FIFTEEN.
peace is dissolving!
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Bright, gleaming Beskar reflects sunlight that rebounds across the Mandalorian's bare face, illuminating the softly beautiful features typically concealed by his helmet. His eyes scan the village below as he leans against the edge of the window, wreathing himself in shadow. A beat later, his gaze falls upon the person he'd been looking for. She walks rapidly along the path, seeming to be tailing someone that he can't spot.

            Mando's gaze shoots to the kids playing near the barn to ensure that it isn't the child she's following (it's not: the small creature gurgles and laughs as the other young villagers playfight above him).

            The line of his jaw hardens just before she disappears around the bend, fists taut at her sides, as he recalls the feeling of her arms around him, and how she'd been so flush against his chest that he could feel her heart beating, the sound of it an enrapturing rhythm, begging him with every thump to pull her closer, closer, closer.

            He releases a shaky breath and takes a final swig from the wooden cup the widow had brought him, staring out at the inky outline of the pines, harsh and eye-catching against the sky. The breeze that drifts gently through the window brushes cool strokes across his face, a feeling he's unused to with the helmet on. For a moment, he closes his eyes and pictures that it's her touching him, and something in his heart clenches painfully as a haze of soft, white clouds drift across the sun.

            It probably meant nothing to her. Just forget it.     

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The grass lays soft and emerald underneath Zoya's boots as she tails Omera through the camp. She hadn't wanted to run after the woman and cause any sort of alert, but there's a quickness to her step to ensure the woman doesn't disappear out of her line of view. Omera nears a hut then glances back, almost out of instinct, and sees Zoya following her. A soft smile presses up the corners of her mouth, and she lifts a hand.

            Zoya returns the gesture and jogs the last few feet. "Hey Omera," she says.

            "Zoya. Is there something I can help you with?"

            "Yeah, actually," she replies, almost out of breath from the bit of cardio. "I was wondering if you had any extra clothes that I could use. These are a little . . . worn." She raises her arm to demonstrate the lack of sleeve, and Omera grins.

            "Of course I do. Come on in."

            She mounts the couple steps that lead up to her cabin, opening the door and allowing Zoya to walk inside. It's cozy and welcoming; hand-woven, blue and white quilts are folded neatly across a large bed and a smaller one by its side, a few papers are nailed to the wall over the thin pillows, colored haphazardly and messily, probably Winta's handiwork, and a soft, glowing candle burns in the corner, enhancing the warm space.

            "This way," Omera says, ducking into the next room. There's a small wardrobe tucked away against the wall, barely as tall as Zoya is herself. From the looks of it, it was made by the people in the village. Zoya smiles subtly as she traces a finger across the woven leaves and flower petals engraved elegantly in twisting, whirling patterns along its side.

            "This is beautiful," she says, wonder infiltrating her tone as she continues admiring the dark wood.

            Omera's lips press together. "Thank you." Her voice sounds tight, and when Zoya looks at her, she's staring at the wardrobe with an expression on her face that pulls the corners of her mouth lower and turns her eyes from a contented warmth into a shining, glassy sheen. She notices Zoya's eyes on her and forces an uneven, fake smile. Her lips tremble slightly as the ghost of a past happiness flutters on transparent wings across her features. "My husband made this," she explains quietly. "Before he, um . . ."

            Oh.

            Zoya's brows knit. "I'm sorry," she says softly. After a tentative moment, she reaches out and carefully places what she hopes is a comforting hand on the other woman's upper arm, squeezing sympathetically.

            "It's okay," Omera replies, looking down and back up, meeting Zoya's gaze. "It's not your fault, you don't have to apologize."

            Zoya holds the eye contact for a moment, trying her best to be there for this woman, this woman who seems so sweet and gentle, who doesn't deserve something like this. She wishes there was something else she could say; there's so much death in the world that I'm sorry is beginning to feel like part of a script everyone's been given.

            "Anyway," Omera says, clearing her throat, "I've got this blue tunic I used to wear—only a couple times, but it's still really nice. Just back here, think." She opens the armoire and pushes aside a few dresses to reveal the shirt in question tucked near the back. Omera retrieves the article of clothing from the back and holds it up. "Still perfect!" she says, sounding excited. "This will look great on you."

            Zoya smiles without thinking about it, cheeks pinking. "Thank you," she mumbles awkwardly, unsure of how to take the compliment.

            The deep blue hues of the fabric aren't faded or worn—it looks nearly brand new, aside from the few creases and wrinkles in the material from being shoved into the back of the wardrobe for gods know how long.

            Omera pulls something else out: a pair of black, fitted pants that will work nicely tucked into her boots. "Pair this with it," she says. "You can change in the other room, I'll find you another couple sets of clothes you can use for now. And, wait—take these too, I'm sure you'd like to replace your, um, current ones." She holds out a pair of folded undergarments, taking Zoya's hesitance the wrong way. "Don't worry, they're washed."

            "Oh no, I, um, thank you. So much. You're too kind," Zoya says, looking at the pants. They look like they could've cost the widow a bit of extra money.

            "Nonsense." Omera waves a hand dismissively. "It's my pleasure. Go change! I want to see how it looks."

            "Okay, but—" Zoya starts as the beautiful woman bustles her out of the room, shoving a bundle of cloth into her arms. She doesn't get a chance to finish as the door shuts quickly behind her. "O-kay."

            She piles the clothes into a haphazard heap atop one of the beds, then grips the bottom hem of her shirt, lifting the mangled garment back over her head with some difficulty, grimacing as the nearly-healed skin on her arm pulls painfully. Zoya hisses in a breath but hurriedly pulls the blue tunic over her head, letting it fall across her bare torso before changing her undergarments, safely hidden underneath.

