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The advantage of Hera's typical technique is that it's controlled, and understated. She draws as little attention as possible to the act while she's carrying it out, giving her time to plant evidence and leave the area before most have even realized what has happened. But, once in a while, a particular job calls for a little more showmanship than this. Her work is never supposed to leave any uncertainty as to what it means, and who is behind it. But sometimes, there can also be value in sheer brazenness.

Which means that Hera's most recent target, Captain Orfanidis, was stabbed in the chest in his own quarters aboard the ISS Laran. At least the follow-up requires slightly less work – Hera doesn't even bother hiding her weapon. She hopes they find it. She hopes they find her DNA on it. She hopes they know exactly who did this, and that they walk in fear of when she'll do it again.

But if she plans to do it again, it also means she has to get away. Which is why she waits just long enough to ensure Orfanidis is dead before she drops her blade, and checks her time, before she steps back out into the hall. The moment she does is just as the ship's assigned cleaning "staff" is passing through. They're all wearing shock collars, so that they don't need a monitor, and are dutifully keeping their eyes down. Already disguised accordingly, it's easy enough for Hera to step in among them, and walk with them as they pass through the staff quarters.

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Hera glances away at 'taken.'

It's not something she would normally do. Normally she'd give her emotions as little room as she could manage. But now she lets that pang, that recognition, linger a little in her mind.

Maybe it's pointless. But it probably can't hurt.

Kanan casts her a quick, sideways look, almost as if he can't help himself. He shoves the curiosity out of his expression as fast as he can, though, and sets his jaw.

"My father was a man of honor."

"I'm sure he never regretted your birth," Thrawn says mildly.

Everyone in this room is well aware that the opposite must have been true.

Having caught his glance, Hera looks back to him.

"Terrans don't have honor."

"None that you can understand."

He sneers again, looking from Hera to Thrawn . . . and then back again.

"I heard what they called you."

She keeps her eyes on him. "You were never going to be one of them."

"I swore an oath!"

His voice cracks very slightly on the last word, and he looks away, because this is another thing everyone in the room knows to be true.

"I won't tell you anything."

There's another flare of emotion, not quite as voluntary this time, and much more quickly tamped down.

But her voice is still flat as she says, "That's not why I took you."

"Do you think you're likely to inquire why, precisely, you are here . . . lieutenant, I believe it is?"

There's a hint more smoothness to Thrawn's mild voice, a taunt that he makes no effort to conceal.

"What?" Kanan snaps, unsettled by the tone, by the glint in those scarlet eyes, or . . . maybe it's something else.

But --

"Are your kind taking slaves now, too?"

Hera swears, in Sy Bisti. There's not much force behind it, just a soft snarl against the back of her throat.

"When I thought you were Terran, I wanted you alive to tell them what I did."

She leans forward slightly now, to better meet his eye line. "I thought you'd run like a coward, the way a Terran does. But you didn't."

Kanan learned not to run early in life. You run, and they chase you. You take it -- whatever it is -- and they lose interest more quickly.

Unfortunately he can't seem to make himself do that here.

"And look what that got me. Cowards never seem to end up in prison."

"Plenty of them end up dead."

Hera can attest to that.

"Because you kill them?"

He can read subtext.

And because the half-Betazoid, in particular, is not looking at him, Thrawn allows himself the barest trace of a smile.

"Yes," she says, keeping her eyes on his.

"Because I kill them."

Later, Kanan will find it jarring that he didn't actually expect her to answer. It's like they only just met.

But she -- there are pieces of her reactions that feel familiar, and he knows he shouldn't react to that, but --

But it's been so long --

"At least you're clean about it."

Most of the time.

Hera tilts her head. She's not even sure what he means by this, but she just dismisses it.

"After you followed me, I couldn't leave you there. They would have killed you for letting me escape. And I won't let them do that."

He's looking up at her, sneer eking away, if only for a moment.

"What, only you get to kill me?"

"Maybe I will. But they won't. The Terrans have killed enough of those not like them."

And they'll go on doing so, for now. No reason to add more to it.

"But I'm still part of them."

Kanan's just looking up at her, watching, and those barriers he's erected around his empathy -- to keep himself safe from insult and injury -- fade, just a little.

"Still like them. That doesn't grant me a death? Not at all?"

"Would you like me to kill you?" she asks.

"No."

He consoles himself with the thought that he didn't mean to say it, not out loud.

Hera leans back, straightening her stance again. She glances back at Thrawn.

"So he's not a martyr," she says in Sy Bisti. That does make things more promising.

She turns back to the lieutenant, studying him for a moment.

And then she asks, "Will you tell me your name?"

He clenches his jaw hard enough to break teeth. He should say Caleb Dume, he should say it loud and clear and --

"Kanan. Kanan Jarrus."

It's the only thing he has left of his mother, and if he has this chance to try it on . . .