014. EASY TOUCH

( —One who is easy to control or manipulate; one who bends to the desires or demands of others. )

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By morning, once again, Myra had disappeared. 

The sharp sting of disappointment hit Din this time, an ache that came and went when his mind roamed to when she was around. Of course, the passage of the time dulled many things, allowed his brain to redirect from the frustration and reinvest in something else. 

He glanced at the crushed ball of paper in his hands as he leaned back into the master chair of the ship, smoothing out the wrinkles to see the words spelt out in the same elusive handwriting she seemed to have. It read—

𝓘𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈, 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓃𝒾𝓰𝒽𝓉, 𝓎𝓸𝓊 𝓌𝓮𝓇𝓮 𝓃𝓸𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓰 𝓈𝒽𝓸𝓇𝓉 𝓸𝒻 𝓮𝓋𝓮𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓰 𝓉𝓸 𝓂𝓮. 

 - 𝓜 

What the hell did that even mean? What had been so important that she had to deceive him of a false shut-eye to escape again? Something hot and tense sat in his guts like a fire burning slow, every moment that passed rolling into more frustration. He contemplated the sentence over and over again until he gave up.

"You saw her leave," he looked down at the kid who sat in his lap. The child seemed to be engrossed in teething the metal piece from a lever in the ship. "Didn't you?"

It didn't answer, teething away. 

"Of course you did," he sighed out loud. He was trying to snoop on Myra with a child. A fifty-year-old child, he tried to reason with his conscience.

 Myra was twice as powerful as she thought herself to be. To master control and exercise magic on an everyday routine, it shocked him to see her dependence on the prophetic waters that she praised. She had completely surrendered herself to the energy, allowing it to manifest inside her and clinch a part of her soul away. 

Sometimes, it pained him to see her long for a humane way in life. To be human, he realized. She had wanted it so much—maybe that's why she went missing every other day. She was searching for something; a purpose.  

But, praise the makers was she was enchanting. Bathed in honey-like perfection, she could stir his soul with a flit of her delicate fingers. Images of their times together in the past few weeks darted behind his eyes—the softest of caresses and the sweetest tastes in the galaxy. She was careful around him, sometimes keeping distance as much as possible how much ever it irked him.

"I'm back," a voice sung softly as the door to the cockpit thudded open. "Slept well, Mandalorian?"

It took a while for the shock to register into his system, turning around to see her enter and tug off the gold hood she wore. Dark hair tumbled down in soft ringlets and pooled around her waist, screening the brown-and-gold ensemble she had on for the day. Ochre eyes were cheery and a smile gracing her lips, so whatever business she had left—teleported—for, had ended well. 

He found it hard to conjure words, a reaction other than shock. She had stolen his breath away within mere seconds of her arrival, his pent-up frustration disappearing into the mist. All he could think about was her; that she was safe and present.

"This," she fidgeted with something at the back of her dress to retrieve her silk cloth bag, "is for you."

He caught it before it clanged into his helmet. He shook the content of the bag onto his palm, a good amount of Imperial credits rolling out. He could have made that in at most four packages in the Guild, somehow she had managed to make in a single, vanishing trip.

"How many people did you kill?" Din asked her. Myra was indulged in fawning over the child after lifting it from his lap, mimicking his small babbles and tending to it warmly. She had brought fruit for the child, passing it onto his small hands with a laugh. 

Her smile dropped to a playful glare when her gaze fell on him. "I descried for the people on a nearby planet."

"Is that a fancy word for 'kill'?"

"I didn't hurt anyone," she breathed out, returning the child back into the once-white cradle. "I used the Sight to tell their future. And the future holds capital for you."

"For you," he corrected. "It's your credits."

She smiled in a tease, showing her teeth. "Ours, then."

She was fiddling with him, he could tell. He realized how much she had come to tease him, leave him flustered and give him retorts that had him at the edge. He bit a hole into his lip every time she argued, worried that maybe one day he'll push it too far and she would disappear. For good, this time. 

"You can't just leave," he turned his back to her, looking to the slowly moving, ever-expanding universe traversing behind them. The stars were uncountable, uncontainable and even though he had stood so close, unable to get ahold of one. He could almost share the semblance with a certain someone else.

