ELEVEN.
ebony silhouettes!
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The triumvirate approaches a small but bustling marketplace, the pines behind them darkened into black silhouettes against the sky. Citizens of Sorgan wait at a bar in a half-enclosed restaurant, receiving steaming bowls of soup and sticks puncturing chunks of fresh-looking meat that make Zoya's mouth water. She can't remember the last time she'd gotten to taste hot food.
She reaches forward to tug lightly on the elbow of the Mandalorian's sleeve above the top of his forearm guard. She means to ask if they can stop and order some before they find a place to stay, but all that comes out is a singular word: "Soup?" Mando looks down at her, cocking his head. "Um, what I meant was, 'can we please stop and get some hot food? I'm tired of eating freeze-dried fucking everything.'"
Beneath the helmet, the edge of his mouth quirks. "I was already planning on it."
Zoya exhales a relieved breath. "Good, because if you weren't, I may have just had to ditch you altogether."
"The boy, too?"
"No, of course not. I'd take him with me. Obviously."
Mando rolls his eyes. "Obviously."
The wooden slats of the roof are covered by a thin, tan tarp that lets a portion of filtered sunlight pass through to turn the dust floor from a dull, boring brown to a rippling golden shade. Zoya and the child follow the bounty hunter as he walks straight towards where Sorgan people are waiting to eat. Customers they pass by give them strange looks, just as Zoya had thought they would. His armor draws attention—too much. It's best they eat quickly and leave to find somewhere to stay before word travels.
The child squeaks a little as it falls behind, eyes wide as he's stared at. Something snaps its teeth at him, and he startles back with a cry. Mando looks back to make sure he's alright, but Zoya turns on her heel, swooping him back up into her arms once more and away from the creature's gaping maw, lined with rows of sharp teeth. She flashes it her own pearly canines as she moves away, catching up with the Mandalorian, who continues to observe their surroundings, eyes falling on a muscular, tough looking woman, a tattoo encircling her upper arm, sitting in a corner with only a tankard on the table in front of her.
He approaches a different table and turns to Zoya. "Here."
She sets the child down in his own seat as he gurgles happily. "Thank the gods," Zoya mutters. "Everyone's fucking staring."
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.
Panic bubbles in her throat, catching at the oxygen that tries to slide into her lungs. Zoya swallows, fingers beginning to tap out a harried rhythm on the thick wood of the table. As her leg begins to jostle along with it for every second that he's gone, she suddenly feels a small hand wrap around two of her fingers.
It's the child.
Zoya looks down at him, face softening. "Hey, buddy," she says. "What's going on?" His grip tightens discernibly, the pressure still light due to his tiny size, but it's comforting nonetheless. She smiles at the child, eyes full as she realizes that he'd sensed her anxiety rising and reached out in the only way he could. "Thank you," Zoya whispers, and he gurgles in a babyish way that makes her heart squeeze.
Shortly after, the woman brings by their food. Occupied with stuffing her face, Zoya doesn't notice when the child slips away to find the Mandalorian, bowl of bone broth in his tiny hand. She nearly closes her eyes in rapture as she eats, reveling in how good food can taste when its hot and fresh and not dried in a package.
"Hello there," an unfamiliar voice says smoothly, and Zoya looks up, mouth full, to see a stranger—albeit a handsome stranger—coming towards the table.
Swallowing a large bite, she nods courteously. "Can I help you?"
He shrugs, sliding into the seat the Mandalorian had occupied, lounging casually as if he owns the place. He has straight blond hair that's cropped short military style, piercing blue eyes that seem icy and cold in the light, and a blaster in a holster at his thigh. "Just wondering why a pretty girl is eating all alone," he says.
Zoya nearly chokes on her next bite. "I'm not alone." Her eyes fall upon the seat where child had been, and she freezes when she realizes it's empty. "Where the fuck is—"
"You look alone to me," the man says with a laugh. "Can I buy you something to drink? We don't get too many young, attractive visitors in Sorgan. Obviously."
"I, um—" Zoya cuts herself off as she notices the Mandalorian re-enter through the curtain, child at his heels. She relaxes, then the strong woman from the corner he'd tailed comes in after him. Her eyes narrow.
"Is that a yes?"
After a slight pause that Zoya doesn't notice, Mando begins to walk back over to their table. "I, I'm actually here with . . . someone," she finishes lamely.
"Someone," he repeats. "So you're taken." He nods, the line of his jaw hardening a little as he yawns. "All the pretty ones are. I guess I'm not surprised." Zoya flushes, unused to being complimented.
"It's not like that," she begins, but Mando, the woman, and the child arrive at the table, amiable and acting familiar with each other.
The Mandalorian stands stiffly for a moment, helmet tilted downwards at the handsome stranger for a beat too long, making the man shift in his chair. "I believe that's my seat," he says rigidly, voice flat.
The stranger, preoccupied with gaping at the Beskar armor, scrambles to his feet. "Ah, I'm sorry. You must be the one that's claimed this beautiful woman. I apologize—I saw her sitting alone and—"
"And?" Mando says, tone dangerously low.
The blond shakes his head. "Nothing. I'll see—um, good day." He nearly runs away from the table, like a dog with its tail between its legs.
The woman Mando had followed raises her eyebrows and glances at Zoya. "That was weird," she says. Zoya silently agrees but refrains from saying so out loud, giving the woman a stare that's meant to put her on edge. It only succeeds in getting her a flat look in response, and Zoya looks away quickly, wondering if she's not as intimidating as she thinks.
The Mandalorian sits, ignoring her comment. "Cara, Zoya. Zoya, Cara."
"Thank you for that efficient introduction," Zoya mutters, warily watching the woman sit down, shrugging off Mando's weird behavior towards the blond stranger. She reaches down for the child, lifting him up onto her lap instinctively, a protective movement that Mando notices. "You two know each other?"
"No," Cara replies for him.
The woman who'd taken their orders earlier returns, and Cara orders some soup. Mando refrains once again. Suddenly, it registers to Zoya that he's not eating because of his helmet, and that she's never once seen him eat.
Does he eat?
She stares, dumbfounded with her abrupt realization. He catches her eyes on him, and his head tilts perceptibly, as if to say what? Zoya shakes her head mutely, never mind, and turns her attention to Cara Dune, who happens to be a veteran of the Galactic Civil War. She'd fought on the Rebellion's side, thankfully.
"Saw most of my action mopping up after Endor," she says. Zoya freezes. Endor. "Mostly ex-Imperial warlords. They wanted it fast and quiet. They'd send us in on the dropships." Her lips tug up. "No support, just us."
The Mandalorian catches the tightening of Zoya's body language and the hesitance in her voice when she asks, "The Battle of Endor?"
Cara nods. "The same."
"Did you . . . did you know a man named Ayaan? Ayaan Vitaan."
A beat where Cara thinks, eyes going to the ceiling as her brow creases. "Doesn't ring a bell. Why?"
Zoya shakes her head. "My brother." Tension lines her mouth, and her throat bobs as she tries to restrain the emotions rising in her chest. "He fought at Endor. Killed in action. I never got information on how."
"I'm sorry," Cara says sincerely. "I wish I knew."
Without thinking, Mando reaches out to where Zoya's hand rests on the table, covering her fingers with his gloved ones for a brief moment. Her hazel irises go to his hand on hers, then slowly make their way up to his face, aching to see his eyes, to see his face. Just something.
This type of gesture from Mando above anyone else is worth more than words, and Zoya remains quiet long after he pulls away and Cara resumes recounting her service with the Rebellion, feeling a tug, something playing her heartstrings in time with the beating of his heart underneath the seemingly impenetrable Beskar armor.