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F O U R. the contract. word count: 5294
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YOU ONLY WOKE UP when you heard loud, cheerful laughter coming from downstairs. Harsh sunlight from Tatooine's two suns seared their way through your window, falling directly on your pillow and, by extension, directly in your eyes. You groaned, cringing at the brightness - though the warmth, you would admit, was rather pleasant.
You slowly sat up, swaying, your vision blurry and your mind groggy. After a quick stretch and a long yawn you rubbed your exhausted eyes, careful not to press too hard, and glanced around the room.
To your surprise you found your clothes - once wrinkled, wet, and sticking together from melted snow, mud, and sweat - folded neatly on the table beside you, your leather armor resting just on top. The platter with the food you remembered devouring was missing; you were so exhausted you had forgotten to set it on the side table, or any table for that matter. Instead you had left it right at the edge of the bed, just below where your feet lay.
But it and your glass of water was gone, and your clothes were clean once more and folded neatly. Your hands anxiously pawed for your Ubese helmet that was supposed to be directly next to you, you body dipping over the side of the bed when you found it lying on the floor.
"Oh damn," you groaned, forcing yourself back up, your fingers wrapped around the edge of the helmet like a crane around debris.
You wiped away any dust that accumulated overnight. Luckily, you thought as you looked over every inch of it, nothing was damaged.
With a huff of displeasure you managed your way out of the bed, flicking the covers to one side. When you picked up your clothes, a woodsy scent caught your attention.
You had grown so used to the smell of artificial aromas - of synthetic perfumes, jet fuels, and pungent alcohols - that something natural seemed lost among them.
But the scent of your clothes . . . it was refreshing. It reminded you so much of the smell of natural oils that were advertised in the markets of forest planets, like Endor, Kashyyyk, or Myrkr, smells that drifted into the air and blanketed the relaxing evenings that fell over the cities. It was almost minty and cool, like breathing in sharp air after the cold rain; yet, it was also soft and sweet, like wildflowers ruffled by the wind.
Your muscles relaxed as you removed the nightshirt and replaced it with your now fresh, soft clothes. Your leather armor followed second and, though they were still scuffed, you noticed it seemed buffed and cleaner.
Someone got to work last night, you thought.
You tried to avoid thinking about someone being in your room while you were sleeping.
You grabbed your blaster harness, which still rested by the emptied stone tub, and slipped it around your legs, chest, and waist, pulling the buckles taut and checking that your blaster was still safe in its holster. You turned and the gun gleamed with a scuffed, silvery shimmer when the sunlight hit it. Your eyes examined the shape with furrowed brows. You could tell the blaster was old by the numerous scratches that occupied the surface, though such scrapes didn't tarnish the classic appearance by any means; the grip was slightly curved and slender in the hand, and made of what seemed like a whitened ivory. The center almost seemed slotted like a regular centerpiece - though it held no hard bullets, only the machination that created the blaster bolts - and the barrel was long and skinny, dipping down in a slim, leather pouch that protected it from weather.
