"If we'd never been soldiers?" she echos, the mere thought of it so far removed from her life, her memory, her being that it takes her more than a few moments to gather her footing. Every version of herself, every instance of who she could have been, all lead back to the war - all sprint down the same, familiar path to the cold durasteel of a blaster against her hand, or the unfeeling chill of a truncheon. The ache of a fist, the shattering of bones and teeth. She can't separate herself from the wars and battles she's been in, can't picture her arm without a blaster at the end of it.

And yet -

Here they are.

No blasters to speak of. No wars. No Alliance, no Empire. Cleansed, forgiven (?), redeemed, by something or someone or the Force or something else entirely. If this was the life she had led from the start - if she'd grown up in this village, had been sung to sleep by the lullabyes of her mother, had been encouraged by the brilliant light in her father's eyes - who would she have been?

"It would depend if we even liked each other," she quips, tongue still curling and curving around the sarcasm she shares only with those closest to her. "But we'd just met .. knew each other outside of Captain and Rebel and all." She murmurs a pensive note. "If I didn't like you, I'd probably call you Cass Trash. Or Trashy Cassy." She does her best to stay dead-pan and even-faced as she says this (a twitch of her lips betrays her). "If I did like you .. I don't know; what sorts of nicknames do friends give each other?" Her frame of reference is unfortunately narrow for things like this. "What would you call me?"