"I can if I want to," she answered simply. "Isn't that right, little one?"

"At least let me know where you're going to be," he hissed, snapping his head at her in irritation. "You can't just leave notes that say absolute crap."

Well, that came out more aggressive than Din had expected. He saw her smile flounder, looking away quickly. He had inevitably hurt her and he clambered to figure out a way to correct his sentence.

"...about where you're going to be," he added in a lower voice. "Because, I—I want to know."

"I didn't want to wake you," she answered back, curt and plain. That's when he affirmed that his words had bothered her. "Hence, the note. I'll stop them if you don't like it."

"I love them," he replied quickly, brash about making it up to her and forgetting his unsettled limits. "I do, but—"

Myra's face stretched into a satiric smile, looking at him finally. His words had stirred the fire, leaving him prisoner to her inconsolable jibes. It was Playful Myra arising now, ready to play him with her teasing games.

"You love them?"

"No," he breathed out. "Stop it. I didn't mean it like that."

"What else do you love, Mandalorian?" She continued to tease, rising from the ground to stand at her full height. She was by his side in a flash, leaning forward so that her face was mere inches away from the smoothness of his helmet. 

"I think," she whispered softly, strolling her mischievous eyes over the dark steel. "I quite love the face underneath."

He seized himself virtuous, willing to not fall for it. Letting his eyes waver everywhere else but her, he thanked the helmet that laid atop his head. A single finger trailing down the cool metal of his breastplate slowly; tempting him further. 

"Hmm," she hummed softly. "Say it again."

"Say what?" He breathed. 

"That you're mine."

He couldn't do it. It was obvious that his refusal was as thin as paper and just when the mintiness of her breath had escaped from underneath the sliver in his headgear, he knew it was impossible. Yet, he held his fort and challenged her back without moving a muscle.

The child's loud giggle interrupted them, breaking them apart. While Myra leapt to settle the child, he let out the biggest heave of breath and turning away before her dark eyes fell on him again. 

"Where are we?" She asked when the scene started to shift into considerable darkness. 

"Ranzar Malk's space station," he informed her as said station came into view. It was an enormous, patchwork of steel and large enough to house at least thirty of his Razor Crests. "I've got a job."

"The last time you had a job, I nearly got killed," she mentioned quietly.

"Well," he bit down a smile, "maybe if you listen to me, this time, you just might make it out alive."

The Razor Crest was hauled into the empty hangar on the station, Myra watching the spacecraft creep in slowly. Something did not sit well with the Mandalorian and this specific mission he had undertaken for the day. She noticed the utter lack of motion at first, then the light and resembling a dirtied work garage on the inside.

When the ship was parked at the hangar and the engines were killed, the Mandalorian rose to exit the cockpit. Myra placed a hand over his chest, her eyes intently fixated on the sprawling, botched shipport in front of her. The Ichor curled around her throat like it was choking her ever so slowly and warning her about the events that laid ahead for them. 

"I don't know about this, Mandalorian," she muttered honestly, her tone grim. "Something feels off."

"It's probably the looks of the place," he tried to console her. "Besides, I know this guy. I can trust him."

"Listen to me," she bit out through her teeth, stopping his again with more force. "I know when something is about is to go wrong. It's just—"

"Just relax," he placed his hands over her slim shoulders in reassurance. The cool surface of his gloves made her flinch. "Now, why don't you lift up the frown and give me a kiss?"

Myra looked from the scene to his helmet with a lazy blink of her eyes, stepping away from his touch. Her mind flew at an uneven rhythm of thoughts—she didn't know if it were from the tension or Din—shaking her head slowly.

"The baby," she mumbled softly.

"Oh," he strode away from her to lift the child out of the pod and pass it to Myra. "Yeah, you stay here with the kid. Don't come out under any circumstance and—"

"I got it," she chuckled lowly, leaning forward to lift the helmet until his nose and peck him softly. I took a moment for him to feel her lips against his, gone too fast before he could think. 

"Good luck kiss," she told him with a demure smile. "You'll need it out there."

∞

When four strangers and weird-looking droid boarded the ship, Myra knew she was knee-deep in an existential crisis. The blood was pulsing around her temples, her breaths becoming shallow. As usual, she started to linger in the shadows and watched them from within the darkness. She could tell they were a corrupt company, good for nothing but trouble. 

