The Mandalorian's Slave

Blue

My sleep is strange and plagued with dreams. I feel as though I'm standing on the verge of reality and fantasy. I'm floating above my body, staring down at myself. The faded quilt is wrapped tightly around my body as I sleep. My golden-brown curls are a frizzy, tangled mess as I toss and turn restlessly. My brow is furrowed and my lips turn downward in distress.

I drift past my body and into the cockpit of the ship. The Mandalorian sits in the pilot's seat, head facing towards the incomprehensible blur of stars and planets. The blinking red and green of the dashboard reflect off of his shiny armor. I sense a tenseness around. A melancholy unhappiness.

"He lacks purpose. His is not fulfilling his fate."

I blink. Where did that voice come from? It was strange, neither male nor female. Powerful. And I'm almost certain the voice came from inside my head.

I'm crazy. Insane. Perhaps I got heat stroke or this is some sort of fever dream. There is no way this is happening.

"You know this is real. You are awakening."

I want to protest but I can't. This is real. This is the truth. Something is happening. Something strange.

The ship begins to shudder as we enter a new planet's atmosphere. The lights flicker and I draw in a deep gasp and wake up.

My arms and legs feel like lead and my brain thinks sluggish thoughts but I force my to get up. I roll the mattress up tightly and fold the blanket. I don't want to get in the way of whatever mission Master is about to start.

With everything tucked away, I make way to the cockpit. The Mandalorian sits as stoically as ever, face forward as he guides the ship to landing. I gasp as I see the planet below me.

I see a swirl of cool colors. There's gleaming white snow that's gleams silver in the light of the faded sun. Pale swirls of blue mark where the deepest snowdrifts are. It's a frigid world. And it's absolutely beautiful.

The Mandalorian must notice me gaping because he asks, "Would you like to go outside for a moment?"

"Yes, please, if it's not too much to ask for." I am entranced by this world of faded colors.

The ship lands with a loud crunch as the crust of snow breaks under our weight. Satisfied that we landed well enough, the Mandalorian gets up and leaves the cockpit. I follow him obediently as he enters the lower quarters. We walk to a small door that I'm unfamiliar with. Then again, everything about this new ship is unfamiliar.

Master types in a code, too quick for me to see it, and the door slides open. I'm surprised with what I see. There's a wide assortment of deadly weapons, of course, but there's also a small piles of extra clothes. They're simple, but clean and folded.

He carefully selects a few weapons. I wonder what his reasoning behind bringing along each weapon is, but I know that's too intrusive to ask. The Mandalorian is a professional. He's killed before, and I have no doubt that he'll kill again soon. My Master moves fluidly, each action thought-out and precise. I wonder if he feels emotions, buried deep underneath his heavy armor.

He leans forward and grabs a large cloak. "Here," he says as he hands it to me.

"Thank you." The cloak is several sizes too large on me and the fabric is rough and scratchy. The sleeves go past my hands and my hem drags on the floor a bit. But I don't mind. The cloak is warm and that's all that matters.

The Mandalorian stares at me for a moment before heading back to the upper quarters. I would give anything to know what he thinks. What he feels. I follow him, walking carefully so I don't trip on my own clothing. Master pulls down a lever and the door lower toward the ground.