╭━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╮

(agol)
living tissue, flesh and blood
╰━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━╯

No one is ever ready. No one can ever wait until the stars align because the stars only ever cross and the only way forward is forged in sweat and blood. She is used to working twice as hard, three times as hard and only barely making it. It leaves bitterness, a sour taste in the mouth.
"You're bleeding." The slight tilt of her helmet was the only indication she'd heard. The blood from the nick on her head had found it's way on to her chest plate, carving it's way across the painted metal in tiny streams, the blood only a shade or two darker than her chestplate.
"I had to kill him-"
"I know, mikata." Her voice was soft. "I wish it had turned out differently." Her mouth tasted bitter. And metallic. "I'll go clean up."

No matter how she scrubbed, her hands still smelled. She was starting to think she'd never fully be clean.

━━✶━━

"Mando!" A deep, jovial voice booms. She jerks her gaze to the man who spoke from scrutinizing the dock. "And another one. Mando, I thought you worked alone?"
"A lot of things have changed, Ran." Mikata stepped in front of her, almost imperceptible to her.
"So they have. But things always come back in the end. Just like you, Mando." Mikata tensed for a moment. "I was surprised when you reached out to me. Y'know, I hear things," Ran paused, trying to create suspense. "Like maybe things between you and the Guild aren't working out." Ran grinned, a sharp-fanged smile.
"I'll be fine," mikata said shortly. Ran's smile faded a bit as he glanced at her.
"Well, you know the policy: no questions."
The red mandalorian was not a fan of this. "You and your little friend are welcome here. As long as your friend is trustworthy." Ran shifted his gaze to her, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. She stared back and tilted her head.
"So what's the job?" Mikata asked, and Ran broke eye contact to look at him.
"One of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught." He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm putting together a crew to spring him. We only have room for five; your little friend will have to stay behind. We'll keep her safe."
"No." She spoke before mikata could. "We're a team."
"There's not enough room on the Crest."
"The ship wasn't part of the deal-"
"The Razor Crest was the only reason I let you back in-"
"I'm small, I'll fit." Ran's jaw tensed.
Mikata glanced between the two. "Fine," Ran finally said.
"Why do we need my ship?"
Ran turned away.
"Hey, Mayfeld!"
"Why do we need my ship?" Mikata's voice lowered, whispering to himself. The red mandalorian suppressed a giggle.
A man looked up, squinting as Ran approached him.
"This is the guy I was telling you about. The one I used to do jobs with way back when."
The man looked sharply at the red mandalorian.
"And this?"
Ran gave a laugh. "She surprised you as much as me. Insists on joining the team."
The glare Mayfeld shot her was intense, more intense than a stranger seemed to warrant. Her gut twisted. "Mayfeld's running point on this mission. If he says it, it's like it's coming from me. You good with that?" Mayfeld's gaze hadn't left her, flicking to her waist every so often.
"You tell me," mikata finally answered. Ran laughed again.
"You haven't changed one bit."
"Things have changed around here." Mikata inclined his head to Mayfeld.
"He's one of the best trigger men I've ever seen. Former Imperial sharp shooter."
Mikata shrugged. "That's not saying much." Mayfeld shot to his feet, finally tearing his eyes from the red mandalorian.
"I wasn't a stormtrooper, wiseass." He jabbed a finger toward mikata before rounding on her. "And I'm not working with a Rebel spy. You're lucky I don't turn you in."
"Your hive is dead, little drone. Hurry along before I squash you." She stepped forward before mikata held a hand up, stopping her.
"I'd like to see you try, Rebel scum-"
"Now, now, Mayfeld. See this as an opportunity. All Rebel agents are supposed to work for the New Republic. What we have is insurance that she won't betray us." That fanged smile was back. "It would be a shame if the New Republic happened to learn of a deserter, now wouldn't it?" She let a slow and steady exhale, seeing only red stains and splotches that seemed to blot out the light of the stars and leave only pooling rage. It seethed and burned beneath the surface of her skin, like steam about to blow.
A loud bang elsewhere in the hangar startled her out of her thoughts. A hiss followed and steam flooded half the hangar.
She extended a hand to Mayfeld. "Truce?" He narrowed his eyes.
"How do you know you won't blast me?"
"I'm a terrible shot."