Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹

xi. ebony silhouettes

Mando's own eyes are still on the rest of the area. "I know."

After a beat, he sits down as well, back to the wall, keeping an eye on everything else. "No one here will know who you are, right?" she whispers, voicing a concern that had begun to bud within her mind when they'd walked in, blossoming the more people stared.

He shakes his head mutely. "Don't think so."

A woman walks towards their table then, drying her hands off on an old cloth that's a murky color, soiled by stains. "Welcome, travelers. Can I interest you in anything?" Her face is sweet and open, dark hair coiled in a thick bun atop the back of her head and bangs falling forward. She's dressed in dark, muted brown, matching the bark of the pines outside. Zoya's lips curve up a little on instinct—she looks motherly.

"Bone broth, for the little one," Mando says.

"Oh, well you're in luck. I just took down a grinjer, so there's plenty. Can I interest you in a porringer of broth as well?" He shakes his head, so she says, "Very well. What about for your lady, here? Anything for you, miss?"

"Soup, please. And maybe a couple of those stick-meat-things? They look really fu—really good." Zoya smiles brightly, hoping the woman didn't notice her blunder.

"Of course," she replies cheerily, giving them a nod.

Right as she turns to leave, Mando speaks up in his deep, rough voice, the sound if it awfully pleasing. "That one over there." He indicates the woman in the corner with a barely perceptible tilt of his head. Zoya follows it and gives her another evaluating stare. She looks like she could be dangerous. "When did she arrive?" Zoya clears her throat, giving the Mandalorian a look that tells him to back off the poor lady, which he promptly ignores.

The kind woman thinks for a moment before replying, "I've seen her here for the last week or so."

"What's her business here?"

"Business? Oh, well, there's not much business in Sorgan, so I can't say." She chuckles lightly, hooking her hands into her pockets, demeanor changing. Mando drops a few coins on the table in front of her. "She"—the woman stares at the money—"doesn't strike me as a log runner. Well, thank you sir." Her voice is questioning, but she takes it nonetheless. "I will get that food to you as soon as possible, and I will throw in a flagon of spotchka just for good measure! I will be right back with that."

Zoya gives her a wide grin as she walks away, then turns on Mando the second she's out of earshot. "What the hell are you interrogating her for?" she says under her breath, widening her eyes at him for good measure.

"She's gone." He flies to his feet.

"Who?" Zoya turns as she asks it, answering her own question. He's already striding away. "Mando—" she hisses, controlling her volume at the last moment. "Dammit."

As he walks past the lady who'd just been at their table, he flips her a coin, saying something that she doesn't catch. The woman nods and stares over at Zoya and the child. Zoya's eyes dart away awkwardly.

What the hell was that about?

He disappears through the curtained opening, and she feels anxiety build at being left alone with the child. What if someone were to attack them while he's gone? All Zoya has is the blaster she'd grabbed in the firefight she'd thrown herself into and a little knife that's strapped to her hip. On top of that—she isn't that strong, so could she hold her own against three attackers? One or two, yes, maybe, but three? No. When she'd developed her skills training to pursue the Mandalorian, she hadn't practiced fighting against more than one assailant at a time.