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There's only a small port at Mos Elrey, and Hera had already decided to avoid it. She doesn't want to deal with Imperials looking too closely at their identichips, or local 'authorities' demanding bribes to ensure the ship's protection. The other option is to touchdown outside the city – that's not difficult on a planet like Tatooine, and Hera quickly finds a tall dune in the Western Sea along which to tuck away the Ghost. It's eight klicks from Mos Elrey, the collection of sand-and-mudbrick towers black like shadows along the horizon. Which is the downside – they have no speeder, and so they'll have to walk, leaving them vulnerable to attack by Tusken Raiders, along with whom or whatever else might be lurking among the dunes around them.

Of course, that's only one danger. The sky is clear, now a deep gray-purple that's brightening as the twin suns rise. If they leave too early, they run a greater risk of attracting unwanted company, as the Tusken Raiders in particular were known to ride the dunes at night. Leave too late, and they'll be caught in the dangerous midday heat. They'll have to hope there won't be a sandstorm in the time it takes them to reach city, and that they'll avoid any hidden pits or slips of quicksand.

But to Hera, none of those concerns rival the fact that this blasted planet is ruled by the Hutts.

Chopper, unsurprisingly, is content to stay with the ship. Hera has checked over her blaster, and sheathed her vibroblade, and at the moment is rummaging through one of the drawers under her bunk, the doors to her cabin left open.

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"So it is," Kanan mutters, resettling his hood around his face -- just to keep the sun off -- and shaking some of the sand off his boots.

"Lead the way."

He'll do his best to keep pace with her, especially as the crowd density picks up. The colors of the awnings get brighter, staking out portions of precious shade for the more well-to-do vendors, while also creating something eye-catching but not painfully bright to draw in new business. Someone stops dead in front of them and begins haranguing a Chadra-fan woman selling power converters and a few other droid parts, while behind her a street food vendor starts calling out more loudly in bad Huttese, trying to advertise his wares over the sound of the arguing.

Kanan scans the area briefly, trying to see what Hera sees, and maybe also to keep an eye out for signs of trouble. It's definitely not difficult to find in a place like this.

Hera slows her pace as they step among the stalls. Her eyes lower, as she watches the tables. They pass cans of protein, rendered fruits and vegetables, precious slender vials of moisture, scratched up plate armor, power converters, chargers for blasters, chipped bits of old junk, datatapes of copied holos, a few displayed from small projectors - marching flitting podracers, marching Stomrtoopers, a dancing Twi'lek.

She takes her time turning among the rows of stalls, not apparently looking for anything particular, but finally, she halts, turning to one of the stalls with no awning above to lend it shade. Laid out along the table, each item equidistant from the others, are spare droid pieces. Spare locomotion power cells, servo-couplers, neurocircuits and cooling cables.

Hera reaches over the table, lifting a miniscule, circular photoreceptor from the table and holding it up to the light, before she looks to the vendor. There's a Duros woman dusting off a clasper arm, and a younger girl sorting objects among boxes under the table.

"For an old mosquito droid." Hera lets the lens topple into the palm of her hand. "Don't see many of these anymore."

The Duros looks up, her large eyes turning between Hera and Kanan. "Separatist tech. Not much demand for it, but some rebuild them to use for farming or maintenance."

"Could be useful to us," Hera says, with a nod. "We've got some hollowed out shells, but I've never found neurocenters small enough to use with them."

The woman sets down the arm with a clank. "I'll show you what I've got in the back."

Kanan watches all of this, not bothering to try to pick apart whatever code and response he just heard. It's --

Honestly, it's better if he doesn't know. There's less he can give up that way, and it's not like what he knows of the Jedi is going to actually cause harm, these days. Not immediately, anyway.

He takes a breath, making it deeper than usual to try to forestall a cough from the sand in his throat. It . . . sort of works. But at the same time, he also reaches out with the Force, making sure they're not heading into an ambush.

Or, at least, they're not about to be ambushed by anyone that's not Force-sensitive and reasonably well trained. He wishes he felt better about that, but here they are.

"Thanks," is all he says, nodding once. He's not a bodyguard, so complete silence would look . . . weird. This should be noncommittal enough. He hopes.

The woman turns her red eyes briefly to Kanan, and then down to the girl under the table. "Areta, gadan rum."

The girl looks up when her name is called, her own large red eyes wincing slightly in the bright sunlight, and she at once follows the Durese instruction, straightening up and leaning slightly over the table. She takes the moment to eagerly look over the strangers, perhaps glad to have something besides sorting to do.

Hera, meanwhile, folds her hand over the photorecptor, and glances once back at Kanan. Then she follows the woman, who leads them as they thread through the tables and stalls, on toward the edge of the market, back to the earthen towers. She waits until they've reached the towers' shadows before she speaks to them again.

