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Hera really hadn't missed battle droids. She's not sure whether they could be worse than Stormtroopers, but if it's possible, she's sure the Empire has found a way. Stormtroopers, on occasion, had rumblings of a conscience under their buckets. That could be programmed out of droids. So the Empire's announcement that it would be commissioning new droid armies to help it maintain order on Mid- and Outer Rim worlds was far from welcome. Apparently the Emperor's new incursions in to the Unknown Regions and Wild Space were requiring more and more troops, leaving fewer available to police its assets closer to home. It had been a dearly needed boon to the Rebellion.

They'll see how long that lasts.

But once they'd heard reports that the Empire was planning a ceremony for a new, enormous droid factory on Arkanis, passed only among Imperial channels rather than broadcast publicly, Phoenix Squadron couldn't pass it up. That news of the ceremony was only passed through private Imperial channels meant it was likely to be attended by several high-ranking Empire officials. Most knew better than to publicly announce their whereabouts these days.

There was enough discontent with the Empress that the Rebellion had long-established contacts on the Regency Worlds, including Arkanis. It was easy enough to acquire spies among those constructing the new factories, and over a matter of months, through very careful steps, to acquire blueprints for the final facility. With this, the rebels could formulate the mission they were currently carrying out – setting explosives to destroy the facility, while the Imperials were inside.

The ceremony, as the rebels had anticipated, means that any remaining construction workers or factory staff have been cleared from the building. Only a handful of event staff are permitted to enter the factory, and even they are kept off the factory floor. The ceremony is largely attended to by droids, who serve the food and drink the Imperials enjoy while watching the newly minted factory lines roll out trooper droids – they're broad-shouldered, steel-plated, supposedly much sturdier and stronger than the old Separatist droids.

Hera knows she likely shouldn't have come in person. But even after all these years, Imperials rarely recognize her. A Twi'lek service worker is not out of place, and the troopers who check her credentials barely flicker a second glance to her before permitting her inside. From there, she mopped floors and checked light bulbs long enough to review the spots they'd set out, the rotation of the server droids, before cornering one such droid in a side hall. If all went according to plan, Hera and four other compatriots, two with reprogrammed droid accomplices, would set charges within and just outside the main factory floor, where the Imperials were gathered.

She finishes her work without incident, then taps her comm once to signal the others, before passing the doors to the main floor, not throwing even a glance through the windows to catch a glimpse of the party as she heads to a side hall that she knows eventually leads to an exit.

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It's just a coincidence that Thrawn, Grand Admiral of the Empire, is looking out through one of those windows as Hera passes. A different person might be taken in by the cap pulled down low over her face, be distracted by the everyday assumptions people of rank often have, about the relative position of Twi'leks and other non-humans in this grand Imperial endeavor.

But Thrawn is not such a person, is a non-human in his own right, and Syndulla -- General, Captain, whatever they call her now -- has a particularly distinct way of moving through the world, and Thrawn could not fail to miss it.

Interesting.

He could call the guards on her, and perhaps he will in a moment, but first --

Thrawn slips away from the fawning bootlicker talking to him, moving across the room and toward the door.

Hera keeps her eyes lowered as she moves through the hall, as would be expected for any backroom staff, and with the benefit of the visor of her cap staying down over her face. She's stays at an unhurried pace, her hands folded loosely in front of her.

She doesn't look back when she hears the door from the factory floor open, nor does she move any faster.

There is the clack clack clack of heeled military boots following her down the corridor.

And then a voice --

"Excuse me, but I believe I have need of your assistance."

Into an inquiry about what she and her doubtless-present collaborators have planned for this gathering, certainly. Though 'need' may be a bit strong.

Hera stops at the voice, hesitating for only one, measured moment before she does turn around.

As she does, she's careful to keep her head lowered, her face obscured, her hands still folded in front of her.

In her Twi'leki accent, "Is there something wrong, sir?"

"Oh, a fair few things, Syndulla."

His voice is very dry, though his hands are most definitely not clasped behind his back.

"It is Syndulla, isn't it?"

There's no use in playing innocent. If she were anyone else, she could simply raise her head, and show her face.

Which is what she does, regardless. After a few more seconds' hesitation. They'd all had nearly a minute now.

Yet Hera's smiling as she looks up to him. "Oh, I came so close this time."

"Not close enough," Thrawn says, voice mild.

"Perhaps next time."

"We'll see."

And then, her hands move over what was folded between them - her comm. Hera taps it twice with her thumb.

