SIX.
red hot fury!
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When Zoya wakes up next, it's because the Jawas are dragging her across the floor. She's only half-aware of the experience, and it's as if her mouth doesn't work, because she can't find the energy to move her lips or ask her vocal cords to make any noise. In her head, she swears at them.

With as many foul, vulgar words she can think of when her brain is made of slow-moving mush and her body is molded from unresponsive rubber.

Her hair snags on cracks and unevenness on the floor, pulling painfully at her scalp. Zoya's more than sure that a few strands rip out, but she can't find any energy to sit up or tell them that she can walk on her own—because she can't. Terror obliterates a person from the inside out, and right now, she's scattered into millions of tiny pieces.

Zoya's head lolls to the side, and fragmented images reach her irises as her eyelashes flutter, distorting the world around her. Flashes of the Jawas, pulling her with difficulty, muted lights and suddenly the white spot of the sun from what might be an open window, heavy chains clinking and squealing upon the ground, slats of the floor sliding brusquely over the ridges of her spine and shoulder blades, fragile and exposed and easily crushed like butterfly's wings, voices she can't understand and voices she does, though nothing sticks in her strained mind.

Her eyes close again at some point, because the next thing that registers is a bright, burning light shining directly upon her eyelids. She winces, some of the feeling returning to the furthest corners of her body, and a groan falls from her lips. Her elbows dig uncomfortably into the surface beneath her, but at least it isn't moving anymore.

"Zoya?"

The unfamiliar voice tumbles into her ears, rough and unsure. Barely able to open her eyes, Zoya forces herself to sit up, propping herself up onto her elbows, knowing she probably looks like a mess. The chains rattle as she moves, and she has to take a deep breath to prevent herself from spiraling again, breathing in the fresh air and reminding herself that she isn't stuffed inside a cell anymore.

"Still kicking," she manages, squinting. Why is it so damn bright?

"Your bounty hunter should return soon," the voice says.

"My—my what?" Finally, her eyes adjust, and an image comes into view before her. She's been dragged out onto the ramp of an enormous sandcrawler, Jawas skittering about. The desert sprawls out before them, vast and unforgiving and not as beautiful as she'd originally thought, mountainous ranges spearing the sky. "Where is he?"

"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."

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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."

The Mandalorian appears over the crest of a hill, something hovering in an orb-like cradle at his side. He holds something in his arms that looks large, but he doesn't appear to be straining to hold it.

"Mando!" Kuiil calls.

He approaches the ramp, and though she can't see his eyes, a tug in Zoya's chest tells her that he's looking right at her. She's suddenly hyper-aware of the dirt clinging to her skin, the rumpled mess of her dark hair, but none of it matters. Clumsily, she pushes herself into a standing position and stumbles a few feet down the ramp towards him, unsure of what to do. Half of her wants to hug him, but she knows that isn't what she's supposed to be feeling.

"You're filthy" is all she can manage in the end.

He is—his armor is encrusted with dripping, wet mud that clings to every groove, engraving, and slat in the metal. The cloak that hangs from his shoulders is unrecognizable; it drips with brown water and looks as if it's been rolled on by a few hundred pigs.

"I got the egg," he says.

Zoya finally looks at the thing in his arms. "You did."

The Jawas swarm them then, pulling the hairy egg from his arms without a word of thanks. One holds it above his head when he reaches the ramp, and another draws a knife, slicing the top of it off without ceremony. The creatures dig their hands into the liquid topaz, shoveling it into their mouths.

"I'm surprised you waited," the bounty hunter says to Kuiil.

"I'm surprised you took so long," he returns.

As the Jawas assist in loading his ship's parts onto the transport, the Mandalorian insists that they remove the heavy chains weighing Zoya down. They lead her back inside the sandcrawler to do so, and when she returns, he's magically cleaned off—save for a few spots where dirt sticks into the crevices of his armor. Zoya's not sure how he did it, and she doesn't dare to ask, but she likes to think a few Jawas dumped buckets of water on his head.

When the transport is loaded, he beckons her over with two fingers in a 'come-hither' motion that she readily obeys, moving forward to stand in front of him.

"I'm going to lift you up," he says before he touches her. Taken aback, Zoya doesn't reply. He waits for her to nod a little before he puts his gloved hands on her slim waist, hoisting her up easily to sit on the edge of the hovering transport, filled with all his ship's parts. Her legs dangle over the edge, feet twirling in midair.

Once she finds her voice, Zoya says, "Need me to lift you up here?"

A feeling of warmth slides about her shoulders when she hears him laugh, back turned to her as he places his hands up and behind him on the hover's surface. Without answering, the Mandalorian merely jumps up beside her, the armor on his shoulder brushing against hers.