One was a human, bald male mercenary named Mayfeld. He was in charge of the operation, dressing for his profession and looking the most suspicious. He had his eyes on her the whole time, smirking to himself as if she had something he knew. But his mind was sharp and his only intention was on completing the mission at hand. 

Another was a male Devaronian, the largest of the pack and named Burg. He was burly, loud and tough and obviously, the muscle of the operation. From the male's thoughts, he seemed shallow and quite frankly, dumb. Just what she had gathered from his figure.

The last stranger was a Twi'lek female named Xi'an. She was lavender-skinned, a pair of prehensile head tails that sprouted from the crown of her head gracing her shoulders. She was a skilled assassin on the looks of it, a warrior who had fought alongside the Mandalorian a long time ago. She seemed skilled with blades and daggers but so was Myra. Thus, this woman would be suitable to play with. 

There was a droid who had accompanied them named Q9-O, shortly referred to as Zero. To the Mandalorian's displeasure and adding to his droidphobia, Zero was the one who was assigned to pilot the ship. He had shown excessive disapproval about the ship's condition, tweaking a little while ignoring the Mandalorian's death stares. 

All in all, Myra wasn't pleased with the group and so was the Mandalorian. He was frustrated with the lot of them, coming aboard his ship as if they owned it and what he was most irritated about was the invasion of his personal space. Myra realized how much he had loved solitude and at times, she was happy to give it to him with one of her disappearing acts.

Apparently, the Mandalorian and the crew were assigned to infiltrate an Imperial prison cruiser with allegiance to the New Republic. The man they were rescuing was a con, a prisoner, hence, committing a federal offence. Adding to Myra's bafflement. 

"So, you with Mando, huh? Myrina, is it?"

It was Mayfeld who approached her on the farthest end, his smirk as big as his conviction. Myra hardly tossed him a glance, leisurely sharpening a thin blade that had she had recently constructed from a piece of metal that she had found on board. 

"Myra," she corrected with a sigh. 

"From the looks, I'd say you were an angel or something," he took a seat next to her on the metal bench. Next to her was the compartment in which the baby had been stored safely, instinctually leaning into the compartment wall. 

She managed to give the blade a grin when it was meant for him. "I'm a witch."

"A witch?" He sounded impressed. "They say, you people are—"

"Temptresses?" She finished with a faraway, bored look and holding the blade out to the air to see if the tip were sharp. "Seductive? Vexatious? Oh, wait, a hex." 

"Plus," he leaned closer with the same dastardly grin, until he pushed a strand of her hair around playfully, "my type."

"Not interested," she said quietly, her voice edging on a snarl. "If you want to keep your head where it is, I suggest you don't touch me again."

"Of course, witches don't like to be touched," he hummed, thankfully tending away and sinking into a wall behind him. "Besides, gorgeous women are always hard to get. That's why Mando bagged you before I could."

"Objectifying me is not helping your position, human," she finally looked at him, a glower eminent in her face. "Now unless you have something relevant to question me about, feel free to leave."

"Feisty," he chuckled. "I like that."

She withheld a nudge from the Ichor, that manifested a deep and profound urge to hurt in every imaginable way there was. She fisted her hands tightly, releasing a harsh breath as if to expel the harmful thoughts out of her system. 

Thankfully, the Mandalorian vaulted down from the cockpit and onto the living quarters. He seemed more relaxed, once again turning tense when he watched Burg fiddle around with a few of his weapons on a cabinet. With a flick of his fingers on the control in his arms, the cabinet slammed shut.

Soon, the two had indulged in a stand-off, the Mandalorian a good head shorter than the horned male. In moments they broke apart with Mayfeld quelling their fight from where he stood with a few words of peace. 

"I get it," Mayfeld spoke to the Mandalorian, "I'm a little particular about my personal space, too. We get in, we get out and you don't even to see out faces anymore."

Myra hunched into herself, leaning back into the wall of the baby's compartment. Din looked to her in concern, his thoughts speaking everything he couldn't. She only looked away in disappointment, equally frustrated about these people holding her down to a job she didn't even want to participate in.