No more than a second later, explosions rip through the load-bearing columns of central factory floor. Steel and cement give way in a loud groan that shatters through the entire factory, fire flashing through the hall beyond them, before chunks of the cement block walls smash down, caving in the hall and one side, and then, as the ceiling partially gives way with the walls, the other.

The lights have gone out, smoke and dust from the rubble wafting through the air, and what sounds can be heard are distant, and muffled. Maybe shouts, screams, or sirens.

He has no rebreather mask, and so it is that in the aftermath of the explosions, with fire and rubble all around, Thrawn coughs, and keeps coughing.

His dress whites are now dress grays, and even dress blacks in places, and blood is running from a cut in his scalp. Possibly several cuts.

His ribs hurt.

This is all . . . unfortunate.

"You might -- have done better -- Syndulla --- "

Another coughing gasp.

" -- to have made -- a break -- for it before triggering -- this rather -- ingenious mess."

Hera actually laughs, though it's quickly punctuated by coughing. She pulls herself up against the part of the wall that hasn't fallen yet. Her cap is gone, and there's a long gash along the left side of her face.

"You would've stunned me before I made it two meters."

Edited 2018-06-15 02:13 (UTC)

"Perhaps."

Again, he punctuates this by a sharp, wet cough.

"But that seems a preferable end to burning alive."

He pauses, as if considering that statement.

"But then, considering the skills the Empire values in its interrogators . . . perhaps not."

"I'm a pilot."

She manages to get to her feet, though with the lights out and the air still clouded, she doesn't try to move any farther than that.

"That's how I planned to die."

His eyebrows lift toward his hairline, though that might be difficult to discern through the still-quick flow of blood from his head.

"Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten about your self-destructive streak."

(No, he hasn't.)

"I imagine it feels like an extra bonus, then, taking me with you. Potentially."

"I wouldn't be complaining."

There's a flash of light, as something suddenly clatters down from the fractured ceiling, skittering across the floor. Hera barely jumps away before it hits her boot - it settles against the wall instead.

But it only takes her a few seconds to realize what the object is. Gingerly, she puts both hands on it, and lifts it up from the floor. The object emits two beams of light, which illuminate the dusty air, and the small, as of yet uncrushed space around them.

The light's source is a pair of mechanical eyes, meaning the object must be a head that had belonged to one of the new battle droids.

Thrawn merely peers over at the object in Hera's hand, then shakes his head very slightly.

"I suppose I must congratulate you on the relative success of your endeavor. I presume destroying our current manufacturing capability was high on your list of objectives."

It is at least an obvious choice.

"Did you have a plan of extraction, or shall we both be dying down here today?"

Hera lifts the droid head up, pointing its eyes toward what's left of the ceiling.

"I guess that depends on whether you still have your sidearm."

Thrawn's smile is very small, and there is indeed a blaster pistol in his hand.

He doesn't fire it, however.

Largely because something in it is broken. If he had time, it would not be a difficult repair.

But alas, time is in short supply just now.

Hera glances to the blaster, then back up to the ceiling.

"Then you'll be deciding."

She keeps moving the droid's head, until the light from its eyes glint across the grate of an air vent.

Thrawn merely reholsters the broken blaster, then moves up to look at where Syndulla is pointing the light.

"I do prefer it that way. Have you found a means of egress?"

Hera spends a few seconds considering throwing the droid's head at Thrawn's face, but instead tucks it under her arm, before abruptly launching herself at the opposing wall, jumping up against it and using it to reach up to the grate in the ceiling.

Her fingers twist into the grate, and it creaks loudly, but doesn't yet pull loose.

"Perhaps the equivalent of a rope and some leverage might help, Syndulla."

Thrawn moves carefully around the rubble, triangulating where he remembers certain hoses and fireproofing gear to have been kept, prior to the building's collapse.

"Do you have any suggestions?" she asks through gritted teeth, not yet letting go of the grate.

"Perhaps," Thrawn says coolly, carefully extricating a broken length of flame retardant hose out from under several large chunks of wall, as well as the sharp edges of broken ductwork.

"If you'll take a brief moment for patience. You've proven adept at it in the past, as I recall."

"Just get on with it."

The impatience in her voice has nothing to do with the time it's taking Thrawn to get the hose out from the rubble.

Thrawn makes a noncommittal noise, taking care not to grunt with effort as he finishes extracting the length of hose.

Then --

"Catch."

And he tosses the heavier nozzled end up toward her.