There's nothing like the silence of space. On a planet, the quiet is never quite quiet; there is always a breath of wind, the rustle as it passes through leaves or grass or the hollow sounds it makes over stones and sand. There are birds, there are creatures. On a ship, a functioning ship, there's never quite a silence either. The constant, distant hum of engines, life support; vague hints of people moving through the corridors. Often, voices, distant or proximate.
Silence is never fully silence.
Except here.
A dead, flat quiet. And yet, when Cassian closes his eyes, he can hear the soft sound of Poe breathing. He can hear a hint of strain as the ship grows accustomed to the lack of internal gravity, of the stresses of rotation. He can hear Poe shift, turn his head to look to Cassian.
It's a silence that throws a spotlight on every sound, and casts all else into obscurity.
"No," admits Cassian. "Too bad. I could stand to win a few credits off a pilot."
There's a bunk in the back. Blankets. Cassian undoes the harness holding him to the chair and delicately pushes off from two points. He maneuvers in microgravity with a graceful precision; it's always come easily to him. No up and down, and every limb, every shift of his body, must have a purpose. He floats by the ceiling, one hand flat on the ceiling to arrest his motion, one foot against the wall to keep him steady.
He slides open the emergency compartment and flicks on the two oxygen recirculators. Unfortunate fact about that technology: it works better and longer the more oxygen is already in the air. Something that small won't give off a signature large enough for Imperials to spot.
He anchors them to the wall with two carabiners. There are a few chemical heat packs, but they shouldn't end up needing those so quickly. That's for exposure to the elements, on more hostile worlds. There are two blankets, though, and Cassian retrieves them.
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Silence.
There's nothing like the silence of space. On a planet, the quiet is never quite quiet; there is always a breath of wind, the rustle as it passes through leaves or grass or the hollow sounds it makes over stones and sand. There are birds, there are creatures. On a ship, a functioning ship, there's never quite a silence either. The constant, distant hum of engines, life support; vague hints of people moving through the corridors. Often, voices, distant or proximate.
Silence is never fully silence.
Except here.
A dead, flat quiet. And yet, when Cassian closes his eyes, he can hear the soft sound of Poe breathing. He can hear a hint of strain as the ship grows accustomed to the lack of internal gravity, of the stresses of rotation. He can hear Poe shift, turn his head to look to Cassian.
It's a silence that throws a spotlight on every sound, and casts all else into obscurity.
"No," admits Cassian. "Too bad. I could stand to win a few credits off a pilot."
There's a bunk in the back. Blankets. Cassian undoes the harness holding him to the chair and delicately pushes off from two points. He maneuvers in microgravity with a graceful precision; it's always come easily to him. No up and down, and every limb, every shift of his body, must have a purpose. He floats by the ceiling, one hand flat on the ceiling to arrest his motion, one foot against the wall to keep him steady.
He slides open the emergency compartment and flicks on the two oxygen recirculators. Unfortunate fact about that technology: it works better and longer the more oxygen is already in the air. Something that small won't give off a signature large enough for Imperials to spot.
He anchors them to the wall with two carabiners. There are a few chemical heat packs, but they shouldn't end up needing those so quickly. That's for exposure to the elements, on more hostile worlds. There are two blankets, though, and Cassian retrieves them.