Lan sat at the edge of a bar, a drink of Corellian Brandy before him and a blaster sitting next to it. The tired old Commander looked at the two different vices, war and drink. He scoffed slightly and picked up the glass of brandy, slurping it into his gullet and then slamming the glass down. He frowned slightly as he thought over the past few weeks.
Saleucami, Ossus, Manpha, Nar Shaddaa, battle, hell. Everything was drawing to a close for Havoc. In the past few weeks he had seen more of his men die than he had in his entire life time. Havoc squad members were dropping like flies, and if it was this bad for Havoc, then it was worse for the Republic military. He knew that it was all for a good cause, that it was happening in order to rid the galaxy of am evil beyond measure, but what of the soldiers?
War on the Sith was all well and good, but what of the cost in lives? What of the soldiers who could not use lightsabers or the force? The ones who were so desperately vulnerable on the field of battle.
What of those that died every day for the betterment of the galaxy. Where were their monuments? Where were their celebrations? Lan spit on the floor of the Cantina, and ugly frown on his face. He was getting sick of war, sick of the brutality, sick of the killing. Yet the Jedi kept pushing them, kept on moving the Republic to war, kept them fighting. It was disgusting that these peacekeepers had sunk so low.
Yet there was nothing he could do about it, so he drank.
A frown settled on his fuzzy little face as he downed another drink.
Saleucami, Ossus, Manpha, Nar Shaddaa, battle, hell. Everything was drawing to a close for Havoc. In the past few weeks he had seen more of his men die than he had in his entire life time. Havoc squad members were dropping like flies, and if it was this bad for Havoc, then it was worse for the Republic military. He knew that it was all for a good cause, that it was happening in order to rid the galaxy of am evil beyond measure, but what of the soldiers?
War on the Sith was all well and good, but what of the cost in lives? What of the soldiers who could not use lightsabers or the force? The ones who were so desperately vulnerable on the field of battle.
What of those that died every day for the betterment of the galaxy. Where were their monuments? Where were their celebrations? Lan spit on the floor of the Cantina, and ugly frown on his face. He was getting sick of war, sick of the brutality, sick of the killing. Yet the Jedi kept pushing them, kept on moving the Republic to war, kept them fighting. It was disgusting that these peacekeepers had sunk so low.
Yet there was nothing he could do about it, so he drank.
A frown settled on his fuzzy little face as he downed another drink.