As Hilbert sits on his bunk, he turns his mind back in time to when he first asked his parents why they moved to NAUC. He was 12 years old at the time about to start the boarding school, and his father told him the story. He had a Mercanan close friend who he kept in contact with, who told him about the Zentragothic government's corruption. With his wife, Hilbert's eventual mother, he left the Imperium before the Zentragothorum closed it's borders, and moved to the capital of NAUC with almost nothing but their clothing, gaining political asylum and a NAUC citizenship.
Now he jumps to the age of 15, where his love of flying was planted and bloomed. Sure, it was a stuffty single-prop that probably couldn't last a few hours of continuous flying, but back then, it seemed like a revolution. The skies were his now, achievements thought impossible to him before were now in his teenage grasp.
Ten years... ten years ago, I would have never thought I would be fighting against my own, using these wonders, innovations for death and destruction. Such is war.
It still doesn't stop him feeling guilty, really. He stops thinking for a moment and decides to take out a photograph of himself in the Air Force Academy, graduation period. There was Joel. Here's Farghan!
After looking around to see if someone's near him, he mutters ["That cracked me up, that goofy innocent tone. I wonder how he's doing?"] in Gothic, his tongue of choice. His birth language, or so he thought.
Graf decides to get up and head again for the mess hall. That's enough for a day. Too much thinking can clutter up the mind, it can stop you from doing the job well. And he had to, in the Air Force.