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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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"Ah."

Kanan's nod is short, and half-distracted looking.

"I know a little about that. It makes sense."

It's not as if she doesn't know Kanan isn't his original name, even though it's been real for quite some time.

Hera glances up to him.

"That's the ... gist of it."

"Maybe as a distraction," he says, still quietly, bringing the heavy clay cup up to his mouth and holding it there, swallowing nothing again.

"When we're really running short of ideas."

Or not.

"You okay?"

She blinks back up, waits for the kitchen door to open again.

"It didn't end well."

"Most things don't, in our line of work."

He looks sad as he says it, reaching out to touch Hera's wrist briefly, as if stopping her from drinking more of what's in the mug.

"I'm sorry."

Hera doesn't reach for the mug. She watches the room for a few more seconds, and then looks back to him.

"I'll tell you later."

"Never's all right, too, if you want."

And then he sets to work on finishing his enormous hunk of fried meat on a stick.

Looking busy will explain the silence in this corner of the room, and the faster they finish the faster they can get out of here.

And what could go wrong with that plan?

"We'll see."

Hera finishes the hunk of meat Kanan brought, but only drinks about a quarter from her mug. Loathe as she is to waste anything, she doesn't want to test how much Pamarthe ale she can take.

Once they've finished, she leads the way back out of the tavern. Briefly, she considers making their exit through the kitchen, taking a back trail as far as can toward the spaceport. But instead, she heads back to the entrance, into the crowds beyond. It's grown darker and colder now, the paths lit by lamps hanging from the taverns and shops, hovering along the paths above them.

They've walked about five minutes when Hera sees them, collected under the hovering lights. About half were Bodach'i, the rest humans and Twi'leks. They're sitting on the ground to the side of the path, shivering but silent, watching the crowds passing them. All of them are wearing shock collars.

Hera stops. Her hood is still pulled low, leaving a shadow over her face.

Kanan, too, stops moving, if a little more slowly than Hera. Mostly that's so he can meander into one step short of a flanking position, one eyebrow cocked as he looks back at Hera.

"You up for six?"

He certainly is. They're not going to need to come back here for a while, anyway.

Still under her hood, Hera looks up to him.

And then she unclips her comm from her belt.

"Specter-3, the plan's changing."

From the sound of it, Chopper knows what that means.

Kanan loosens his blaster in its holster just in case, scanning the area for guard positions and anything large and preferably flammable that could make a distraction.

If you're going to go out, go big.

And that local trash receptacle full of disposable takeaway boxes looks like just the thing. Now it's just waiting for Hera's cue.

Or the opportune moment. He's betting on which one is going to come first.

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