WIRED, d. djarin ¹

03.1

⠀⠀⠀ Cyi glances at the time - tiny blue digits that blink into her vision when she looks for them. Those are new. The words in her eyes are always one of two colors: red, for warnings, urgent notifications, etc., and blue, for everything else. The timestamp is new. 'An upgrade," Asir called it, although the gleam in his eye said something more along the lines of 'a successful experiment.'

⠀⠀⠀ 14.22

⠀⠀⠀ Almost time.

⠀⠀⠀ Asir was supposed to have reattached her arm that morning. She's not sure what happened, but a notice told he was 'otherwise engaged.' Whatever that means.

⠀⠀⠀ Anyway.

⠀⠀⠀ The long and short of it is that getting her arm back has been rescheduled for 14:30. Which is getting closer.

⠀⠀⠀ She gets to her feet, and her gaze falls on the pile of clothes on her bed.

⠀⠀⠀ I should probably put those on.

⠀⠀⠀ Which isn't to say that she's not clothed in a room she knows is under surveillance; she wears the gray pants and the black undershirt. But the coat of her prison uniform - provided clothing, wherever they're calling it - is scratchy. Plus, its fibers keep snagging on the chinks in her forearm.

⠀⠀⠀ Yeah, not her favorite.

⠀⠀⠀ 14.24

⠀⠀⠀ She wrestles her arm into the long sleeve. It's tricky, because she doesn't have her other arm to help, so she has to resort to twisting at weird angles, and praying gravity will help her.

⠀⠀⠀ Once that's done, she zips the jacket up. Another tricky feat that makes her very excited to be less lopsided. She doesn't bother pinning up her right sleeve. She hates the way it hangs, but she has nothing to hold it in place.

⠀⠀⠀ She doesn't have a mirror either. Sighing, she runs a hand through her braids. Smooth enough. Her clothes are wrinkled, and she's pretty sure her hair isn't as neat as it feels. But it's pretty crikking decent.

⠀⠀⠀ She smooths the front of her jacket.

⠀⠀⠀ 14.28

⠀⠀⠀ She straightens as hurried footsteps approach. But as they draw nearer, she realizes that there are several sets, not just the usual two.

⠀⠀⠀ Weird.

⠀⠀⠀ They pass, never slowing.

⠀⠀⠀ Really weird.

⠀⠀⠀ Then they fade, and Cyis mind begins to race. They were heavy, which means armored guards. In retrospect, not her usual escort. There were at least five of them, probably more. Nowhere near the standard two at any rate. And it sounded like they were running. They went in the direction of the lab.

⠀⠀⠀ That last bit doesn't tell her much, because she was unconscious when the hunter brought her to the compound. She had no idea what its layout is. But she was pretty sure the old guy has some sort of receiving room on that half.

⠀⠀⠀ Soldiers, not taking their time, and a lot of them. Some sort of threat?

⠀⠀⠀ There are only so many possibilities.

⠀⠀⠀ 14.29

⠀⠀⠀ They should have come already. Odd.

⠀⠀⠀ No one is ever late in the compound. Probably because most of its inhabitants are droids. But that's beside the point. She sinks down on her low little bed, chin in her hand.