Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹

iv. haunting memories

｡･:*:･ﾟ✧ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

Zoya jerks awake in a cold sweat, tremors running along her body. She shudders, revulsion and humiliation coalescing into an ugly, burning cocktail that fizzes in her stomach. Her head cracks back against the metal of the wall as she leans back too quickly, and pain explodes. She winces, swearing underneath her breath.

            "Fuck," she mutters, feeling the nightmare cling to her skin, slimy and unrelenting, replaying in her mind over and over again as the back of her head begins to throb.

            The ship is deadly silent, so quiet that every harried breath she takes sounds ten times louder than it actually is. Since she's been asleep, she doesn't know how long it's been since the Mandalorian bounty hunter disappeared, or how long it will be until he returns with whatever mark he's after, which leaves her feeling unsettled. She tries to focus on something else to forget the dream, which had truly been just a hazy memory, one she's tried desperately to erase, one that her subconscious clings to, reminding her of at every opportune moment.

            Her eyes focus on the discarded scarf by her feet, and she wishes it were wrapped around her wrists so she wouldn't have to feel the icy metal pressing against her bones, seeping mercilessly through her skin.

            Anxiety washes over her, and now it's clear why the shores have been clear for so long, why she's felt okay—this is a tidal wave. Sweat beads on her forehead, and her lungs seem to spasm, cutting off her air.

            "Zoya."

            A breath of air, caught between the swirling, salty water that washes down her throat, unforgiving. Her eyes go to him, and a wash of cool tranquility envelops her, peace that seems to part the waters above her head.

            She doesn't know why the sound of his voice helps her, why it brings her back from the brink of a panic attack, but it does nonetheless. Zoya focuses on him, though she cannot see his eyes, just the chiseled metal of his helmet, expressionless and void.

            There's a feeling in her chest that's the whisper of a breeze over long grasses, a cat stretching after a long nap, stars poking silvery, glittering holes in the black canvas of the night sky.

            Peace.

            Zoya opens her eyes, pulling that same peace back into her body, the peace she'd felt when he'd said her name aloud for the first time. And once again, the Mandalorian brings her back into herself, even though he's nowhere in sight, perhaps even dozens of miles away, hunting for someone or something across the open expanse of desert and mountains.

            A crash sounds from outside. Zoya freezes in the midst of shaking her hands above her head, trying to recirculate blood into her fingertips. Her heart pounds. What the hell?

            Immediately, she knows it's not the Mandalorian. He's not careless enough to make that much racket, even with a captured mark underneath his control; he'd rather knock out the target or cut their throats than allow them to make so much noise. Forewarning slides over her skin. Chained to the wall, Zoya cannot do anything but wait, heart beating in her throat.

            Before long, something skitters into the cockpit, stumbling to a quick stop as soon as it sees her. It's a Jawa. It chatters something in a language she doesn't understand, and soon a few more appear, surrounding her.

            "Don't you kriffing touch me," she mutters, unsure whether or not they can understand what she says.

            They snicker at her, and a particularly daring individual inches closer, reaching out to prod at the cuffs. When it's near enough, Zoya whips up the toe of one of her leather boots, slamming it as hard as she can into the Jawa. It squeals and falls onto its back, scooting away from her as quickly as it can. The others eye her warily, jabbering something that sounds aggressive.