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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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"Perhaps not in time."

He'd rush her, of course.

But even throwing the blaster pistol would be unlikely to help.

"I could reprogram it."

It doesn't sound like something she's seriously considering. She knows he'd never trust her with it.

"Have it walk ahead, to clear areas before us."

"Until you were in a better position," Thrawn agrees.

"Which is why I believe we'll leave them here. Buried, as it were."

Eventually, she knows, she's going to have to put up a fight. It's only a matter of choosing the right moment.

She keeps her eyes on the droids for a few more seconds, but then looks away. Not to the crushed passages toward the factory floor - she shines her droid head toward the far end of the room.

"There should be some kind of shaft to the loading bay."

"Ah, the joys of industrial air supply," Thrawn observes, paralleling Syndulla in that direction.

"The true question," he continues, peering ahead into the dark, "is whether or not the shaft survives all the way down, or if it's blocked. Or, most unfortunate of all, severe completely."

"There's more than one way to find out."

But Thrawn has foreclosed on most of their other options.

"I imagine you'd prefer I go first, purely to test it out?"

He's not going to, though.

"And I imagine you'd prefer I do."

And there's the problem.

Indeed.

"Perhaps we might toss one of these defunct droids in and . . . listen to the resultant echoes, as it were."

"All right."

She turns, moving toward the droids again.

After all, if that's what he wants her to do...

He follows her.

Closely.

"Do you want to help me with the one at the end?" she asks, maybe purposefully not looking to him hovering at her shoulder.

"Only if I might see the circuits you're working on," Thrawn answers pleasantly.

Now she does glance back.

"If we're tossing it down the shaft, I only need to detach it."

"You forget," Thrawn says, still mild. (He knows she hasn't forgotten a thing.) "I have some experience at what you can do with a droid and a very little span of time."

Hera shakes her head, turning back to the rack of droids and shining the light she's holding along it, looking for a control panel.

"You're the one who kept bodyguard droids near your office."

"That particular incident was good for pointing out weaknesses, so I suppose I ought to thank you."

(He is not going to thank her.)

"Shall I hold the light? Unless you prefer not having both hands free."

"I don't prefer you holding this while my back is turned."

She doesn't really think he'd bludgeon her with the droid head. But that's not for any good reason.

"Ah. And doubtless in the time I might put together a means of hanging it on the wall, you'd already be done."

He clasps his hands behind his back, instead.

There is a careful three paces between him and Syndulla. At all times.

Hera continues to run the light over the rack, until she finds something that looks like a row of levers. She looks over it very briefly, and then quickly grabs the lever on the far right and slams it down, before jumping out of the way.

Because the moment she pulls the lever, one of those heavy droids disconnects from the rack, and slams down to the floor where she had been standing the moment before.

Which, incidentally, is also where Thrawn has been standing, if three paces back.

That arms-behind-his-back gesture costs him, because it takes him an extra second to get his arms up in an effort to deflect and/or cushion the fall of the droid -- clearly with a plan to slip sideways around it without taking too much harm --

And --

Well. Bones snap when under too much pressure at the wrong angle. Even as he falls, he's drawing his unfortunately broken blaster and sends it spinning toward Hera's head.

Hera drops the droid head, the light from it skittering off across the floor, as she dodges out of the way of the blaster. Without the light, she can't see where the blaster hit, or landed, nor does she know for sure where Thrawn is or if he'd moved out of the way in time.

From the sound of it, the droid hit something.

Her first instinct is still to go after the blaster, before she has the time to think, to realize he threw the blaster at her, and what that has to mean.

Instead, she moves away along the floor, toward the light from the fallen droid head.

Thrawn, teeth gritted against the grinding pain in his broken arm, slides sideways into the darkness -- away from the droid head and, at this point, away from Syndulla.

It's not that he's seeking shelter among the non-functional droids, but a small space of time and distance to forge a better plan would seem to be wise.

Hera, meanwhile, reaches the illuminated droid head and snatches it up. She doesn't lift, doesn't immediately try to seek out Thrawn. Instead, she covers its eyes with her hands, leaving them in near-total darkness.

In that darkness, there's the scuffle of her continued movements against the floor, the unsteady pace of their breathing. After a few seconds, the scuffling stops.

And then, there's a flutter of soft, breathy laughter.

Thrawn remains silent, unmoving, if only for a few moments.

Even in the near-total darkness he can still see heat. This would be much more useful if the air weren't already edging toward hot from the oh-so-recent explosion. Still, perhaps he will be able to see --

No, better a distraction now and more direct work later. He takes a moment to wish he hadn't thrown his blaster -- the power pack would have been very useful -- and starts moving cautiously toward where he swears he saw a toolkit in the corner.

Metal implements to throw for some misdirection would be welcome, as would, honestly, a heavy wrench-equivalent with which to strike.