tritanopia | The Mandalorian

eleven

No matter how hard Fae tried, it was impossible for her to imagine any kind of relationship which didn't involve her being owned. Her father, and every man who came after him, all the way up to the Mandalorian — they all owned her in some way or another. Perhaps that was why the girl was incapable of imagining someone having other intentions with her. Why she didn't trust people. Why she didn't trust Dr Pershing.

Despite the fact he was just as scared as she was half the time, although perhaps showing it more than her, she didn't trust him. Because he still did as he was told — whatever he was told. Every time, no matter how much fear Fae held in her eyes, or how much reluctance he held in his, he did as he was told.

So when Fae had shoved and banged and screamed against the door until her voice was hoarse and her knuckles were like that of a warrior's, they decided to sedate her — which was not a new experience.

Stormtroopers strap her into the medical chair, doctor comes in, needle, and so on and so forth. It had happened a thousand times over and would, most likely, happen a thousand times again. But Fae didn't hate it. Sure, being held down and drugged was not a pleasant experience in the least, but it paid off, in a way. Fae became as numb on the outside as she was on the inside. And it was glorious.

Fae was a child of the universe. Born to bathe in supernovas and disappear into black holes. Understand everything there is or ever would be, the beginning and the end of time. You cannot disappoint the universe, the constellations do not care about you. And that's what Fae's soul cried out for — to be meaningless. Imperceptible and yet the exact opposite simultaneously. So when she was drugged, as high as the tips of the treetops she dreamt about, that was as close to such an existence as she would ever achieve. However, such a theory relied on Fae being alone. But of course, they do not inject her with poison to simply leave her be.

A hand met her cheek for the fifth time, or perhaps it was the sixth or seventh — as previously established, Fae was off her shit on drugs; she didn't know. Nonetheless, she let out a sharp breath of pain as her neck snapped to the right.

"Isn't the point of an interrogation to ask questions?" She groaned while slouching down in the seat. "Because so far you've asked fuck all." Apart from a head stuffed with cotton and the blazing red cheek, Fae was actually in a better condition sat in that chair compared to when she arrived. Hydrated, fed, medically examined — even the wounds on her wrists had been bandaged up. So it didn't really make much sense to do all that and then decide to beat her up once again. The Client, who happened to own the hand which had slapped her, leaned down to her level, so they could see eye to eye; even if the girl's were unfocused.

"This is not an interrogation," He spat, literally, with a few tiny particles ending up on her face, "I'll leave that for your father."

Fae eyes, which had previously been counting the amount of cracks in the wall, suddenly focused in on his like a predator on the verge of starvation finally spotting prey. Her jaw was set, along with every other muscle her small body possessed, causing her voice to come out sharp and strained when she finally replied, "Don't you dare call him that."

He just wanted a rise out of her, something to entertain himself with probably, before she was sent back 'home'. And she knew it too, even before she saw the way his mouth quirked up wickedly at her reaction. After a few painfully long seconds, he stood up straight once again, and left the room without another word towards her. However, when one foot was over the threshold of the door he turned back to the doctor and ordered him to "keep an eye on her". Whatever that meant. In the state Fae was in, there was literally not one chance of her even getting out of the chair — which she wasn't even strapped into anymore.