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021. DEAD MAN WALKING
( —Any man who is near death or certain to die.)
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"I don't like your leader."
"Greef's not my—" The Mandalorian let out a sigh. "He's not my leader."
Myra never trusted a person of authority. Men who relied on themselves were superior, inexplicably over their heads and demanded respect they would never achieve. These were usually the men who liked to flaunt their influence when they didn't have the slightest clue of her Ways.
The pendulum of inequality seemed to never suspend, swinging from side to side, victimizing and terrorizing. She was still viewed as a scarlet lady, just like Luna had warned her, and the galaxy was still in for a paling. The ones with hearts didn't have compassion, empathy or kindness, yet here Myra was. Without a heart and being more tolerant than a real-hearted person ever could be.
"Hey," the Mandalorian called to her in question while he walked beside her on the black, lava-hardened plains of Nevarro. "What are you thinking about?"
Myra laughed through her nose, deciding to humour him a little. "I'm thinking about primitive impulses and new prospects that could arise instead."
"Forget I ever asked."
"I actually wanted to ask you something," Myra said, looking at him apprehensively. He could see that she was hesitant, unable to trust her mind and the words that would soon follow. She bit on her lips; he found it adorable.
"Go on, Myra," he said, his voice betraying of his amusement. She was asking him permission for asking a question. How was he supposed to refuse her?
"What did you," Myra halted to push a dark strand of her hair behind her ear, "think of me when we first met?"
