It’s been a long day, between checking the minefields and fueling every fighter and basilisk and cruiser they have and distributing every piece of beskar still in storage - long enough he feels justified in reaching his hand down to the shelf under the table’s edge and wrapping gloved fingers around a pair of bottles.
His back is to the lit holotable, the only source of light in the room other than flickering indicators on banks of computers, and he leans against it a little further with a tired sigh, cracks his neck and rubs one hand over his forehead, pushing his hair out of his eyes with an absent motion. “I’m not going to survive tomorrow,” he says, quietly, conversational, the rough edges of Mando’a turning smooth and silvery and fluid in his mouth.
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