"Someone tell me why we even need a Mandalorian," Burg asked in a loud growling voice and then, flickering his beady eyes to Myra. "Or a stupid witch."

"Well, apparently they're the greatest warriors in the galaxy, so they say," he mentioned and sent a biting smirk Myra's way. "As for witches, they're said to have the best sex."

Myra snapped like a rubber band being stretched too far. The blade she had been honing silently was flung into the air and in mere clicks of trices, impaled itself into where she wanted. Mayfeld let out a surprised breath, seeing where the knife had been stabbed.

"Nice aim," Mayfeld managed to stammer out in all nervousness. The blade's tip had missed his crotch by a few insignificant millimetres, landing at the space between his thighs and wedged into the metal.

"You mean I missed my mark," she said, her catching her lips between her teeth as if displaying a poisonous seduction. Bending forward, she grasped the knife from where it had been impaled and making the mercenary jump. 

"And yes, if I were best at intimacy," she drawled out, eyeing the Mandalorian with a smirk. "I'm sure you'd be the last to know."

Suddenly, Burg and Xi'an had burst into fits of chuckles. The female's eyes were intently pressed on Myra as she stood up abruptly, her nails tearing through the skin in her palms. Her teeth gritted against each other audibly as she walked away with a slam at the Mandalorian's shoulder. He didn't try to stop her as she settled herself on the other end of the transport. 

"Leave her alone," he warned them. 

"I'm starting to like her," Mayfeld smirked. 

There was a fierce inferno that burned in his chest, an urge to tell them off. Myra was satiated by just that simple impulse and letting waves of calmness wash over her. The Mandalorian would have her back. 

"Well, you flew with him, Xi'an," Mayfeld spoke shortly after, ignoring the warrior's words. "Is he as good as they say?"

Xi'an was smug when she replied, balancing her dagger's tip on her forefinger. "Ask him about Alzoc III."

Myra's eyes lifted to the female's conceited smirk on her face as she looked at the Mandalorian, hoping to fluster him. But Myra heard his uniform heartbeat, the way he seemed to hold his ground without swaying to her words. 

"I did what I had to do," he stated clearly.

Xi'an chuckled darkly, pointing the dagger at him in accusation. "Oh but, you liked it. See, I know who you really are."

Myra's mind faltered for a few seconds, unable to comprehend the situation. The Ichor didn't receive her pleads as she wanted, suddenly as if it were retreating away for her own good. As if the waters held back something she would not like to see.

"He never takes off the helmet?" Mayfeld asked the warrior female again to which she snickered lightly and replied in a teasing voice.

"This is the Way."

"Huh," the bald male began to wonder out loud, "I wonder what you look like under there. Maybe he's a Gungan."

All of them started to laugh but the Mandalorian was the least bit pleased with their teases, not taking it to heart. She could tell he was smirking under the helmet, making her smile too.

"Is that why yousa don't wanna show your face?"He asked the Mandalorian in a strange accent and then, Xi'an. "You ever seen his face?"

She gasped innocently when she was anything but. Myra saw nothing flicker alight in her memories so she discerned that the female had indeed never seen his face. 

"A lady never tells." 

"And you, sweetheart?" Mayfeld asked Myra, who didn't even look up to acknowledge him. 

"All I know is that he has a face a mother could love," Myra responded in a falsely sweet voice, tilting her head at Mayfeld. "Unlike some other people on this ship. Sweetheart."

Mayfeld stood up in fury. "Don't talk about my mother, you stupid witch."

She laughed, prodding the fierce man again. "Aw, did mommy's boy get his feelings hurt?"

"Myra," the Mandalorian said simply, not even making an effort to stop her. Why should he—the man deserved it. Moreover, he deserved it from the witch on the ship. The others only guffawed at his offence.

"Does the big boy miss his mommy?" Myra continued to tease. 

"Shut up."

"Ooh." She thinned her eyes. "Riled up, are we?"

Before Mayfeld could a move on her, Myra had the Ichor on the rails. The dark energy had coiled from around her arms like vines and produced an unforeseen force that barricaded her from the man's go at her. It slammed into his front with painful coercion when she fisted her hands, making him fall on his back with a groan.

