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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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She's not surprised that he would flinch at the gesture, but she shows no reaction, as she closes her hand again.

With a glance back to Thrawn, "Do you want me to say something?"

"No," Thrawn says, after a moment of thought. "One of us must take a more authoritative approach, and as you seem to share some emotional resonance from past events . . . "

He trails off, a faint smile crossing his thin lips.

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Don't hurt yourself attempting to pronounce it. Thrawn will do."

That seems to be enough to break the current spell.

Kanan spits at him.

"Such a strange habit," she says, sharply, as though it were a rebuke to Thrawn, rather than an idle observation.

She turns her eyes back to Jarrus, and waits a moment before she asks, "Were you born on Betazed?"

"What?"

His focus had been so complete on the blue man with the infuriating voice that Hera choosing to speak again startles him.

"Was I -- of course not."

"All right."

His reaction doesn't seem to bother her. "Where were you born?"

"They told me it was New York. On Terra."

But now that he thinks about it, that seems wildly unlikely, doesn't it?

"Then you didn't grow up there."

She'd guess, since he doesn't seem to know for sure.

Kanan shakes his head, another reflex in response to an easy question.

"No. My father was stationed on the ISS Acheron, and so was I."

Stationed. Raised. They're the same thing in the end, in Starfleet.

Hera nods.

"And your mother was Betazoid?"

"That's pretty much the only option, isn't it?"

He works hard not to look away from her at that. It would be a weakness, and --

"You don't seem to want to mention her," she replies, steadfastly keeping her eyes on his.

"Like you've cut her out of your words."

Or more than that, really.

"What else could I do?"

Betazoids are honest, pathologically so. That's a fatal flaw in the Terran empire, particularly for a half-breed boy. Forgetting was the only way.

Hera doesn't answer at once. She straightens, and glances around the office for a few seconds. And then she steps away to another chair, and moves it slightly closer to Kanan, taking a seat herself.

"You don't have to do it now."

"Oh," Kanan says, pulling that sneer back on, but it's faltering and unsteady. "Because honesty is going to serve me well here."

How can he believe that, not just here, but anywhere?

She raises her eyebrows.

"Being half-Betazoid saved your life today."

After a beat, she adds, "And not running like a coward did, too."

He snorts, half humor and half spite, and even he's not sure if it's really half-and-half.

"Remind me again how your side punishes failure?"

Hera raises her eyes, glancing up to Thrawn.

"We can't afford to waste the way Terrans do."

"No."

That's impossible. No one could ever --

She turns her eyes back to him.

"The Terrans have made this part of the galaxy cruel. We have to find ways to survive that. But we have no reason to carry that out on each other now."

"Doesn't anyone here have ambition?"

Ambition, cruelty, torture, murder. They're all the same word.

She blinks, and takes a few seconds to consider this question.

"We all have ambition. But the Terrans won't allow that. And how would it help us to harm our allies?"

He snorts again.

"The Empire seems to have gotten far enough without that kind of softness."

Just look at it, the sheer scope of it. Isn't that winning?

Hera glances to Thrawn, but when he doesn't speak, she turns back to Kanan.

"And what, Lieutenant Jarrus, has that meant for you? What about your ambition?"

"If I had any, it would be meaningless."

It's a rote recitation, but at the same time it's true.

(His only ambition is not to die.)