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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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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.

Hera does catch the nozzle. It takes some effort to shove it through an open space in the grate, but she eventually manages to firmly attach the hose, testing it once before she drops down to the floor again.

Then she waits, maybe to see if he'll attempt to pull the grate down.

Thrawn merely regards her with one eyebrow raised, also waiting.

"Well? I've certainly done my part."

He found the hose, for one.

And for another, he has no wish to get into a wrestling match just yet. They might yet be engulfed in flames -- or more rubble -- at any moment. Factories are full of flammables.

Without another option, Hera reluctantly sets down the droid head, and moves to the hose, grasping it with both hands and putting all her weight into yanking it down.

It takes her a few minutes, but the grate finally pulls loose, forcing her to dodge out of the way to avoid it clattering down on top of her.

Thrawn is already moving closer, reaching out to pick up the grate and -- heavy bludgeoning weapon firmly in hand -- unwind the hose.

"The relative lack of handholds means we might wish to use this as a means of ascent."

He has no doubt Syndulla has followed along, but --

Given recent reports of her tactics, keeping her disarmed (if that can even be done) seems wise.

Hera moves back to her feet, also eyeing the grate in Thrawn's hands.

A little dismissively, "I can jump back up there."

One corner of his mouth twitches, but it's difficult to tell whether it's trending up or down.

Then --

"If we must."

He tosses the grate behind him and away from Syndulla, the motion decisive.

Hera watches the grate hit the floor, skittering away from her. Then, she turns, retrieving the droid head, and tossing it up into the vent first, listening to it clatter along above them.

It's a little promising, at least.

Then, using the wall to help her up again, Hera jumps, her hands now reaching to grip the edge of the vent. She bends her arms and, rather smoothly, pulls herself up into it.

Thrawn is a bit too heavy to make use of such a maneuver, but he does have some skill at free-climbing, and with the way debris is stacked -- and the ways in which the walls crumbled -- he manages to find enough toe- and footholds to make it work.

He'll also enter the vent feet-first, because he fully expects that Hera will attempt to render him unconscious, perhaps with the droid-head.