"You probably couldn't handle it." His voice is low and smooth through the helmet, and Zoya glances at him, eyebrows drawn. Something about the tone of his voice sends a chill skittering down her spine, and she can't decide whether she likes the feeling or not.

"I could've lifted you."

"No."

"Easily."

The bounty hunter turns towards her, and beneath his helmet, he looks her up and down. "You couldn't lift Kuiil."

"I heard that," Kuiil says from his Blurrg.

The way back to the skeleton of the Razor Crest doesn't take as long as Zoya expected it to. Perhaps it's because she passes the time holding the unfamiliar child in her lap while it dozes, long, pointed ears twitching as it dreams. According to the bounty hunter, he'd used incredible powers against the beast he'd stolen the egg from, lifting it clear off the ground. Obviously, it's more powerful than he'd realized. She smooths a finger over its forehead, watching as its eyes flick back and forth beneath closed lids. The child is so small, so fragile, and Zoya holds him closer, tucking his little brown robe closer around his tiny form.

At one point during the journey, the child wraps its hand around her finger as it slumbers peacefully, and the pure happiness of the smile that unfurls across her lips could illuminate the entire galaxy.

And there's no chance that the bounty hunter doesn't notice.

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Zoya holds the child while the Mandalorian and Kuiil repair the ship, as she's never been adept at fixing things, only breaking them. Dawn arrives before the Razor Crest is fully repaired, and she's awakened by the engines roaring as they test to ensure the ship is in full operating condition once again.

She's curled up against the wall of the ship, an area that they'd fixed the paneling in first. Her body is cocooned around the child, who sleeps quietly still, drained from the exertion it had been through. For a moment, she remains in place, tucking the child tighter to her chest and listening as Kuiil and the bounty hunter move closer.

"I can't thank you enough," the Mandalorian says. "Please, allow me to give you a portion of the reward."

Zoya clings to the child. She'd forgotten about that part.

"I cannot accept," Kuiil replies, denying the offer. "You are my guest, and I am therefore in your service."

There's a brief moment of silence before the bounty hunter speaks again. "I could use a crew member of your ability, and I can pay handsomely."

"I am honored, but I have worked a lifetime to finally be free of servitude."

"I understand. Then all I can offer is my thanks."

"And I offer mine. Thank you for bringing peace to my valley." No more words are exchanged, and a slight thumping sound tells Zoya that Kuiil is leaving. He calls once more from the bottom of the ramp, something that she can't make out. The Mandalorian doesn't respond and closes the ramp a short minute later.

When he re-emerges, Zoya stands carefully, still holding the swaddled child. He looks her way. "He's not awake yet," she says, stepping forward. He acknowledges this with a nod and watches as she places him carefully into the hovering cradle. Before he can step away, Zoya blurts, "Thank you."

"For?"

"Not leaving."

He shakes his head. "Don't thank me." There's something in his voice that takes her aback. Her head tilts.

"Why?" she asks, confused.

"I did it to get my parts back." His voice is insistent, as if he has something to prove. "It wasn't about you."

"I know that," she mutters. "I didn't say it was."

He presses something on his forearm that steers the cradle into the cockpit. Zoya moves to follow it, burning with what tastes like embarrassment, but he stops her, touching her arm. She halts immediately, looking up at him, wishing that she could see his eyes, at least. Her brows form a question.

Then, before Zoya can blink, he moves like a shadow, pulling a set of cuffs from nowhere and hooking her once more to the wall. Her mouth drops open in shock, and she yanks at them furiously. "Really." She stares at him. "You're chaining me up. Again."

He won't look at her. "Easiest way to keep you under control."

"Right." She hates how her voice trembles. "Like when the Jawas kidnapped me. I was 'under control,' so it was a hell of a lot easier for them."

"That's not going to happen again. That's what I'm preventing."

Her jaw clenches, and she sags back against the wall, suddenly tired. "I'm tired of being chained up every fucking second. I don't want to kill you anymore." At his silence, she amends, "Well, I didn't."

He lifts a hand, looking down through the window. Zoya follows his gaze and sees Kuiil there, sitting on his Blurrg. She feels a pang.

"On the off-chance that you decide otherwise," he replies evenly, "you'll be properly restrained."

Her fingers curl into fists so tight that her fingernails leave crescent-moon shaped imprints on her palms that sting sharper than they should when she relinquishes her grip. "I thought you were strong enough to handle me," she retorts, unsure of why she twists his own words from hours ago against him.

Without turning around in his chair, the Mandalorian replies, "I am."

And after that, he refuses to say much else.