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This should really be a simple job. All recon, and while Pamarthe isn't the easiest place to visit, what with its Imperial leanings and occasional massive storms, so many traders passed through its ports that it was simple enough to stay inconspicuous. The risks, all things considered, were low compared to the kind of jobs they sometimes pulled. If they could shut up, keeping their heads down and their eyes open.

Which –

"You're really making too big a deal of this."

They're still about thirty minutes out, the white-blue blur of hyperspace gliding along beyond the ship. Hera is leaning over the controls, authoring a mask for the Ghost's signature. Chopper blats from the cockpit doorway, and Hera rolls her eyes. "You don't have anything else to be doing right now?"

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Chopper starts beeping again as Kanan passes, and Hera calls back -

"Maybe you could find something useful for him to do!"

"Right, like that's possible," Kanan calls back, but he does attempt to get Chopper to go through their fuel stores and make sure the number's right.

It's something?

Hera counts down the seconds until they drop out of hyperspace. Her fingers tap around the ship's controls, ready to move at once if necessary.

But, as she predicted, their arrival in Pamarthe is relatively uneventful. There are plenty of other ships in the area, even a TIE patrol, but no one seems particularly interested in them. Though mostly ocean, the planet appears a steel gray from a distance, the inhabited island chains barely visible from space. A storm is brewing in the southwest quadrant, but it's far from where they'll be landing, and unlikely to cause problems for them. Hera joins the planet-bound traffic, responding to the local authorities' identifier requests without incident.

Not long after, they've secured the Ghost inside their chosen spaceport, leaving Chopper to watch the ship. Though the sky is clear, there's a strong, whipping wind off the ocean, and Hera pulls on a gray cloak before stepping outside. The sun glares bright off the water, and she tilts her hood forward, trying to keep the light out of her eyes.

"See?" she murmurs, as they step into the crowds of traders and travelers. "Just like I said, no problem."

"Yet," Kanan says, a little edgy.

"Sorry, I'm . . . I get suspicious when things feel too easy. There's nothing -- "

Nothing in the Force, is what he doesn't say.

"Believe me, Kanan, the Pamarthens don't like traps. They only like a fair fight."

Which Hera could admire more, if not for the tolerance for slavers.

"I bet not all the Imperials here are from here, though."

Kanan shakes his head as they walk, though, because he's aware he's being a little ridiculous.

"Anyway. We've got our point of contact?"

Hera draws her cloak tighter as a gust hits the island, waves lapping hard against the distant rock.

"Should be waiting by the docks," she mutters, once the wind has died down again.

In this case, she doesn't mean the spaceport.

"Should we be carrying some alcohol in open cups? For verisimilitude."

Because Pamarthens.

"Sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get warm again."

Finding the docks shouldn't be all that hard, because water -- but Pamarthe has a lot of water. And rock. Unfortunately.

"There won't be any drinking until we're done."

Even if that is the exception around here. "And you're not getting Port in a Storm."

"I wasn't planning on drinking it," Kanan protests, quietly.

"Just blending in. People tend to disregard the very slightly tipsy."

"That's true," she agrees, though she thinks it's truer for Kanan than it is for her.

"But I'd also like you to have both hands free."

"Good point," Kanan says.

"Heavy lifting's on me, huh?"

Or something.

Hera grins at him from under her hood.

"I have done most of the work so far."

"You do pilot very well," Kanan allows.

"I guess you wouldn't buy any defense like 'my hands are delicate', huh?"

He doesn't smirk, exactly, but grinning might be involved.

"I hope they're not," she says.

"Pamarthe really isn't a place for anything delicate."

"I think the last time anything about me was described as delicate was 'never'."

He arches an eyebrow.

"Lucky for us."

"Lucky," Hera echoes.

And it's a good thing, because this day isn't meant for anything delicate. They do find their contact by the docks easily enough, a Pamarthen woman named Geda. And it's lucky that their friend is a local, as the anarchy in the skies above doesn't extend to the Empire's bases on the planet. They would have had no chance of dodging the Pamarthen Imperials without Geda, who not only knows every cave and corner they can use to slip among the rocks, but the officers' schedules, patterns, and corners they choose to hide in while on break and pass around a flask.

They spend the morning observing shift patterns and watching recruits, and then move on to the markets and the taverns among them. They work together to spot plainclothes Imperials, note how credits change hands and what cargo seems to be in demand. None of it is very surprising – small arms and light weapons, sheets of plastoid composite, medpacs, protein, spice, doonium ore.

It's early evening by the time they've parted ways with Geda. With the sun dipping into the steel ocean, the winds off the water have grown even colder, and Hera is clutching her cloak rather tightly. Still she mutters to Kanan, through gritted teeth, "I told you it would be fine."

"Sadly," Kanan says, through significantly less-gritted teeth, "the night is still young. And we're still on Pamarthe."

They may have used up all their luck just getting to this point.

He's concerned.

"I'm not planning on spending the night here."

Lines from the port crowds are already breaking off into the taverns, and it will only get worse as the night wears on.

"It's not that far, let's just -"

"Isis!"

Someone calls the name over the sounds of the crowd. Hera keeps moving, facing forward, yet she suddenly falls silent.

Hera falls abruptly silent, and Kanan can feel things start to careen off-track. He's not sure how, he's not sure of the cause, but he can sense things teetering on the edge.

"What is it?"

He reaches out through the Force, looking, looking --

"What?"

"Isis!" It's louder this time, whoever's shouting is getting closer.

"I think whoever that is is coming this way."

It's not a Stormtrooper, it's not Imperial Security, so why does it still feel like this is going to end poorly?

"Should I try to distract them?"

"No, just -"

"Isis!" A Theelin man, with deep blue-and-lavender mottled skin and horns, takes hold of Hera's shoulder, spinning her around toward him.

"Jope -" Hera throws out an arm behind her, to stop Kanan from stepping in. "I uh - I didn't see you."

"And," Kanan cuts in, looking between the two of them very quickly, as if to make sure Jope doesn't have a vibroblade or a blaster out.

"Isis is kind of a common name out here. You've got a good eye, making it here all the way across the crowd like that."

Edited 2017-12-17 01:02 (UTC)

Jope blinks up in surprise at Kanan. "I just -"

He looks back to Hera. "I haven't seen you in ages, Isis. I wasn't sure you were still flying."

"I've just been sticking to Outer Rim," Hera answers. "Haven't been in the Core for a while."

"And you found a partner!" Jope holds his hand out to Kanan. "Does she still have that crazy droid?"