Every Mikkian is as diverse in color and head tails as our world’s many biomes. Each one of us is an individual snowflake, or sand sculpture. I see the world the Order ripped from my mother. I see the paths her parents' feet took across the grasslands and mountains and oceans. I see my mother. I see her devotion to the Order, the fling that saw me produced, and her determination to entrust me to her people and avoid me as much as possible. I see the moment the silent droid midwife put me, already soundless and bright-eyed, into her arms. The matching blues of our skin as she stroked my face. Her fingers drifted over stubby head tails that were the same type and texture as her own. I laughed, although I cannot hear it. Her impossible duplicate. Her daughter. I intrude on that memory often because it softens her absences. She can’t be with me always—answering my questions, bathing me in her soft, anxious love. It’s me, and the droids. And the crowds. I feel the dark heart of Coruscan...
Worlds are best when they feel heard