Archon of Light

Zara blinked up at the blaster aimed at her face like it was a party trick gone too far. Her limbs were still tingling from the stun round, her braid was a mess, and there was definitely a bruise blooming somewhere just beneath her ego. But her voice? Her voice still worked just fine.
"Force," she muttered, eyes narrowing, "I didn't know Mandalorians were so fragile. Say a few words, and suddenly it's threats and weapons and very dramatic posturing. Do they all break this easily, or is this one just special?"
She smiled, teeth bright, infuriating.
"You should really get a hobby, Mand'alor. One that doesn't involve pointing your feelings at people like loaded weapons. You're not a martyr, you're a monument to overreaction."
A beat passed. Then another. Her gaze didn't flinch. She stared down the barrel, lashes fluttering with insolent poise.
"Go on then," she whispered. "Make me a symbol. That'll go over so well when we start carving this war into history books."
And she would've kept going.
Zara absolutely would've kept going, probably would've called him a walking bucket with daddy issues next, if Rokul's hand hadn't cracked down against her neck in a sharp, practiced blow.
The world turned sideways. The cantina lights flickered in her eyes like starlight through tears.
Cowards, she thought, as darkness swallowed her.
---
Pain was the first thing she felt. Second was indignation. Third was the awful, awful recycled air of a Diarchy shuttle.
Her eyes shot open. She groaned like a wounded animal and flopped dramatically onto her back against the cushioned bench.
"You knocked me out," she croaked, glaring up at the ceiling. Then she turned her head sharply toward Rokul, eyes blazing with betrayal and post-stun vengeance. "You fething betrayed me."
She sat up too fast, regretted it instantly, and then did it again out of spite.
"You don't get to decide when I leave a conversation. You especially don't get to body-slam my dignity into unconsciousness in front of an entire bar full of emotionally unstable tin cans!"
She jabbed a finger in his direction, which wobbled only slightly from the residual neural backlash.
"They don't deserve diplomacy, Rokul. They deserve a mirror and a therapist. You think honor gives them the right to execute people over bad PR? What are they, Sith with helmets?"
She let out a huff and leaned back against the wall, rubbing her temple.
"Reign better put that glorified tin soldier on a leash before I go back there and really make the next round personal."
A pause. Then a glare.
"...And don't think you're off the hook. You owe me caf. And a foot rub."
She crossed her arms like a defiant queen on a slightly wobbly throne, blonde hair now a wild halo of war-torn glamor. Because Zara Saga may have lost consciousness.
But she had not lost the argument.
Not even a little.