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Mahri woke up to her alarm, sat up ready to scramble to be on-the-dot on-time, but stopped.
“It’s my fucking day off,” she muttered in her real voice. She flopped back in bed. A minute passed. Then two. Mahri sat up again, running a hand through her hair. “Nope, can’t sleep.”
She got out of bed, changed into civilian clothes, and just went to...wander. It was a preventative measure, this habit of hers. In so many books, the soldier loses sight of what they’re trying to protect. They get lost in the blood, in their own pain, in their own glory, their own comrades. They forget those at home: those not on the frontlines, those who cannot fight for themselves. Some would call them “the little people,” but she always thought that term was disrespectful. It implies that the soldiers are “the big people” like the adults to children when she has seen that that doesn’t hold any onze of water. She’s yet to find the right term that feels genuinely fitting, but she will not forget the connection she intrinsically shares with the people here. Mahri Rhivesa, whose life is made of ash, smoke, and shadow, will not be one of those soldiers.
She found a spot in Hawker’s Alley and just...watched quietly. An elezen mother with her child did her grocery shopping, showing the child how to tell if the fish is fresh and laughing as the child made a face. A little while later, a miqo’te kit caught Mahri’s eye.
She was small, her hair, ears, and tail a dusty white. She wore what Mahri recognized as a shirt made of leather scraps, fallen bits of Yellowjacket uniforms that probably someone had cut off in fights. Her trousers showed the same signs, as did the bag slung over her shoulder. Her purple eyes (narrowed, probably had Seeker blood) flicked from the bakery’s stall to the fruit stall.
Mahri watched as the kit pretended to trip just as the baker’s apprentice was rushing over to the stall (fresh cinnamon bread on a platter balanced on top of his head, perfect for the morning chill). The lanky roegadyn teen smashed into the ground, but the bread was miraculously in alright (if just on the ground) condition. Mahri smiled to herself as the kit opened her mouth. “She’s going to apologize,” Mahri told herself.
“Oh, Byregot’s hammer!” the kit yelped, putting her hands to her chest for a split second (Mahri caught her bag’s subtle opening from the action). “I am so, so, so sorry, mister!”
“You better be!” the apprentice growled. “Can’t be late, bakers have to be on time so then everyone else can be on time!”
“Of course!” the kit replied, scrambling to pick up the loaves. “You carry the rest of us on your large muscles.”
The teen’s anger immediately poofed. Mahri could see his ego physically manifest as he looked at his arms. He was packing some heat on those guns, but it was nothing to write home about. “You bet I do, lil miss!” He picked up some of the loaves.
“Flatter him while he’s stroking his own ego,” Mahri silently told the kit. “Nothing makes a better distraction than one’s own self.”
The kit didn’t need her advice, though. “Of course! You could carry me with one ‘and, sir!” she said as she slipped one of the loaves into her bag. “I bet those big flour bags at work are nothin’ t’ you!”
“Damn straight,” he replied, setting the loaves straight on his platter. He was so caught up in his pride; he didn’t know that he was missing three loaves by the end of his interaction with the kit. He walked off, and the kit scampered.
Mahri stepped out from her spot, walking over to the baker’s stall. “How much for three loaves?” she asked.
The baker looked at her, and the lalafell woman told her the price. Mahri opened her coin purse and left the money, ignoring the woman’s call of confusion as Mahri booked in in the way the kit scampered.
She caught up with the kit, finding her chewing on a loaf without a care in the world at the docks. She smiled at the kit, who looked up at her with confusion.
“Can I ‘elp ye, ma’am?” the kit asked.
Mahri smiled. “Enjoy yer breakfast, little vagabond.” She winked. “Oschon covered ye today.” She squatted next to the kit. “Your execution’s good, but your escapes need work. A good prep beforehand will help.”
“...what?” the kit blinked innocently. “Yer a lush, ma’am, I don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout.”
Mahri chuckled. “Sure thing, lass. Next time, some fishing wire’ll do to make an invisible way to pull that old apple stall’s weak foot-”
“-cause the whole thing to come crashin’!” The kit’s eyes lit up. She paused and cleared her throat. “Don’t know what yer talkin’ about. I’m a good Nymeia girl, Oschon who?” She winced.
Mahri laughed. “Work on playing dumb too, little vagabond.” She stood. “Don’t want to play too dumb.” She walked off, smiling to herself.
The people she was fighting to protect, she decided, were the blood of the world. And she wouldn't see a damn drop out of place, if she could help it.