the curious happenstance of pedro pascal and din djarin [The Mandalorian]

Desolation

Shelves. Shelves, upon shelves, layered with books upon books, old and fragile; Din did not touch them, did not dare to. Every glance at the books sent a barrage of shivers down his spine, and despite the growing heat as he ventured further and further into the long winding hallways he shivered and shook with each step. Moving shadows from the corner of his vision, he'd whip around to confront it but nothing. Nothing was there, nothing was ever there. His hand did not leave his blaster.

Empty. Unbearably empty, just old crusted books and cobwebs lining the shelves, the walls.

Hundreds of webs occupied by nothing but dead spiders.

Din's footsteps fell heavy and slow. They echoed, the sound resounded and bounced off the walls and ceiling, travelling through the halls and jumping back at him. The further he found himself, the hotter his armour felt, his skin, sweat forming on his forehead.

The torch on his helmet swept over the walls. There was no wallpaper, here; just stone masonry, loose and crumbling, ready to collapse at any moment's notice. There were no doorways. Only endless halls, winding corridors. He kept on a straight and narrow path, did not round a single corner, he was not stupid.

Kept walking. Took in every nook and cranny, studied each corner and shelf as vigorously as he possibly could without it collapsing and crushing him under its weight. For a long while, there was nothing. Nothing of note, nothing that traversed beyond how weird everything already was, until the long hall came to an abrupt end.

He had not seen it. The end of the hallway. Like some unknown force had placed it there when he was not looking, one moment he was walking and the next, his helmet collided against the masonry with a resounding deafening clang.

He stumbled backward, swore out loud in Mando'a. Arched his leg back and kicked the wall with a frustrated grunt. Too bothered and fucking sweaty to care about the racket he was making, Din kicked it again.

"Stupid," he muttered. "Stupid."

He raked his gaze up and down the wall. It was the same as all the others, old and unstable. He mentally cursed himself for kicking a wall that looked ready to crumble. Sighed to himself. If he'd met a dead end and found nothing then his only option would be walking back the way he came and choosing a hall to explore. He turned around, ready to march on-

A wall.

A wall that had not been there seconds prior. It glared at him, mocked him, old and fragile, a wall that appeared from thin air.

Din slowly reached out his hand. Pressed it against the wall in front of him. Solid. Not a trick. Not a hallucination. He pressed harder. The heat in his suit began to rise as his heart rate quickened. He brought back his fist and slammed it as hard as he could into the wall, and only received a spike of blaring pain in return, he stumbled backward and his back met the other side, stone-cold masonry that he could feel even through layers of fabric.

A wall.

Had he not been careful, not to round a single corner? Had he not been paying attention?  No. No, he was absolutely certain, his path had been straight and narrow, he did not waver from it. Perhaps it was a contraption, some wire that he tripped, perhaps if he simply found the trigger the wall would go back into the floor, or the ceiling, or wherever it came from. But no matter how hard he looked there was nothing. Pressed every brick, shoved his body against the wall, kicked it with enough force to smash someone's head in. Nothing, not a single budge. It was a solid, absolute wall.

The reality of the situation set in ten minutes into his predicament.

If he was to escape, he'd need to move forward.