v. the trade

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FIVE.
the trade!
。・:*:・゚ 。・:*:・゚


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Zoya's eyes flutter open. Every muscle aches. She groans, trying not to move too much. There's a dull, faint grinding sound that sounds like gears moving. A chittering of noise comes from all around her, and bit by bit, her memories seep back in, along with a wave of pain that trembles within every corner of her body.

That nightmare.

Chained to the ship.

Fucking Jawas.

Electric rod.

She squints in the darkness, unable to see much until a lamp is lit, a small, dancing flame that somehow manages to illuminate the entire space. Rows of hoods stand in front of her, backlighted by the tiny pinprick of fire.

"Where is he?" she groans, still half-asleep, trying to push herself up onto her elbows. One responds in their language, but Zoya can't understand them. When they realize this, they erupt into cacophonous, devious laughter that grates her ears. "Where the hell am I?" she snaps, anger bubbling in her chest. "What's going on?"

They explode into another fit of gremlin-like giggles, chattering amongst themselves, no doubt making fun of her for not comprehending their language. Her temper starts to crack, and something red-hot froths up before her tongue, and Zoya has to clench her teeth together in order to restrain herself from saying something she'll regret, reminding herself that she's technically their prisoner, and they could do anything they wanted to her if she offends them.

She bites her tongue again as one prods her leg with the end of one of their electric rods. Thankfully, there's no blue electricity crackling at the tip this time.

Zoya tries to move again but realizes she's locked down. Heavy chains hook her ankles together, and her hands are cuffed, but not with the same ones the Mandalorian had put her in. These are thick, impenetrable metal, and they pull at her skin like live things, dragging her towards the floor. The familiarity of the situation wraps a suffocating hand across her mouth, and she tries to relax, telling herself that it's just Jawas, just little harmless creatures that wouldn't do anything, not the prison guards with their greedy hands or cellmates with crazed gleams in their eyes.

Swallowing her pride, she says, voice hoarse and choked, "Please—please, just let me—let me go, I, I didn't, I don't know where, I didn't—" Zoya cuts herself off, inhaling shuddering breaths that rattle against her ribs as if her bones are coming loose.

Cataclysm ─── The Mandalorian. ¹Where stories live. Discover now