"The Misfit. One and only!"
The black canvas of a duffel bag shuffled as the misfit, clad in his armor, hastily went about packing only the bare essentials into his bag inside the well lit space of his quarters; mostly weapons, their ammunition, spare and casual clothing alongside a few other essentials he would need. He had swept clean his room aboard The Vhipirheim. He would leave his quarters in the same state they had given him, nice and clean.
Only difference was boxes of all sizes were lying beside the young Mandalorian’s workbench, filled with all sorts of his personal belongings.
Most of which were tech.
His personal console’s holo-drives wiped clean, its high definition screens were all packed up; the graphics card for his private desktop terminal extracted from its tower, was stored away in another box. He was leaving behind everything he would not be able to carry inside his duffel bag. He no longer had a use for them anymore.
Just like he felt his Clan no longer had a use for him.
Cast away, belittled, his efforts mostly unappreciated; and in the off chance someone did appreciate his skills, it was weaseling. Insincere. He never understood the reason behind the treatment he got from what he viewed as his peers, no matter how long and hard he theorized to come up with a plausible answer for an inquiry so simple, yet its answer so difficult to find:
Why?
Even those not a member of his clan, yet shared the same Mandalorian Creed with him, treated him about the same as the former. Perhaps they did not ever see him as their peers to begin with.
Was he still that young boy to them, to his fellow clan mates, despite his accomplishments, his deeds? The sole survivor they found, hiding in the vents inside a ship drifting unopposed in space, wholly ransacked by pirates, whom his parents lay murdered by them in the bridge? Helpless? Alone?
His head bowed as he stood before his duffel bag on the workbench, The Misfit momentarily came to a pause at the notion in his mind, before tucking away a spare blaster pistol into his bag and continued packing up. It no longer mattered. He had felt like an outsider in an environment that was supposed to be his home, and for a long time.
And he was alone. He was the only one that did not fit in. The Misfit. One and only.
He did not blame them, still. The only possible explanation he found to his troubles was that, somehow, he was the problem. He was the odd one out, after all. Nobody else really got the same treatment he got. The solution to that problem was simple, then.
Parting ways.
The duffel bag’s zipper whizzed sharply as he zipped up the bag. Lifting the bag up, The Misfit carried it over his left shoulder, as he shut the door to his quarters behind him after flicking off the light switch to his room. He left his quarters without a moment’s hesitation, not bothering to leave as much as a note behind. His head bowed down as he walked at a brisk pace down the well lit, empty corridor, the kid bitterly smiled underneath the armored, featureless visage of his helmet; how long would it take for someone to notice he was gone, he wondered.
<A week,> he thought to himself, betting on it as he made his way to the hangar bay of the ship, taking the fastest route there, having committed the entire layout of the ship to his memory. Everyone was either drunk or asleep at the time with only the night crew operating the beautiful vessel from the bridge at the moment; he perceived his chances of being seen by others to be very low, but leaving nothing to chance as was in his nature, he remained on his guard, frequently glancing back from over his right shoulder as he moved.
And even if he was seen, nobody would pay him mind, stop him and ask him what he was up to. He had an excuse ready just in case they happened to do that, anyway. He had carefully planned out all of this for a while.
Now was the time to execute.
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