He looked out the viewscreen, watching the blue lights of the wormhole flood across and around the ship, constantly shifting and warping as they painted different patterns across the durasteel cockpit. His hands were folded behind his back, his legs spread shoulder-width, in military fashion. He looked...very at home in his position, as if he had always belonged there.
"This is it, then." he said, smiling ever so faintly, no mirth in the expression. His eyes, usually kept carefully void of emotion, were tinted with a grim sadness now. The sense of a nearing end to their path was overwhelming...and rather ominous. "We either die or succeed. There is no retreat."
How often had he been in this position before? How often had he put others in this position, both in his command and out? So often he had risked the lives of those who loved him, of those who trusted and admired him...he had put them before him so very, very often, when he himself should have stepped forward.
Allowing his hands to fall to his sides, he lifted them to rest on the dash of the Hawk, now hunched over it ever-so-slightly. His eyes still didn't leave the screen. "Whatever happens..." he said softly, "I want you all to stay out of the way when we finally find and face down Bastila." his eyes flashed with a hard, steely determination that hadn't been there before. "Leave her to me."