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002. SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
( —the principle that only the people or things that are best adapted to their surroundings will continue to exist.)
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"So, what do they call you, huntsman?"
No answer.
"Huntswoman..."
A loud, crackling sigh.
She flicked her gaze down from his broad, armoured shoulders to his strong thighs. Not anything she could recognize. "Hunt...er?"
"Stop talking."
"But, I'd rather listen to you," she urged.
Boredom was an invitation to pry, to soak into the emptiness of a moment and visualize the subtlety that life offered. Time flowed like honey, slow and dense so, a worn Myra allowed her mind to reach wherever she could and looking deeper into her hunter's mind. It was interesting what she was seeing, different from the surroundings he had been immersed into.
The ship was silent until her soft question tore through the pertinence. It was emptier than a crypt, the basement delineated with cabinet after cabinet of weapons, armoury and armaments. She had tried to get close to touching one but instead, almost lost a finger. Conversely, she had noticed his prisoners—bounties—moulded into ore and hung on a rack as if they were clothes. She had been terrified and backed away, acting flippant to it.
Myra sensed a name flit by in his mind; a title of some sort. Mandalorian. Some called him Mando but, that was a nickname. Ill-tested but, he liked it when his acquaintances called him so. Yet, Mando hated it when she spoke. She figured out why easily after, seeing that her voice had started to affect him too much. She perceived his mind go to places that she had seen most males feel when they laid eyes on her, quickly delving away before she got her emotions cut.
