THIRTY NINE.
stay sharp!
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With cuffs locked securely around Din's wrists and blasters strapped in both Cara and Zoya's holsters, they move out across the rocky surface of the planet. Cara's long gun bounces against her hip as they walk, the muzzle of it pointed at the ground beside Zoya's boots. Her hair sweeps in bunched waves, curling slightly from the loops of the braid she'd taken out, that ripple in the wind as it caresses the curve of her cheek.

            "Do you think they'll buy it?" she asks quietly to Cara.

            The ex-shock trooper glances down at her. "They will," she says.

            "And if they don't?"

            "They will," she repeats, as if trying to speak it into existence. Because, what will they do if the Imperials don't believe them? Neither of the women want to consider what will happen then, but it speaks of spilled blood and bolts burning through their chests, spreading the fiery debris of their heart catapulting through their veins.

            Zoya releases a breath, feeling the air tremble as it passes her lips. "They will," she echoes, a beat too late, eyes locked upon the horizon as the tall, foreboding stone arch that marks the entrance to the village rises in the distance. Her fingers catch at the strips of cloth wrapped around her forearm, disguising the numbers stamped black and bold against her skin.

            When they're close enough for the Scout troopers at the entrance to see them, but still far enough away to remain out of earshot, Cara says out of the corner of her mouth, without looking down at Zoya, "Ready?"

            Zoya runs back through their story in her head and resists the urge to look at Din, feeling a pull in her chest. "If you are."

            She knows that there's a reason why Cara had made sure to walk in between them, a reason why she isn't by his side right now, fighting the urge to reach for his hand, to say something to make him laugh. Her instinct to protect him at his most vulnerable—with his hands bound and weapons nowhere in reach—would've had her trying to stand in front of him when they make it to the archway, the moment where it's vital that they stay in character. Zoya's throat bobs as she swallows. She doesn't like feeling like the weak link.

            Cara suppresses a smirk as they start to approach the Scout troopers. "I'm always ready."

            Her eyes scan what's visible of the small village. Ivory armor catches the sunlight, reflecting off nearly every corner. Zoya scoffs as she remembers what Greef had told them before they arrived. Four troopers my ass. The town is practically swarming with Imperials. She can feel Cara's demeanor shift as she notices the same thing.

            One of the Scout troopers pushes lazily away from his speeder as they come to a stop in front of the archway. He considers them, a lethargic tilt to his helmet. "Chain code?"

            "I have a gift for the boss," Greef says, gesturing to Din.

            "Chain code?" the Scout trooper repeats, fusing his voice with steel.

            Greef presses his lips together but withdraws a small card from his shirt pocket, handing it over to the trooper. Pulling out a scanner, the Scout trooper presses it to the edge of the card, and the dust visibly staining the top of his helmet leads Zoya to recognize the dirt spread across the rest of his armor, marring the typically pristine appearance of Imperial forces.

            The trooper looks up, then back down. "I'll give you twenty credits for the helmet," he says.

            Greef laughs. "Not a chance. That's going on my wall."

            Zoya can just barely hear Din as he mutters back, "On your wall?"

            Greef turns into him slightly to say something back, but it's so quiet that Zoya can't catch it. Trying to relax her shoulders, she tosses another glance further into the town, finding that a Stormtrooper watches them closely, leaning up against one of the muddy brown walls.

            "Go ahead," the Scout trooper says, and hands Greef his small card back.

            Greef pushes Din forward, and they walk into the town, the empty cradle whirring along behind them.

            "You said four," Cara hisses. "There are more than four troopers."

            "Four guarding the client," says Greef. "Many more here in town."

            "That's a fucking technicality," Zoya all but snarls. "You should have told us."

            Greef maintains his composure. "Things got really heated once Mando crashed the safehouse." He quiets as a Stormtrooper passes them, the blaster in his hand an unfeeling obsidian.

            Cara's jaw is tight, but she merely says, "Slip him his blaster."

            "Not yet," Greef says.

            Zoya's hand curls around the handle of her own blaster, wondering how easily the town will fall. "Then when?" she says back, mindful of the patrolling troopers.

            "At the right moment."

            She opens her mouth to snap something back at him, but Cara's fingers brush her wrist as she reaches out, trying to soothe Zoya's quick temper. "It's fine," she says out of the corner of her mouth. "There's no way he'd be able to get Mando the blaster without alerting one of these fucking Stormtroopers."

            Zoya relaxes, though only marginally. Tone clipped, she says, "Right."

            "I'm okay," Din says from Cara's other side, resisting the urge to glance over at Zoya. "Greef's right, it has to wait."

            She exhales at the sound of his voice, reminding herself that they're all okay, they're all alive, they're all going to get out okay. Zoya pushes down the fear ribboning around her chest that had started growing ever since the attack of the winged beasts, lifting her eyes to the pale azure of the sky. "Okay," she says, steadying her breaths. "Okay."

            Din hears the anxiety coloring her voice and tries not to let worry infiltrate his own heart, even as Stormtroopers and Imperial officers catalogue their every step.

            Once they've made their way deep into Nevarro's town, Greef leads them up to one of the hunched buildings, its walls stained with dust and neglect. "Here we are."

            "Let's go," Zoya mutters, and her jaw clicks, a muscle pulsing at her temple.

