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Rey wakes before the sun rises over the farthest dune to the east, when the sky is still deep blue and she can see the stars, like tiny pinpricks of hope against the vast background of the galaxy. Soon, the midnight of the sky will fade as the orange-red sun rises, fat and low along the horizon. For endless hours, that neon-bright sun will hang in the sky, baking the sand and every living being unfortunate enough to be under it.
So, she dresses in the dark, blindly groping for her small pile of fabric that could be called clothes without seeing more than a few inches in front of her own face because electricity is just one of the things that’s scarce in the Goazon Badlands.
Not bothering with sliding her boots on, Rey emerges from her AT-AT. Her toes dig into the cool sand and she soaks it in, knowing far too well how brief that suggestion of cold is on Jakku.
Every day is the same, because it has to be. Rey has to start before the sun comes up so she can gather what water she can from her ancient vaporator before its store evaporates in the morning sun.
She had to climb onto her speeder with a stomach far too empty for the sort of work that lays ahead, so Rey can beat the Teedos and other scavengers to the best spots. It didn’t take long for her to learn this the hard way: driving up even an hour later than normal could mean she’d have to place in the rubble and wouldn’t have anything to bring back to the outpost to sell or trade.
With the wind rushing through her ears and her goggles being pelted with grains of sand, Rey longs for a day to do nothing. To sleep and sleep and sleep—to ignore the shrieks of the ripper-raptors and steelpeckers and let her aching, callused fingers rest.
But rest means no scrap. No scrap means no trade-line. No trade-line means no portions, and no portions means an empty belly. Empty bellies lead to weak muscles and weaker minds, and then Rey would have to rest even more, starting the whole process over again.
She can’t even think about letting her control slip, and so: every day is the same.
There’s the steady up-and-down of her speeder over the dunes. The same hunk of junk that used to be a flyable ship, slowly consumed by sand and wind as it sits unused in a forgotten corner of Niima Outpost. She eats the same three bites of last night's supper in a small triangle of shade that she’s saved over for a mid-day meal. The same parched throat, the same burning eyes, and the same scrapes and bruises and bones that didn’t mend quite right.
The same ancient, grubby tools, and the same whispered curses when a bolt doesn’t turn or a hatch won’t open. The same old women at the same rotting table, scrubbing their finds with the same bucket full of fetid water. The same tasteless, vaccu-packed paste that turns into the same tasteless bread.
The same loneliness.
The same exhaustion.
The only thing that’s different are the tears that fall when Rey least expects it. She swipes them away before they can dry on her face or become an everyday occurrence, wedges between tasks until her day grows to accommodate them.
If she were asked—if anyone cared—Rey would tell them that it's not control.
Its survival.