TWO.
burial of pride!
｡･:*:･ﾟ✧ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

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Within minutes, Zoya's heartrate has slowed back to its usual tempo, no longer shaking her ribs or making her fingers tremble. The memory of the helmeted man's hand around her throat still stains her mind in technicolor, and she can feel the new blossoms of bruises cooling on the tender skin of her neck.

She's moved away from the—apparently—top secret place that the bounty hunter had disappeared into, deeming it rather unsafe, to formulate a new plan. Instead of tracking him throughout the town and waiting for the opportune moment to single him out away from the people and other species roaming the streets, which could never happen, she's decided to get to his ship before he does and ambush him there. He'll be unsuspecting and caught off-guard, which is exactly what Zoya wants.

She makes her way towards the outskirts of the city, where she'd seen the bounty hunter's ship—the Razor Crest—anchored. She moves quickly, as she doesn't know when he'll be emerging from behind the alcove and coming the same way. If he catches her going into his ship to hide, it's all over.

With that in mind, Zoya escapes the city as rapidly as she can without drawing too much attention, slipping out the final maze of alleyways onto the broad landscape, pockmarked with ships and craters. His sits not one hundred feet away, ramp unlatched and set into the ground, almost as if it's waiting for her to arrive. A grin pulls itself lazily across her lips as she looks at the ship that had stolen her away from freedom those short months ago.

"Hello again," she says.

Glancing both behind her and checking ahead, she launches forward into a dead sprint, cloak flying out behind her, riding the wind. The cloth wrapped over Zoya's head pulls free as she runs, and her hair falls free, whipping into the air. She doesn't bother to stop and recover her face to disguise herself before she reaches the ramp, stumbling up it as fast as she can. Once at the top, she crouches down to check the area she'd just run across, ensuring that the bounty hunter hadn't seen her or shown up to catch her in the act. And thankfully, he hasn't yet appeared.

Zoya exhales a sigh of relief and makes her way deeper into the Razor Wing. By hazy memories, she finds the cockpit, configured for a single pilot. She even sits in the chair a beat, recalling how he'd done the same to her when he'd had her in cuffs, ignoring every single thing she said to him, save for a couple crude comments that he'd dignified with a muffled snort. Her hands fall upon the curves of the armrests as she lazily lounges in the chair, a queen on her throne. She surveys the desert through the windows as if it's her kingdom, and a smirk sprawls across her mouth when she feels its power thrum through her, a palpable, wild, twisting thing that burns through her veins.

After a measured minute, she pushes herself out of the seat, pulling the blaster out of the holster at her hip and wrapping her fingers around the handle. Alarm bells ring in her ears as she moves back to the ramp, hiding herself behind a corner of the ship, every muscle in her body tightly coiled, a snake about to strike at its prey. It isn't long before she hears noise outside, and she tenses even further, if possible, shifting in her crouch.

It's time.

The steady drum of her heartbeat echoes in Zoya's ears, her breaths come quick and measured, and she holds the gun firm, balanced in her position.

Boots hit the beginning of the ramp below her, and she nearly jumps, forgetting herself and what she's come to do. Zoya slows her breathing, trying to calm the swarm of butterflies flipping and twirling in the pit of her stomach.

The steps come closer, beating in time with her pulse, which rapidly increases as the footfalls move up the ramp, towards her. As quietly as she can, Zoya inches back further into the darkness, feeling as if he'll be able to pinpoint her by the sound of her nerves singing along the lines of her body. His boots seem to hover over the panels of the floor as he strides to the pilot's seat, barely making a noise. Zoya supposes that's why he does what he does—he's a wraith.

She lurches a little when he lifts the ship into the air, clinging onto the walls and staying as quiet as she can.

When she's sure the ship is in the air and hurtling through space, she darts forward as quick as a fox and as lithe as a shadow, boots swift on the floor of the ship. She reaches the cockpit, skidding to a stop to raise the mouth of her blaster to the back of his helmeted head. He'd frozen the second he heard her enter the chamber, and he doesn't turn to face her, feeling her prod the gun into his head.

