She's forgotten about the man holding the pendant - eyes so hyperfocused and diligent on the thing itself, the flood of memory washing her away like the current.
The sound of her mother's laugh - not her real laugh, which was beautiful and clear and as melodic as a chime, but the one she'd force through her teeth when the last thing she'd felt like doing was laughing, but had to make it appear genuine. How she'd heard it that night the Man in White had been to their apartment on Coruscant.
The roundness of her eyes, the upward slope of the tip of her nose. The depth of her eyes, endless and warm and inviting - yet turned to steel and fire when threatened.
"You got your father's mind, but you got my spirit," she'd said once when Jyn was quite young, gently scrubbing at the girl's back with a sponge in the tub. The way she'd said it made it sound like it had been a bad combination, but when Jyn looked up to search her mother's face, all she'd seen was love and softness.
She can feel the skeleton inside of her body begin to curl in on itself, detaching from skin and muscle - retracting, protecting, shrinking. Wanting nothing more than to make itself smaller, and smaller, until it ceased to exist - wanting nothing more than the soothing graze of her mother's hand on her brow, the dulcet blanket of her lullabys around her body.
She thinks - for a moment - that the touch on her skin might be hers, that the fingers may lead to the hand of her mother. But when she comes to, when her eyes come back into focus, and she sees the visage of a man she doesn't recognize -
Panic.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" she shrieks, swatting his hand away with such clarity and force that the sound of skin slapping skin makes her ears ring. The heat of her gaze is setting fire to everything it falls upon - and this man has the unfortunate fate of being caught in the blaze.
Instinct kicks in - hands ball into fists, arm swings back to maximize momentum, driving itself forward until it meets his shoulder - the one in the sling, knowing it's the best bet of exploiting a weakness. The pain of contact shatters up her arm to her shoulder, but she can't stop to think about it.
She has to run. She has to escape.
She diverts the weight on her feet from offensive to sprinting, sprinting past the man now doubled over in pain, sprinting as far away from the cabin as she can.
*sobbing in the corner* i feel like i need therapy after writing this tag, i'm so devastated.
The sound of her mother's laugh - not her real laugh, which was beautiful and clear and as melodic as a chime, but the one she'd force through her teeth when the last thing she'd felt like doing was laughing, but had to make it appear genuine. How she'd heard it that night the Man in White had been to their apartment on Coruscant.
The roundness of her eyes, the upward slope of the tip of her nose. The depth of her eyes, endless and warm and inviting - yet turned to steel and fire when threatened.
"You got your father's mind, but you got my spirit," she'd said once when Jyn was quite young, gently scrubbing at the girl's back with a sponge in the tub. The way she'd said it made it sound like it had been a bad combination, but when Jyn looked up to search her mother's face, all she'd seen was love and softness.
She can feel the skeleton inside of her body begin to curl in on itself, detaching from skin and muscle - retracting, protecting, shrinking. Wanting nothing more than to make itself smaller, and smaller, until it ceased to exist - wanting nothing more than the soothing graze of her mother's hand on her brow, the dulcet blanket of her lullabys around her body.
She thinks - for a moment - that the touch on her skin might be hers, that the fingers may lead to the hand of her mother. But when she comes to, when her eyes come back into focus, and she sees the visage of a man she doesn't recognize -
Panic.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" she shrieks, swatting his hand away with such clarity and force that the sound of skin slapping skin makes her ears ring. The heat of her gaze is setting fire to everything it falls upon - and this man has the unfortunate fate of being caught in the blaze.
Instinct kicks in - hands ball into fists, arm swings back to maximize momentum, driving itself forward until it meets his shoulder - the one in the sling, knowing it's the best bet of exploiting a weakness. The pain of contact shatters up her arm to her shoulder, but she can't stop to think about it.
She has to run. She has to escape.
She diverts the weight on her feet from offensive to sprinting, sprinting past the man now doubled over in pain, sprinting as far away from the cabin as she can.