She moves without thought, her bare feet dragging her from one room to the next.
Of course, there's no display of modesty in the showers. Not from Rey. She is far too accustomed to the openness of this place to really have any conscious awareness to hide the scars on her skin, or the little stubs on her one hand where only the thumb and forefinger remain, tangled through her hair as she rinses the goop from the strands under scalding hot water.
Covering her nakedness with only a towel, she makes her way to the first row of lockers. Compared to the original jump, it's become so barren here. Quiet and away from the ruckus of newcomers pouring in.
Head swirling, her feet stop in front of her own locker. Those old numbers in front of her, reacting and opening to the nanites in her arm.
She hesitates, gaping at what few possessions she can say she owns. With her stubbed hand still holding the towel around her body, she reaches in and finds her fingers clasping around a chain that she had neglected for some time.
The dogtags bearing the name R. Schuyler chink together, sliding out of the metal shelf. She lifts the chain, holding it in front of her. The tags swing side to side on their own accord, and she stands there, as those hypnotized by the little trinket.
Rey | Lockers
Of course, there's no display of modesty in the showers. Not from Rey. She is far too accustomed to the openness of this place to really have any conscious awareness to hide the scars on her skin, or the little stubs on her one hand where only the thumb and forefinger remain, tangled through her hair as she rinses the goop from the strands under scalding hot water.
Covering her nakedness with only a towel, she makes her way to the first row of lockers. Compared to the original jump, it's become so barren here. Quiet and away from the ruckus of newcomers pouring in.
Head swirling, her feet stop in front of her own locker. Those old numbers in front of her, reacting and opening to the nanites in her arm.
She hesitates, gaping at what few possessions she can say she owns. With her stubbed hand still holding the towel around her body, she reaches in and finds her fingers clasping around a chain that she had neglected for some time.
The dogtags bearing the name R. Schuyler chink together, sliding out of the metal shelf. She lifts the chain, holding it in front of her. The tags swing side to side on their own accord, and she stands there, as those hypnotized by the little trinket.