"Don't turn," she commands. His head lowers down to the left, as if he's trying to catch a glimpse of her over his shoulder and the curve of his seat. "Straight ahead, bounty hunter, and stand up," Zoya snaps, nudging her blaster into his armored back.

"What is this?" he asks flatly, the tone of his voice confirming what she's known all along. This is him. He stands, and she reaches forward, grabbing his cloak and pulling him around the edge of the pilot's seat to stand in front of her.

"Your judgment," she says.

Zoya swears he sighs exasperatedly underneath the helmet, but it could've been a noise from the ship breathing around them.

"For?"

"Why so many questions?" Zoya snaps.

"You're pointing a blaster at my head. Forgive me if I'm not a little curious as to why," he retorts.

"You're a bounty hunter," she replies, "you must be used to it."

"Maybe," he says.

"You turned me in once."

"I turn in a lot of people." The fingers on his left hand twitch.

"Hey—" she cuts, eyes catching the movement. "Don't reach for shit."

The ploy works. As Zoya's gaze cuts to his left hand, the bounty hunter pivots sharply on his heel towards her, right hand hurtling at top speed into the barrel of her blaster before she has time to react, slamming it from her hand onto the floor. She jumps backwards, considering diving for the weapon, mind in a flurry of confusion, processing the quick beat of the events.

Her split second of hesitation lands her a millisecond too late to do anything against him as the Mandalorian lurches forward, wrenching her arms behind her back.

That's when she remembers how deadly and intelligent the bounty hunter actually is, moving swifter than she can blink, and how she'd made a mistake in thinking she could best him.

｡･:*:･ﾟ✧ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

The cuffs dig into her wrists as Zoya moves her arms above her head, pulling at her restraints. She's chained to a bar set into the wall, possibly for this very purpose. Her legs are folded underneath her, and the cloth wrappings that she'd thrown carelessly about her head to disguise her identity are piled in a mountainous heap near the edges of her boots. The ends of her brown hair tangle down her back, stuck uncomfortably between her body and the wall.

The Mandalorian sits in the pilot seat, ignoring her, unaffected by the situation. Seemingly. Zoya scowls at the back of his helmeted head and yanks on the cuffs again, with a loud rattle that draws his attention.

"Comfortable?" he says, and the taunting in his voice is clear. It grates against her ears like the pointed ends of nails shrieking down metal.

"Fuck you," she mutters. He nods a little, unbothered by her harsh words. Zoya tries saying something else, something scathing, something that burns her tongue as it tumbles out. He stiffens, barely, but doesn't react otherwise. "You're no fun."

No response. Again.

Zoya rolls her eyes, twisting her wrists. If only she could get to the knife sheath hidden underneath folds of loose cloth at her back, then . . .

"So," she says, trying to disguise the sound of the rattling metal. "Do you have a name?" No response. Her lip curls at his back. "Remember when I—"

"I don't remember you at all," he lies, standing up suddenly. The frayed edges of his cloak fall about his ankles, and he cuts a sharp figure as he turns, giving Zoya a sideways look. Her movement stops abruptly, but he isn't fooled. He steps around his chair to crouch in front of her, so close that she can see herself reflected in the T-shape of ebony black on his helmet. She swallows, suddenly afraid, a wounded animal pinned in a corner, bound and furious and feeling out of her depth. Why did I try this? "Carbon-freezing is always an option if you're uncomfortable," he says lowly, his deep voice a dangerous purr through the metal of the helmet.

A tremor slides down her spine like a pail of icy water has been dumped over her head, and goosebumps spread over her arms. Her jaw clenches as she stares forward at him, sure she's looking right into his eyes through the helmet. Neither of them moves, unwilling to be the first to break. Tension thrums through the air, vibrations of a hawk's scream as it plummets through the air towards its prey.

Zoya's bottom lip quivers, and she jerks her eyes away, furious with herself. "Understood" is all she says.

The bounty hunter stands up, and he's seated in the pilot's chair before he finally responds; the mere sound of his voice is the sharp, silvery blade of a malevolent threat.

"Good."

｡･:*:･ﾟ✧ ｡･:*:･ﾟ

and they meet again