Desolated world. I was born there. It helped to shape me who I am. But the final choices were always mine.
Her main credo. It was not an easy one. But for her meant everything.
When she managed to free herself from the trash compactor, she knew she has to clear her way back – and after her.
That was not easy. But who said her course ever was?
Clearing path from debris was her speciality. Leaving things behind was never an option.
She looked at the food that was given to her. She was easy to adapt, in almosty every situation. But even she had limits. This canteen seemingly offered things that weren’t edible.
Phasma once, after being taken from Parnassos, was dining in some canto that seemed a higher standard than others, that she visited later. But for her, it only comes to her memory as Things That Never Should Be Served or Eaten. Since then, she never dines in canteens, only relying on drinks, if the situation demands. Some things never wash away from memory.
She cleared her throat with a non-alcoholic drink, consisting sour fruits. This was… considerably good. At least it wasn’t mangled and fried in deep oil.
When she removed the helmet, Phasma allowed the streak of her hair fall over her forehead. She felt almost naked without it. Even if she was now alone, keeping the helmet on was one of her superlatives. This was how her enemies have seen her, her troops have heard her orders. This was her shield before the galaxy and her symbol. She used it as second skin and did it wisely and efficiently.
She touched her face, her fingers sliding through her cheek to stay on the lips.
Only I know how I look.
She didn’t like her look and didn’t hate it. It was only something reserved for her.
Only I know who I am.