            "Stay sharp, Vitaan," Cara says, and the two women share a wry smile.

            When the door slides open, he pushes Din roughly through the opening. Though it's just for show, Zoya can't help but wonder if he'd used more force than was necessary as she notices the way Din stumbles forward. A small grunt that's quiet enough that the troopers guarding the room probably don't hear it falls from his lips as his boots scuff the floor.

            As they walk further into the space, Greef says under his breath, "You see? Four."

            His hand pressing into Din's back, Greef leads them further into the building, crowded with slate arches and dozens of small, circular tables that are all empty. Narrow booths line the walls, and a half circle of cushions is arranged near the back. Zoya's arm brushes against a russet shelf protruding from an arch's column as they pass, nearly knocking over the candle that's situated precariously on the ledge.

            Her eyes flick between the Stormtroopers littered about the space, guns held at the ready between their chests and abdomens, fingers hovering over the triggers. She feels anxiety swell in her throat, threatening to take over, and tries to take steadying breaths.

            Cara, walking beside her, senses her levels of calm diminishing and attempts to ease her with a subtle touch to the small of her back.

            A man rises from one of the booths as they approach. A gold medallion hangs from his throat, inscribed with something Zoya can't make out. His hair is snowy and receding far back from his wizened, wrinkled forehead, and his brows crease as they approach, lines delving into the skin around his mouth.

            This has to be the Client.

            "Look what I brought you," Greef says, offering up Din like he's a sack of credits. "As promised."

            The man reaches out with the back of his hand to touch the Beskar, and every muscle in Zoya's body freezes into ice. "What exquisite craftmanship," he says, grazing the bottom of Din's helmet. His accent is so foreign and unfamiliar that Zoya cannot place it. "It is amazing how beautiful Beskar can be when forged by its ancestral artisans. Can I offer you a libation to celebrate the closing of our shared narrative?"

            "I would be obliged," Greef replies, adapting to his more formal way of speaking.

            The man gestures to the droid at the bar, and after he gets a nod in return, he turns back to them. "Please sit."

            Greef pushes Din forward, and he stumbles again before sliding into the booth.

            "It is a shame that your people suffered so," the man says as he sits across from them.

            Cara and Zoya twist simultaneously as the door opens. More Stormtroopers pile into the room until the number of enemies is undoubtedly above four. Suddenly, the odds are stacked against them.

            "Just as in this situation, it was all avoidable," he continues. "Why did Mandalore resist our expansion? The Empire improves every system it touches. Judge by any metric. Safety, prosperity, trade, opportunity, peace. Compare Imperial rule to what is happening now." His eyes flick between Greef and Din, then pass over Zoya and Cara, standing beside the booth. "Look outside. Is the world more peaceful since the revolution? I see nothing but death and chaos." Zoya feels a tremor run down her spine. Is he right? "I would like to see the baby."

            "Uh," Greef says. "It is asleep."

            "We all will be quiet," the Client insists.

            Zoya's fingers play about the handle of her blaster as Cara casts a covert glance towards Greef and Din.

            "Open the pram," the man commands, voice firm.

            Obediently, Greef reaches towards the cradle. Before he can open it, a Stormtrooper approaches, the buzz of static coming from his radio. He ducks his head to say something into the Client's ear, low enough that they can't hear. The man looks to them, something freezing over within his eyes.

            As he stands, he says, "Don't think me to be rude. I must take this call."

            Greef rises with him but doesn't say anything as the Client walks away, moving further from the booth as he heads towards the bar, where a Stormtrooper is setting up the call on a large holoprojector. When he's far enough away from the table, a small click, inaudible if she wasn't listening for it, tells Zoya that Din has removed his cuffs.

            "Give me the blaster," he says under his breath as Zoya and Cara shift on their feet, trying to conceal the sound of the cuffs clinking together.

            "You get one shot," says Greef.

            Cara leans down. "This is bad. You said four."

            "Well," the Guild leader says flatly, "there are more. What can I tell you?"

            "I don't fucking like this," Zoya says under her breath.

            "Neither do I," Cara mutters in reply.

            Across the cantina, the Client presses a button on the holoprojector, and a blue figure flickers to life. "Yes, Moff Gideon?" he says.

            "Have they brought the child?"

            "Yes, they have. Currently, it is sleeping."

            The man's voice sounds uninterested and monotone when he replies. "You may want to check again."

            "Fuck," Zoya whispers.

            But before the Client can begin to turn, a blaster shot burns a hole straight through his back and he tumbles to the ground. No one has any time to react before more crimson bolts splutter through the opening, taking down Stormtroopers and ricocheting off the droid that twists and turns behind the counter, trying to find somewhere to hide.

            Zoya's frozen for a split second, but the short moment of hesitation is long enough that Din sees and surges forward, even as Cara and Greef dive back to take cover behind the booth. He catches Zoya around the waist and yanks her back, dragging them both to the ground as bolts continue to dagger through the air, cleaving through the space where she'd been standing. Clutching at each other, they push back across the floor together, struggling to make it behind the booth. Breathing heavily, she grips his hand.

            "Thanks," she pants.

            "Anytime," he replies, exhales just as labored.

            Zoya shakes her head, glancing at Cara, then Greef, then Din. "Fucking hells," she mutters, curling her fingers into fists. "Why does nothing ever go according to plan?"

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