Sometimes. [ his voice is just as level, bordering on conversational if it weren't for the thin strain in his voice, born out of wounds still healing rather than reluctance. dagoola wasn't all that long ago. barely a year, now. he attempts a shrug, but it aborts halfway through. ] Losing people under your command is always difficult, but sometimes -- sometimes they just...stand out.

[ he's been through hell and back more than once, but never anything like dagoola. nothing like dagoola. the sight of sergeant beatrice as she slipped away, brilliant red hair fading into the distance -- murka, lieutenant murka who'd been personally promoted by miles himself, whose head is the only thing miles sees anymore. whoever said dead bodies don't talk obviously never saw any combat. he's not quite aware that he's talking too much, saying too much, or at least saying the wrong things. lieutenants don't see command. lieutenants don't oversee extractions or evacs. but miles did, and his mind -- his soul will never let him forget it. ]

It wasn't even that bad of an op, if you just looked at the numbers. Ten thousand POWs in that camp, and we got nearly all of them out. [ he's not quite looking at lara, his gaze slightly distant. ] Usually it's just nightmares -- bad ones -- but, well. Sometimes not so much.