@wheelbadge
Haar’chak, he wishes he had a fucking gun.
Doesn’t even have to be his rifle-- he’d take one of the basic models, trooper stuff, or even some piece of outer rim crap as like to jam as to fire. He feels like he’s missing a thumb.
Worried isn’t quite the right word. Of course Hope is worried. He would be worried even if he were armed. (No one else has guns, either, he’s sussed out; or knives or lightsabers or any other clear threat. So they aren’t the issue.) He thinks of something a civilian once said to him, about missing the feeling of sleeping in his own bed: it’s a matter of comfort. The familiar weight of armor and gear on his back, a rifle in his hands, feels like what he thinks normal people must think of home.
Nothing for it. He’s decided to make some spears in the meanwhile, maybe sharpen a flint dagger or something. It’ll be good to have something to do with his hands, something to grip in his palm as he carves out the subtleties of how to kill with it. He’s picked up some extra items in town-- some ‘safety’ garden shears, good enough to cut his rope or any vegetation he’ll need, since he’s not allowed a knife; pliers, hammer, and chisel; some chilled wrapped sandwiches (he thinks all six is overkill, but he couldn’t help himself); some candy bars. He’s not exactly planning an expedition.
A twisting footpath among the trees leads out of the little town in Tranquility, and Hope picks his way down it without thinking too deeply on his choice of direction. The trees look about right for the kind of branch he wants; moreover, this way just feels best.
The quiet isn’t quiet, full of rustling of leaves, distant cries of birds, crackling of underbrush-- that part he’s used to. It’s the way the red light dapples through the leaves and onto his skin, or the feeling of the breeze in his hair, that really gets him. It’s been days, and he’s still not used to the feeling. The luxury.
Hope stops short. Someone is up ahead: a steady presence, but some kind of restless, like a dog kicking at a wound in the middle of the night.
He rounds the couple of trees separating them, sticking to the mossy areas to muffle his footsteps without looking down, trying to get a glimpse of his quarry before he himself is seen.
It’s just a man. A man who reminded him of a blast door, but a man.
Hope puts on a smile. It’s true he doesn’t have a great motive for idle conversation, but he does wonder what exactly it is the guy is doing.
“I hope I’m not interrupting?”