Dyssia hems and haws, and holds up two hands as if to mimic a scale. 

"So, to clarify, on the one hand--" and the left hand dips, cupping as if to feel the weight in it, "a life of ease, requiring me to submit to the whims of the skies, but which rewards me with infinite resources, infinite privilege, free time, the chance to perfect myself, the certainty that we have crafted the universe in our image like someone who hasn't quite learned about hubris yet."

The left hand rises at the same rate as the right hand sinks. "And on the other, a harrowing life of struggle, underfunded, underclassed, perpetually on a shoestring budget, harried from planet to planet by an empire larger and more willing to stoop to the heinous, requiring me to think on my feet in the service of people who may or may not welcome my help, with no resources or assistance and with much more demanding personal ethics while making myself an enemy of the public good in the name of 

"Do I understand correctly?"

This is the moment, isn't it? The call to adventure. 

Or, like. You know, the call happened a month ago. Two months? A time. 

The scales balance momentarily, wobbling, and she grins as the right hand drags itself down.

It feels… liberating. Like a relief, almost. Like the shoe has dropped, and it's because she dropped it, and-- and she's able to say things she's been thinking to someone who [i]agrees[/i] with her, holy [i]shit--[/i]

"Where do I sign up?"