‘Not bad advice “for an alcoholic”, huh?’ Brandon seems to ponder this for a moment, strangely pensive from her words. Eventually he shrugs.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“Alcoholics can give either the best advice or the worst; with nowhere in between. Second, don’t drink kid, you’re smart for not doing it much because you’ve got better karking things to do with your time.” </span><br/><br/>He snorts softly from her jibe. While Brandon didn’t entirely know how much the lady knew about ships or himself, he was more than confident in his abilities… He figured if he was drunk, heavily sedated, handcuffed, blindfolded, the other guy might have a chance. He’s probably just cocky, but that does come from somewhere.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“Listen, I could get us through a Republic blockade if I wanted to!”</span><br/><br/>He pauses, considering his words…<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“Even if I were dead drunk!”</span>He adds triumphantly.<br/><br/>The man’s heart seems to lift, life itself seeming to flow into him. He was utterly dumbfounded that he had made the request in the first place; he was, if possible, more confused by her acceptance. He shakes his head, electing to lead her towards a local Mon Calamari sushi chef; the only thing he still ever indulges in, if he were honest with himself.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“It’s nearby, we’ll take my hovercar, five minutes, maximum.”</span><br/><br/>He casually walks over to his car, a rather unseemly thing that makes no effort to hide the myriad customizations its owner put upon it. The car roars to a start with the insertion of his datapad, and he begins to configure the automatic destination. A hairs breadth from starting the car… Amara’s comment stops him. Memories… Guilt… One very specific man who he would never forget. A hero to the end… It’s my fault… They were all worth more than me… He shakes his head violently, starting the car with a bit of a pant… His breathing remains shaky for a while but, if there were any way to honor a man’s memory, it would be to share his story, right?<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“T8-NK. Demolitions expert, commando, Jet Trooper, Pilot… He did it all… Some rich guy made a copy of his son and the whole family karking just died a week later. They decided to grow him out, why not; it had all been paid for. Anyway, when he was fully matured, which, back then they had to do the slow way, they released him into the Republic military in exchange for a favor… That was fifty years ago.”</span><br/><br/>Brandon takes his hat off, allowing his eyes and hand to inspect this treasured artifact of is… It truly was blown to shit; riddled with holes and honestly more tape than hat.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“It took me three days, a starfighter, and a republic industrial walker to dig this out. I’m assuming it fell off earlier, because we never found his body. Let’s just say the war would be a lot different today if he hadn’t... done what he had to do.”</span><br/><br/>Abruptly the car stopped; they destination, he had forgotten all about it. He rose from the car, taking the datapad with him in a practiced motion. It was a quant looking place; clinging to a bygone era and out of touch with the architecture around it… but damn that Chef was talented.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080FF">“I hope you like Sushi.”</span>