Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The triumvirate approaches a small but bustling marketplace, the pines behind them darkened into black silhouettes against the sky. Citizens of Sorgan wait at a bar in a half-enclosed restaurant, receiving steaming bowls of soup and sticks puncturing chunks of fresh-looking meat that make Zoya's mouth water. She can't remember the last time she'd gotten to taste hot food.
She reaches forward to tug lightly on the elbow of the Mandalorian's sleeve above the top of his forearm guard. She means to ask if they can stop and order some before they find a place to stay, but all that comes out is a singular word: "Soup?" Mando looks down at her, cocking his head. "Um, what I meant was, 'can we please stop and get some hot food? I'm tired of eating freeze-dried fucking everything.'"
Beneath the helmet, the edge of his mouth quirks. "I was already planning on it."
Zoya exhales a relieved breath. "Good, because if you weren't, I may have just had to ditch you altogether."
"The boy, too?"
"No, of course not. I'd take him with me. Obviously."
Mando rolls his eyes. "Obviously."
The wooden slats of the roof are covered by a thin, tan tarp that lets a portion of filtered sunlight pass through to turn the dust floor from a dull, boring brown to a rippling golden shade. Zoya and the child follow the bounty hunter as he walks straight towards where Sorgan people are waiting to eat. Customers they pass by give them strange looks, just as Zoya had thought they would. His armor draws attention—too much. It's best they eat quickly and leave to find somewhere to stay before word travels.
The child squeaks a little as it falls behind, eyes wide as he's stared at. Something snaps its teeth at him, and he startles back with a cry. Mando looks back to make sure he's alright, but Zoya turns on her heel, swooping him back up into her arms once more and away from the creature's gaping maw, lined with rows of sharp teeth. She flashes it her own pearly canines as she moves away, catching up with the Mandalorian, who continues to observe their surroundings, eyes falling on a muscular, tough looking woman, a tattoo encircling her upper arm, sitting in a corner with only a tankard on the table in front of her.
He approaches a different table and turns to Zoya. "Here."
She sets the child down in his own seat as he gurgles happily. "Thank the gods," Zoya mutters. "Everyone's fucking staring."