            Omera emerges into the room after she's finished dressing, holding a carefully folded stack of clothes, tied into place with thin cords of twine. "You look amazing in blue."

            Zoya tries to restrain her smile. "Thank you. It's really comfortable. Nothing like . . . these shitty things." She toes the pile of her old clothes on the ground.

            The woman laughs. "I would hope so. And um, these are for you. I put together some of my things that I don't wear anymore for you to use. I hope they all fit."

            "I really appreciate this, Omera," Zoya says honestly, taking the bundle.

            She beams. "I'm happy to help."

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Cara and the Mandalorian return from scouting an hour later; when Zoya had walked back to the barn, expecting to find him waiting, she'd knocked. After a second, it had become clear that he'd left without saying a word to her about keeping an eye on the child.

            Now, he walks into camp beside Cara, deep in some sort of discussion. When she sees his helmet turn her way, Zoya lifts a hand in greeting, the fabric of Omera's blue tunic laying complimentarily against her tan skin.

            Mando's eyes set on her, and he has to focus harder than he wants to admit to himself on keeping his feet moving towards her, something beating unnaturally loud in his chest. He hasn't seen her in a color other than dull, boring tan, and the cool tones of the fabric lie against her in a way that he can only think of as stunning.

            "Hey Cara, Mando," she says.

            "Zoya," he manages, hoping his voice doesn't come across as strained as it feels. Judging by the weird look Cara gives him, he doesn't know if he's succeeding.

            "There's something we have to tell everyone," Cara says. "Can you help get them all rounded up?"

            Zoya nods quickly. "Sure."

            She disappears back into the village, and soon enough, the sound of her voice echoes back to them as she yells at everyone. Beneath the helmet, Mando's mouth quirks, but it's quickly quelled by how Cara raises a taunting brow at him.

            "What was that?"

            "I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, striding off towards the huts, Cara at his heels.

            She snorts. "Right."

            A few minutes later, they've gathered a small portion of the Sorgan village and stand before them on the slightly raised porch of one of the huts. Zoya positions herself off to the side, arms crossed and head turned away, but continues to be a distraction for the bounty hunter, who tries to keep his eyes averted.

            "Bad news. You can't live here anymore," Mando says blankly.

            Zoya's brows shoot up as the people begin to murmur amongst each other. Cara turns to him, incredulous. "Nice bedside manner," she mutters.

            "You think you can do better?"

            "Can't do much worse," she says flatly, before stepping forward to address the people. "I know this is not the news you wanted to hear, but there are no other options."

            "You took the job," someone points out, receiving a resounding chorus of agreement from the others.

            "That was before we knew about the AT-ST," Cara replies.

            "Fuck." Zoya's fingers dig into the skin above her elbows. Omera, standing nearby, gives her a worried look. In response, she merely shakes her head mutely, fear spilling like a splash of cold water down her spine.

            "What is that?" asks one of the men who'd travelled to retrieve Mando and Zoya from the Razor Crest.

            "The armored walker with two enormous guns that you knew about and didn't tell us," Cara says flatly, unamused.

            At the finality in her tone, the villagers push forward, begging for help and asking them not to turn away. Zoya moves out of the crowd, stepping up to the ground on the side of the porch that the Mandalorian has sat down on, trying to stay out of the conversation. He glances down at her, intending the look to be brief, but finds he can't look away as easily.

            "What are we going to do?" she whispers up to him. "They need help."

            "It's an AT-ST."

            "I thought you liked shitty odds?" she says.

            Mando looks at her as if she's an idiot, the sentiment clear through his body language as the helmet obstructs his expression. "Not against a fucking AT-ST."

            "We have nowhere to go," Omera says from the crowd, holding her daughter tight against her chest.

            Cara doesn't buy it. "Sure you do. This is a big planet. I mean"—she looks out across the village—"I've seen a lot smaller."

            "My grandparents seeded these ponds," someone complains.

            "It took generations!"

            "I understand. I do. But there are only . . . two of us," she says with a questioning look at Zoya, as if wondering whether the ex-convict counts or not. Zoya shrugs, unable to answer. She's never fought an AT-ST, nor does she plan to.

            "No, there's not. There's at least twenty here!"

            "I mean fighters. Be realistic!" Cara shoots back.

            "We can learn!" The villagers explode into protests, everyone yelling over one another, struggling to be heard. Zoya leans a hip against a rail on the porch and massages her temples, missing the peace and quiet from a few minutes ago.

            "I've seen that thing take out entire companies of soldiers in a matter of minutes," Cara cuts out sharply.

            "We're not leaving," Omera says quietly.

            Cara's jaw clicks. "You cannot fight that thing."

            Mando's head lists to the side. "Unless we show them how."

            At that, Cara and Zoya both whip their eyes to him, eyebrows lifted. "Seriously?" Zoya mutters, as the villagers begin to discuss it amongst themselves. "You want to teach farmers to fight? When has that ever gone well?"

            "Be a little more pessimistic," Mando mutters.

            "Honestly, Mando. This is your plan?" Cara jumps in, shooting him a skeptical look.

            One of his shoulders lifts, and he pushes himself to his feet, suddenly looming above Zoya as he stands on the raised porch. "I think it's possible," he allows, refusing to back down even with the two women staring at him. "Look at them. They're determined to stay here. It could give them the fire we need to win."

            "Maybe," Cara says.

            Zoya follows his gaze as he jumps down beside her. Though Mando lands closer than he'd intended, he doesn't move away, and neither does she. Lifting her chin to look up at him, imagining that she can see his eyes through his black visor, she nods slowly, feeling her pulse begin to accelerate as she pictures the two of them fighting alongside each other, blasters and vigor raised high. "I think I'm with you on this one."

            "Really?"

            Zoya rolls her eyes. "Don't act so surprised."

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