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Technically, it's more than a little illegal to remove or cover up the branding numbers of a prison tattoo with another, but as the ink sinks into her skin, there's no lingering conscience weighing down on Zoya's shoulders, telling her that she shouldn't break the law again. There's only a soft, gentle lightness that fills her stomach with clouds and her lungs with warm sunlight, a feeling that a great boulder has been lifted from her chest, allowing her to breathe to fill without being constricted. There's some pain, but she's gone through much, much worse.
This is like a summer breeze.
Besides the fact that Zoya's been wanting it covered or removed for a long time, she'll need it concealed if she's going to infiltrate the fighting arena without raising suspicion. The dress she's set on wearing is sleeveless, and it'll reveal her entire forearm (along with much else). If even a single guard or patron were to spot the marks branding her as an inmate, there's no guarantee she'll be able to wander about as she pleases. Ex-inmates (let alone escaped ones) are known to be dangerous.
Zoya's brow creases as she stares at the pockmarked table, picturing the target who'd come into the cantina a couple weeks before, how the pale-skinned Twi'lek had grinned hungrily when she'd slid him a few coins. She'd dared to go against her gut and bought his silence and his information, learning that there'd be a religious attendee at the near-nightly fights who could help her.
"She'll be wearing a black cloak, hooded and long enough to reach the ground," the Twi'lek had murmured, sliding a slimy tongue over teeth sharp as fangs, eyeing the coins like he wanted to take a bite out of one of them. "She's pale, like me."
Zoya tilted her head, jaw sharp. "Her name?"
"You'll know her when you see her." Another slippery smile, revealing the teeth that he must have had filed into points, and Zoya hadn't been able to help looking away, restraining a disgusted curl of her lip. "The Jedi are very distinctive, even if they are a dying breed," he'd said cruelly.
Zoya hadn't owned the dress yet then, now tucked away in a secretive corner—it was a recent gift from Cara, which solved her problem of finding something to wear. It's about ten times flashier and more extravagant than anything else the other attendees will be wearing, but she can't find it within herself to be bothered. Though she could've wrapped her arm to hide the prison brand and been gone ages ago, she'd already been waiting months for the tattoo artist to arrive, and the vain side of her didn't want anything taking attention away from the dress—which she looks an absolute vision in. After the Twi'lek's information, Zoya had barely been able to keep herself occupied, and waiting another seven days to go find the informant would've been torture, so, she considers, watching the artist's needle work, it's lucky that he'd been able to move their appointment up.