"I'm Sovi," she says, in Basic again.

Kanan, at Hera's look, falls in behind them both, careful to keep out of the way of Hera's blaster hand.

Just in case.

He can't help but look back at the girl, meeting her eyes and smiling slightly, though he does forbear to wave.

But it's good to know she's all right, and that she'll probably stay that way for at least the next little while.

"Hera," she answers to Sovi.

There does, she decides, have to be a certain level of trust now. That being said, she leaves it up to Kanan to share his own name.

"Kanan," Kanan says, mustering up another faint smile. He can feel the hackles on his neck going up, though, as they wend their way farther and farther from the market center.

It only makes sense, of course, because their contacts like population centers about as well as population centers like their presence, but still. Imperials could have set up an ambush anywhere along this corridor, because quite frankly it's turning into a lot of long, low buildings used for storage. These, in particular, don't seem to be accessed very often, and most of the people that do step out of the buildings go scurrying away, rather than striding confidently down the street.

Hmm.

"Looking forward to doing business with you," she says.

Without warning, she takes a sharp but smooth turn, down an alley between a squat mudbrick building, and next to it what looks more like a large shack, made up of thick welded metal plates, long since rusted over, that look like they might have once been the decks of large ships. Tucked along the side of the shack is a short incline that leads right to an unmarked door that looks though it's partially submerged in the sand.

"I think I have something here that you've been looking for." Sovi slips an old punch key card from her pocket, and the door slides up, opening into a very dark shaft that from what light comes in from the sunny afternoon seems to go much deeper. Sovi steps in, still leading the way. Hera again steals a glance back at Kanan, before moving to follow.

Kanan, almost as soon as the dark shaft becomes clear, sends out a tiny tendril of Force-presence, checking to see that this remains not-an-ambush.

A few seconds later he nods in response to Hera's quick glance, striding after both women with full confidence.

Some of this is because Hera should be doing a lot of the talking. H's never been very confident in his own diplomatic skills, not least because Caleb never got the full benefit of training in that before . . .

Well.

He should probably think of at least a few useful things to say, though. Just in case.

Sovi leads them down into a very dark chamber. Low-lit lamps hung from the ceiling light a path forward, but there's not enough to see how large the room is, or what else may be in it. There's a musty scent, surprising given how precious any moisture is here, and a soft murmur from the far side of the room that grows louder as they walk across it, until they reach a door there.

With another glance to Hera, Sovi asks, "How's your Jawa Trade?"

"I've been practicing," Hera answers, though her tone is short of confident.

"I understand it better than I speak it," Kanan admits ruefully. "But I bet the two of us can limp along, together."

He makes no move to reach for the door, waiting a step or two back from Hera.

"Unless there's a translator on offer, which seems . . . not all that sensible."

Sovi waves a hand. "You won't need to speak it. I can stay with you for now, but you'll have to do the talking."

Hera nods, and Sovi presses a button on the panel next to the door. Behind it is a slightly better lit room, enough at least to see the round walls, shelves piled with spare parts, some of which are new enough to glisten under the low lamps, some that could be hundreds of years old.

And at the center of the room is a short table, around which have gathered six Jawas. They're talking, passing among themselves various tools, more spare parts, handfuls of credits, and a couple earthen flasks. When the door opens, their talk falls quiet, as six pairs of glowing eyes glance up from under their hoods.

Hera steps forward, reaching up as she does to lower her own hood. Without preamble, she says simply, "I have an offer."

The Jawas pass that phrase around themselves in their own tongue, a brief rill of sound that multiplies before settling back to one point.

The last one to repeat the words focuses on Hera, head inclining as if to say 'we're listening'.

Kanan watches their body language, and there's some wariness there, along with a very real curiosity. So far so good, probably?

Edited 2018-11-24 03:09 (UTC)

Greeting and acceptance. Hera takes a step forward, and lowers herself onto a stool across the table from the Jawas. It's too short for her, which is no surprise, her knees high enough to rest up against the edge of the table.

She doesn't waste time trying to get comfortable. Hera looks down, taking a few seconds to rummage through her cloak, before pulling out a slender steel vial, a streak of orange light flashing across it as she sets it on the table. It gets the Jawas' interest immediately - they murmur as she sets it down, already noting its size, what the clink of it against the table indicates of its weight, its small sprayer nozzle.

"It's carthonine sealant," she says, quieting their speculation. "Nonflammable, keeps out dust but lets in oxygen."

Again that ripple of repetition runs through the Jawas, until it focuses back on the response of the same one that spoke previously. This one's answer is sharp and interrogatory, as they reach out with one hand to gesture toward the vial, point once, twice, and ending with a question. How many?

Their interest is very clear, and Kanan tucks away even the faintest hint of a smile. So far, so good.

