"Well, I'm a nice guy," Poe says with an exaggerated shrug, another flash of perfect teeth. "Doing my part to drop the hammer on bastards, right?" No, there's no one that Poe can think of off the top of his head that would say as much. Hell, he's pretty sure most of his pilots would be offended at the idea; they're a righteous lot for the most part, plenty of them bearing scars from the old Empire, the rest all too aware of who and what they're up against to doubt the way their scales balance. Then again, for the most part, there's not a lot of room for doubt. Most of their missions are clear cut, with immediate, obvious enemies actively causing harm -- no room for shades of gray.

There's not really a comparison, is there? "Suppose you and I run in pretty different circles, though." In the moment, Poe finds himself starkly aware of how easy he has it in comparison. Not that piloting doesn't require its own sharp set of skills or have its own set of issues to wrestle with, but there's cost, and there's cost.

One of Poe's eyebrows quirks, as he finally registers the look Andor's giving him. It takes another few seconds to actually register the words coming out of his mouth, though. A quiet, vaguely incredulous laugh; Poe's extremities might getting a little icy, but his teeth aren't exactly chattering yet. "Yeah, well, me either -- wait. What?" He withdraws a hand from beneath the blanket to jab a finger towards the viewport. "There's two dozen TIEs out there somewhere, buddy. They catch us napping, we're gone."

Poe doesn't mention the fact that if they catch them precisely as they are, their chances aren't that much better.