"Any tips you can offer from the top of your head?"

She thought to steer the conversation from Cira. Sarge seemed content almost blissful about how he'd devoted his entirety to this woman, but Loske couldn't see how someone could be so nervous to get outside! The girl was entirely ignorant to the realities of war and the Sith. In fact, she'd just had her first kill, and she'd almost thrown up. (True. The feeling of the kill was different from the implanted falsehoods of Loske's simulation flights and the triumphs from her donors).

"Who's Ashai? Isn't that what the Jedi call the Force sometimes?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Raising a brow as the young pilot sat herself proudly on the railing, he studied the water's surface as she spoke. More questions, always with the questions. They were innocent, probing in a manner that implied a lack of understanding rather than an attempt at ingratiation. It's why he tolerated them, though her jovial presence was a welcome balm to the usual quietly somber atmosphere he'd grown accustomed too.

"No, I don't much believe that's what they call the Force. They just call it the Force. Ashai is my wolf." She was around here somewhere, and he leaned forward a bit to peer up and down the waterfront as if searching for the offending animal. But she'd heard him right, he'd said 'wolf.' "Any tips? Too many to count. Everything is situational. But the best I could give you with no context would be 'keep your head on a swivel' and 'act decisively.'

Hesitation is what gets you killed. Even if it's the wrong call, just commit."

A hand came up, scratching at his beard in a contemplative manner. "It's the indecision that gets you killed more often than a wrong call. That momentary pause is all it takes, but that's another story altogether."

 

[Loske Treicolt]

Loske found herself, once again in a web of confusion and forgetfulness. A blip of recollection had floated to the watery surfaces of her memory banks, sloshing against the edges with enough of a presence to imprint, but not be caught. Ashla was what she was trying to place, one of the synonyms Jedi used for the Light Side of the Force -- though it was romantically named after one of Tython's moons. This knowledge, incomplete, was from the lips of her maternal donor. A word that Loske felt she should know, and yet was achingly barren when it came to actually being able to place it.

"You have a wolf?! That's badass. Where is she from? Here?" It seemed he was already investigating for her to appear, and that made her quite happy. It might mean she could see a real wolf, in the flesh! Loske was woefully confined in her little life, with little exposure beyond training cells, simulation pods, a cockpit, and the headquarters of the Alliance.

Oh, and that one time on Nar Shaddaa - but it had been brief, thankfully.

She shifted uncomfortably, a betrayal to the nerve [member="Sarge Potteiger"] had delicately poked with his suggestion of indecision and making the wrong call. She'd made a call recently, and it had cost her - an outcome that could have been avoided but she'd never know because she went beyond the scope of her commands. On Karfeddion, she was supposed to be an evacuation pilot, but she'd thrown herself into the fray and pew pew pew'd with the First Order's forces. Their numbers had far outweighed herself and her friend, Abel.

Things had turned dark quickly.

"How do you know when you've made the wrong call? Because...I think I did that on Karfeddion."

This was indeed the first time Loske had contended with the weight of death, and she wasn't sure how to handle it. She hadn't actually spoken to anybody about it until now. She, seemingly like Sarge, didn't have anybody to commiserate with. Her fingertips lifted and fell against the bannister consecutively in a rhythm "And I wish I knew if it was the right action or not -- if I even helped at all. It's kind of a rock and a hard place feeling, ya know?" Her head shook fervently, and the ski jump of her nose wrinkled "Don't like it one bit."

She moseyed down from her perch, and dusted off her butt for imaginary clinging dirt - though the place was quite spotless. "Anyways - from the stories you've shared, and the faces on a lot of the soldiers I've seen around Sullust, that seems like a common feeling. Responsibility. Doubt." Ugh, being a good guy could be so hard! For someone who was supposed to be a young woman, Loske's exposure betrayed her nievity to that of a much more youthful angle. Her cognitive dissonance was a poor reflection to her actual cognitive capabilities. Everything seemed as though it should be in order - but her inquisitiveness belonged to someone much younger.