Hera Syndulla

Things didn't go according to plan.

They had made it to Grakkus' palace without any trouble. It was an enormous building, square and clay-colored, with a cavernous, decked out entrance hall that was already filling up when they entered. The party had been easy to join, with plenty of edges and corners to slip into, to watch the other guests, and to follow the Hutt's triumphant entrance as he introduced his prize. The crowd wasn't given much of a look at it, surprising no one, only assurances that it was highly valued by the Empire. It looked like nothing more than a large black box, and they had watched as it was carted away, down one of the side halls. Chopper had slipped away to see if he could plug into the palace's computer system, while Hera and Kanan slowly set off toward their quarry. And then –

It's about an hour and a half later, and Hera can still hear the music from the party, the bass beating through the dusty walls, even a whisper of the talk of the revelers. Which is all the more impressive given that she must be at least two floors beneath it, in a small, dark cell. There's a flickering lamp in the ceiling, and a small, barred window in the door, filtering in the dim light from the hallway. Hera is sitting on the floor, her hands shackled to the wall on either side of her. She can feel the low buzz of the shock collar against her throat, but she's not paying much attention to it.

Instead, she has spent most of the last ten minutes trying to contort herself to get close enough to kick Kanan in the shins. He hasn't moved since he was stunned with some kind of electrorod Hera had never seen before. It must've really packed a punch, because he's been out for nearly thirty minutes, as Hera finally manages to shove her feet close enough to him to stamp against his leg.

"Kanan!" she hisses. "Kanan, wake up!"

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?"