"She's perfect," Xi'an breathed out of her nose, looking at Myra with a smirk. "You're bold enough, witch."

Mayfeld only rolled onto his front to haul himself back on his feet. Looking at Myra, all tongue in cheek, he winked at her. 

"I'm suddenly starting to like you more," his tongue touched his upper lip in a poisonous retort before he spoke again, "trull."

This man knew just how to push Myra's buttons. With her lips curled into a deadly sneer and the name spiking a ferocity she never knew she had, she lunged at the man with a high-strung growl. Before she could pummel his stupid smirking face into a satisfactory gulp, something had dragged her back from the waist.

"Don't touch me, Mandalorian," she hissed at him before staring daggers at the mercenary again. "Who are you calling trull, you hairless hog? I'll show you what—"

"Myra," the Mandalorian held her in iron vice around her arms, restraining her easily. "He's messing with you. Don't fall for it."

Myra felt deceived. Cheated. Beaten. And she hated the feeling. She craved for payback, inflicting pain on someone like never before. Her fingertips itched with the magic of misery that she never vowed to use, her teeth grinding against each other with intensity. She felt like a cracking dam, her defences chipping slowly as the mercenary fed into her manic barbarity with his caustic leer. 

She shook his grip off her with a glare his way. "I'm letting him go. For you."

"You think this itty bitty witch is going to kill you, Mayfeld?" Burg walked to her, looking at her as if condescending her. "What have you got, little girl?"

"Don't touch me," she said slowly; menacingly.

"Don't touch her," the Mandalorian repeated with a defeated sigh. "Seriously, it's for your own good."

"Or what?" Burg challenged, continuing to stare her down who followed suit, unappeased. 

A single stroke was all it took to raise hell. Myra went feral, her hands clawing the side of his face with a growl leaving her lips. She propelled him into a wall, powering another punch for the spot she scratched him but Burg yowled out, his hands going to support himself from the strike. The Mandalorian or the others did nothing to stop them, allowing them to fix it themselves. And it was all that was needed to end this rat's life.

"Easy, my child," the Ichor crooned out in a muted voice in her ear. "Remember your place."

"I have no place," she muttered unknowingly.

In a moment's need of defence, Burg's hand struck a button by mistake. The compartment which held the baby slung open, the child's wide eyes breaking her out of her wild reverie. Its soft coo broke the tense, wondering silence the ship had been immersed into. 

"Whoa," Mayfeld whispered, "what is that?"

Myra was shocked, unable to move and answer. The Mandalorian seemed to exhibit the same emotions as her, waiting to control the situation with a simple lie.

"You get lonely up here, buddy, huh?" He asked in a childish voice. He looked to the Mandalorian, amused. "Is it your pet or somethin'?"

"Yeah," the Mandalorian answered, efficiently lying through his teeth. "Something like that."

"Didn't take you for that type," Xi'an crept towards the Mandalorian as if trying to agitate him. He never even moved a muscle, all his thoughts flurried around the child's safety. "Maybe that code of yours made you soft. Or the witch."

"Me, I was never really into pets," Mayfeld continued to speak, breaking into the ruffling conversation between the ex-partners. "Yeah, I didn't have the temperament." 

Myra rolled her eyes, watching the child coo up at the mercenary is equal parts curiosity and fear. Her fingers itched once again and she rubbed them together in a motion to slacken.

"Patience, you know? I mean, I tried, but never worked out. But I'm thinkin' maybe I'll try again with this little fella."

Myra made a move to stop him before he held the baby but a hand latched over her wrist gently. He heard him in his thoughts, his suave voice asking her to keep her head on and just relax. She let out a tough breath, bristled.

White knuckles from grasping her fist too hard, and wiring her jaw shut from the struggle to remain silent, her hunched form discharged a hostility that was like a psychedelic—consuming, slicing, influential. Her face was red with suppressed rage, and when the Mandalorian's soft whisper bled into the mire of hasty thoughts, her rage was swallowed into an ocean of stillness.

It was an easy touch that retained her chaos into relaxation, kept her peace and the slice of her dignity. 

X X X

{ do you have any clue what Myra's capable of? i'd love to hear your thoughts—drop me an answer here and maybe, just maybe, I might tell you *wink wink* }