Fleeing from the life you wish more than anything to forget, you are left to navigate the galaxy alone as a wide-eyed wanderer. In the process of evading the dangers linked to your previous life, your destiny is forever altered when you cross paths...
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✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Chapter 3: "I Do the Talking" *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
As you exit the dilapidated building for the final time, the thick, humid air envelopes your body. Your grin drifts into a soft smile when you spy the gleaming starship in the distance.
Things are going to be good now, baby girl.
A hand dusts the center of your back, guiding you forward.
Things are going to be good now...
"Hey," a deep voice echoes in the distance, reaching into your dream and brushing up against your subconsciousness."Time to get up."
Your dreamworld shifts, draining away, leaving behind in its wake a hollow, unfillable... void.
"Hey," you feel a light sensation press your shoulder, "time to go."
"Mmf," you mumble, "b- baby..." You roll onto your right side, stiffening when you press up against something cold and firm. Eyes bleary with sleep, you blink a few times, letting your eyes adjust to the low light.
"Oh," you mutter, gazing upwards. "Hi."
The Mandalorian is crouched beside you, his hand pulling away from your shoulder. He angles his head to the left, and you are struck with the sudden realization that you have rolled right up against him.
Oh hell.
With a grunt, you jerk up into a sitting position and place a hand against your head.
Kriff, you didn't know which was most responsible for the crappy way you currently feel: the rock mattress, the disturbing dream, or the disconcerting presence of a Mandalorian warrior.
You hear him make a noise under his helmet as he shifts back. "It's dark enough now." He moves to stand, towering over you, and lifts his helmet to look up at the inky night sky. "We need to go."
Eyes lowering to your hands clenched tightly together in your lap, your lids twitch against the memory of your dream. Feeling grief clawing its way up, the burning sensation returns to the back of your throat, leaving you vulnerable to tears you refuse to relent to. So, you take a deep breath, mentally constructing a mask to wear, in hopes of shrouding the turmoil storming your heart.
"Okay," you finally respond, the word scratchy in your throat. You clear your throat. Rising and brushing your clothes off, you bite the inside of your cheek to distract yourself from the dull ache in your chest. You peek over at the Mandalorian to discover him cautiously observing you.
"Everything," he pauses, "good?"
You incline your head. While his vocoder neutralizes much of his voice, you know you are not mistaken at the gentleness layered in his tone. You appreciate the kindness. Kindness is rare, after all. It gives you a sort of unexpected comfort to think he might care, even if just a little bit.
