If James had noticed the mistake in choice of wine, it didn't show - though inwardly he considered it an... interesting decision. Bretonia wasn't really known for its wines; they often turned out too sharp and sour to gain common approval, when they weren't watery and tasteless.

Shifting from that thought, he tried to figure out a way to talk about his job without revealing too many details about the Sabre initiative. Of course, he'd love to impress a girl by saying he gets sent on all kinds of dangerous and important missions, but really, not much of it was particularly glamorous - good as they were at their job - and he didn't want to make this date a security leak either.

"Yes. I'm a fighter jockey, got transferred to battleship Suffolk not long ago. Has left me with less time on my hands than you'd normally imagine, what with being so close to home. I've seen... quite a bit of combat, to be honest, since the day I finally graduated from the Academy and made OF-1. Er, Ensign, I mean. I've fought the Gauls on their many incursions into Leeds and such. Mollys, when we couldn't talk them down. Corsairs too, whenever they lurk around in our space for too long. Not to mention other, independent pirates, of course."

He paused briefly, seemed to think.

"Even smugglers, when they try to run or stand their ground and fight instead of complying with our instructions, I guess."

He sighs.

"Sorry if you think it's in poor taste for me to talk about this kind of stuff. War is rarely as pretty and organized as the recruitment ads say."

Arland noticed Nebraska's obvious discomfort pretty fast. His brow furrowed, and he seemed to be studying her face quite intently. There wasn't a hint of a smile on his face when he next spoke.

"No. It's really not."

He set down the beer, leaned back and sighed.

"You know, I keep thinking. The invading Gauls and Corsairs and such? I have little sympathy for them, trying to subjugate or loot places wherever they go. I have no qualms about fighting them - they need to be stopped if Bretonia is to survive as a nation. But when it comes to smugglers... It gets pretty complicated. Morally speaking."

He pauses briefly, considering his next words with care.

"Say I encounter and identify someone as a smuggler, clearly and with irrefutable evidence. I order them to stop and pay the fine for their contraband, repeatedly, and they don't. Unlike pirates or foreign militaries, smugglers are obviously civilians. Thus an uncomfortable question arises that otherwise is not an issue: Who am I really shooting at? A self-serving, greedy criminal, who doesn't care whose lives the contraband he carries might destroy? A thrillseeker, who's in the business for the kicks? Or someone who's just trying to make a living any way they can, running away because they can't afford to lose their cargo?"

He leaned forward in the chair by a bit, watchful and... Apprehensive?

"So here is my question to you... Nebraska. Imagine yourself in my position, behind the controls of a fighter in the situation described above. You're in command - the initiative is entirely on you. What would you do? Do you do your job or do you turn a blind eye? What is the right thing to do?"

James leaned back again, picked up his glass and drained a quarter of it. Despite by how he was apparently trying to remain largely expressionless, he couldn't hide the tension in his grip, so obviously something in how Nebraska had spoken or reacted when he mentioned smugglers had left him quite suspicious.

However, he figured it was time to relent and stop inflicting undue stress on Nebraska. Even if his suspicions were correct regarding her occupation, that was no reason to be unfriendly. He allowed a mild smile, hoping to put her a little better at ease than his previous attempt at a kind of harsh character-gauging.

"I guess you're right. I apologize. It's just that wherever I go these days, the job seems to follow whether I want it or not."