Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹

vi. red hot fury

"Retrieving an egg," he says, as if it's normal.

Zoya looks at him squarely. "And who are you?"

"Kuiil," the Ugnaught replies.

"Right." Rubbing a hand against her forehead, Zoya ruffles her bangs even further. A few metal links from her bonds smack into her nose. "Ow."

"They'll take those off soon, I'm sure," Kuiil tells her. "The Jawas have traded both you and his ship's parts for the egg, so once he brings it back, they'll set you free."

"I must be worth a lot less than I thought," she mutters, adjusting her position as much as she can with the chains to become more comfortable on the hard, flat surface.

"It's a special egg."

"Doesn't make me feel better."

｡･:*:･ﾟ✧ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

Zoya and Kuiil bake in the sun alongside the Jawas for what seems like an endless stretch of time. Her headache returns, and one of the creatures brings her some water as if on instinct, which she takes gratefully, forgetting her animosity towards the species for a brief moment. She drinks so deeply that rivulets of clear water run down her chin and along the curve of her neck, carving a path through the dirt staining her skin. Once the skin is empty, she tosses it back up the ramp carelessly, reveling the feel of the fresh water sliding down her throat.

"He should be back any minute," Kuiil says, noticing how the Jawas' agitated state. They're ready to leave and cut their losses.

"You keep saying that," Zoya mutters. Beneath her detached façade, something within her worries. The Mandalorian has been gone for a long time. He could be killed or injured or dying or something else horrible and irrevocable, and here she is, sitting in chains on the end of a sandcrawler's ramp, unable to do shit about any of it.

Kuiil keeps his eyes on the horizon. He's too hopeful. Maybe it's the bounty hunter that decided to leave, or perhaps he found another ship out there in the desert—unlikely, but possible. Maybe.

A Jawa speaks from further up the ramp, calling something down to Kuiil that Zoya doesn't understand. He shakes his head, incensed, pointing towards the horizon with something that looks like desperation.

"What's going on?" Zoya hisses, glancing back at them. Two are heading inside while another pair walk towards them, red eyes burrowing into hers. "Kuiil."

"They don't want to wait any longer," he says flatly, a defeated sigh pushing past his wrinkled lips.

Fear surges, pulling at her heartstrings. "Wait—what? No, we have to—he's still out there, somewhere, we can't just—"

One Jawa reaches down and sticks a hook through one of the links of the chains hung between the cuffs trapping her wrists and gives her a tug, mumbling indecipherable words that make Kuiil shake his head.

"No," she says, staying put. They pull harder. "No!"

They jabber loudly to each other, then at Kuiil, obviously angry. He responds in kind, gesturing to Zoya then to the horizon, then to his own transport. "They want you to come," he tells her. "I'm trying, but—"

"Hey!" The strangled cry wrenches from Zoya's throat, and she rips her chains away from the Jawas, pointing. She clears her throat before speaking again, barring back the emotion that had broken through. "He's back."