"It'll keep your gear running clean for longer," he says, not to tell the Jawas, but to let them know he and Hera understand exactly what they're offering.

It's the kind of product that's common on the core worlds but rarely shipped to the Outer Rim, despite the need for it. The Jawas could use it to clean and maintain their wares, keep their sandcrawlers sealed from storms for months, maybe even years. Just a little could go a long way.

"One hundred milliliters," she says, setting the slender vial down on the table. "This is a gift."

This causes another rustle among the Jawas. The one who has spoken to Hera reaches out to pick up the vial, turns it over in their hands, holds it close to their eyes. The vial is then passed down, back and forth, as each takes a turn inspecting it. The last Jawa to take it lifts the vial to what looks like an old vibrosander they had been piecing together. They activate the sprayer, and let out a low trill, confirming the product is genuine.

The rustle passes back among them, until the last one speaks to Hera again. She doesn't recognize the word, Tsedec, but just a glance to Sovi is enough for her to realize that it's a name.

"Hera," she answers.

Hera's name is already passing back and forth among the Jawas, and Kanan waits a minute for that to fade before saying, "Kanan. Good to meet you."

Because it's true, and not just because it's interesting to actually see a troupe (or part of a troupe) of Jawas on something like their own ground.

"There's more where that came from, if it works out for you, and looks like something you'd want, long-term or otherwise."

He's not smiling, though he does give Hera a quick look, to make sure he's not veering too far away from their desired narrative. Meanwhile, the Jawas ripple more words between themselves, though this time the sounds split into two completely distinct phrases, and bounce more fiercely between individual Jawas. It takes longer for them to ripple back toward the main speaker, Tsedec, too. What's unclear to Kanan is whether that's a good sign, or a bad one.

"They like quick deals," Sovi says. "With everything over quickly."

The Jawas murmur in agreement.

Hera folds her hands on the table, thinking this over. "You don't have to think of it as long-term. Just - reoccurring. If you want."

Again the Jawa's conversation ripples out and back, breaking apart into several streams this time, and only gradually settling down into one. That, of course, is helped by the fact that Tsedec raises their hand and trills something quick and high-pitched, silencing the rest of them.

Then they nod, hold out one empty hand, jerking their head in Hera's direction. This is followed by three quick syllables, repeated twice.

Essentially -- 'What do you want?'

Kanan keeps his mouth shut this time. Just to be safe.

Edited 2018-11-26 03:23 (UTC)

"Not money," she says quickly. "Or your merchandise. That's all for you. What we want is to hear from you, about what you see and hear, out here."

There's another cascade of whispers, up and down the line of Jawas, coming back to Tsedec in something like, 'About what?'

Hera glances up to Sovi, who gives her a small nod.

"About the Empire," she answers.

Tsedec leans forward, even as the rippling talk among the Jawas spreads out behind them in tones that run the gamut between general conversation and intense whispering. Tsedec's presenc seems to keep everything to below a dull roar, which is fortunate, even in this fairly deserted neighborhood.

Kanan can't help wincing, though he does try to hide it by running his hands over his face.

Tsedec's yellow-eyed gaze arrows in on this movement, and when they turn back to Hera --

The term 'bucketheads' might be obvious, even in the Jawa's tongue, as well as the adjective 'white'. They may be wondering if Hera thinks they can find information about any officers or other Imperial functionaries, or if Stormtrooper patrol data alone is sufficient.

"Just what you see," Hera says, guessing at their meaning. "You don't need to go looking. But there's plenty going on in plain sight. We're just asking for your eyes."

Another ripple of whispers. One word sounds loudly even before it reaches Tsedec. You.

"Not always me," Hera says. "We'll change, but we'll give you a way to know who we are."

Edited 2018-11-26 04:07 (UTC)

"A code word, maybe," Kanan says. It only sounds spontaneous. Mostly. "Or a pin or patch, or some other article of decorative clothing. Whatever you think you'll most easily spot in a crowd."

It's somewhere to start, anyway.

Several of the Jawas perk up at that, but they remain silent. For now.

"You can stop anytime," Hera says. "And we'll always pay first."

With that, she rises from the table. "We'll let you discuss."

The moment she goes quiet, the Jawas turn to one another, launching into intense whispers, their words tumbling over one another. Hera nods to Sovi, and then steps back, over to Kanan.

Undertone, "What do you think?"

Kanan weighs his words, looking out over the room in one more brief survey before turning to Hera.

"I think we've got a shot," he says honestly. "We're not asking them to do more than take note of what they're already seeing, and if they're free to stop whenever they want . . . escape hatches take a lot of the trapped feeling away, which is probably for the best."

For everyone, really.

"You?"

Behind them, the whispering increases in intensity, if not pitch.