"Yes, s -- yes," he says, in a hasty course correction away from another sir. "I serve in the Colonial Fleet."

...Served, maybe. His throat tenses again as the possibility occurs to him: even if he's just a bridge bunny, the injury might be severe enough to warrant a discharge.

You don't need two working legs to read a DRADIS screen, he tells himself, as firmly as he can, but the morpha washes away the thought before it can stick.