Hera Syndulla

She's awake. Her face is flat against some smooth surface, the smell of it quick to help her remember the mat. The sandcrawler, the Jawas. One arm is tucked beneath her, the other out, her fingers also pressing into the mat. She feels the fabric of her hood tucked against her forehead, her lekku, and there's something on top of her, lying horizontal across her, set just above her elbow. Hera can hear slow, steady breathing, can feel it along the back of her neck. It's all she can hear. The crawler has stopped.

Hera opens her eyes. There's bright white light, coming up from the grate beneath them. She shifts, turning over, and realizes what's lying across her is Kanan's arm. She must have moved closer to him in her sleep. Hera lifts herself up, and slowly tries to move his arm off from her and back to his side, quietly and gently enough to not wake him. Maybe that's something she should think about, be bothered by or – not. But for now it doesn't hold her interest. She rolls back to the edge of the mat, looking down into the room below, but though the lights are on, and the combustion chamber reignited, there's no one inside.

Now she hears more – voices. Scurrying footsteps outside. Have they arrived somewhere? Hera doesn't feel like they've slept that long. She pulls out her chrono – nearly four hours. It's the middle of the night. What's gotten the rest of them up?

They arrive just outside window, and following procedure, they shut down most of the ship's systems, the lights, anything beyond what they need to survive. Even Chopper has to be shut down. They turn the ship dark, and then they wait in darkness, to see who turns up. Fortunately, they're not kept waiting for too long.

The ship that falls out of hyperspace is an old bulk freighter, its many modifications visible even only from its shadow rippling across the stars. It may be old, but it's also enormous, easily dwarfing a light freighter like the Ghost. A few minutes pass, and Hera and Kanan poised over the ship's controls but not touching them, not yet. They've seen the freighter because they were expecting it, expecting a shift out of hyperspace. They haven't been spotted yet. They can still run, if they have to.

Then, a new light ignites along the side of the bulk freighter. It goes dark, and then shines again.

Hera restarts the Ghost's main systems. Kanan turns on Chopper. After some grumbling, Chopper sends an acknowledgment to the bulk freighter, and Hera glides the Ghost in its direction. As they approach, the enormous slab doors of the ship's hangar creak and slide open, allowing the Ghost to land gently inside, alongside a shuttle, and numerous swoop bikes.

They're waiting at the edge of the hangar. Some of them – Hera knows this is maybe a quarter of their total number. Unless they'd suffered heavy losses since she'd last seen them. It had been years ago.

They wear long coats, tightly wrapped scarves, enormous helmets crafted into fierce masks. Even with their weapons held loosely at their sides, Kanan can't help a flinch toward his lightsaber. But he keeps still, as one of them steps forward. They carry a tall staff, and wear a large, elaborate helmet, with twin steel spikes and what might be bone that twist from the cap like horns. One could imagine some single, enormous creature might have been ripped apart to make their armor, the fur pelt over their shoulders, the bone set along their chest plate, their long necklace of curved teeth. Kanan glances to Hera, but she only keeps her eyes forward, and waits.

The figure lifts a gloved hand, and pulls the helmet away. Red curls tumble down, as beneath the mask the figure is revealed to be a young woman, with light brown skin, and freckles along her face.

"Enfys," Hera breathes.

She moves to meet the woman at the edge of the hangar. The woman removes one of her thick gloves to take Hera's hand.

"Thank you for coming," she says. It might be surprising, after that helmet, to see how quick she is to smile.

Hera nods, and as they release their grasp, "I hadn't heard about your mother."

Enfys' smile fades at that. "Three years. You've been busy."

She glances over Hera, to Kanan and Chopper next to him. Chopper lifts one of his little arms to wave at them.

Her dark eyes turn back to Hera. "We don't have much time."

And they don't take much time. The two women don't spend even another moment on their reunion. They head with the crew back into the ship, where along the hall, the refugees are waiting. There are twenty-seven of them, most sitting along the walls of the hallway, some wrapped in what look like cloaks that belonged to the crew. There are more in another wing of the ship, but the Ghost can only feed so many, only so many should be taken to any one system. They work quickly, leading everyone up into the ship, through the cargo bay and into the galley, the cabins for an elderly Rodian woman, and a handful of others who are feeling sick.

Hera barely has the chance for another handshake with Enfys before she and Kanan are climbing back up the Ghost's ramp. Enfys watches them leave, lifting her helmet back into place as the ramp pulls up against the wall of the cargo bay. Hera waits only until the sound of the ramp hitting the wall shudders through the ship. And then she turns quickly, heading for the cockpit.

Kanan lingers a few moments longer before following her. Rather than joining her in the cockpit, he stays in the galley, where he and Chopper begin sorting through their supplies, handing out water and protein bars.

Before long, Hera has set in their course for Gatalenta, and the Ghost has fallen back into the glow of hyperspace.

Hera first made this climb years ago, back in her activist days. Not even that long after she'd first left Ryloth. Back then it had only been months since the start of the fires that had ripped through Veron's rainforests, destroying the ancient Gazaran cities and settlements that had spidered among the forests' high branches and dense foliage. The Empire had claimed the fires were the result of natural disasters, part of the planet-wide cataclysms that it had come to help the local population combat. But where there had once been lush rainforest and Gazaran homes and schools and temples, there was now an Imperial base, a construction yard, a supply distribution center, a prison. The winged Gazaran were forced to either migrate to the existing settler trading communities, among Rodians and humans and other species that had migrated to the planet over the years, or retreat to the mountains and more temperate forests. One option put them directly under the control of the Empire, the other indirectly, as outside their rainforests the Gazaran couldn't survive without imported food and water.

Which was where Hera and her contacts had come in, bringing supplies to those Gazaran still living outside the settler communities, giving them a way to avoid the Empire. And, later, recruiting those who were willing to inform them of the Empire's activities on Veron. It was a network she'd continued through the tumult of her early years off Ryloth. Despite what they had been through, the Gazaran were friendly, gracious, and always glad to see visitors. Being among them was the closest Hera had felt to being home on Ryloth, something she especially looked forward to after months of Stormtroopers and sleazy cantina patrons.

It might be why she's not complaining about the hour they've already trekked, along the slopes of a moderately tall mountain, nor about the hour of hiking they still have to go. The ground is mostly dry soil and pale brown clay, with little sign of plant life, though in the distance ahead of them, a few trees sway in the breeze. The sky is half clouded, half bright with sunlight, nearly cut down the middle as the clouds blow west. Hera can no longer see the Ghost behind them – they'd left Chopper back with it, all other systems powered down to avoid planetary scanners. And even still, they'd landed far out of their way, to ensure if the Empire were to come across it, this wouldn't lead them to the Gazaran.

But that has meant hiking. Hiking with loaded packs, and a crate between them that bobbles along in its little antrigrav field.

So while not complaining, Hera does slow for a few seconds, and reach to take out her canteen.

"How is it, Zeb?"

He looks up to Hera as she steps into the galley. His leg is still splintered – a day in a bacta tank would've fixed it up quickly, but it's not always easy to find a neutral med station. Especially for a Lasat.

"I'll get over it," he grumbles. "Thanks for picking up those medpacks."

"Of course." She moves from the threshold, revealing Chopper behind her. The droid trundles over to Zeb, photoreceptor swinging to examine the Dejarik game he's been playing, while Hera opens a cupboard to collect cups.

"We having a meeting?" Zeb asks, spotting that she's carrying three cups. Hera turns back to him, her lips pressing into a wry smile.

"Actually, we have a job."

Zeb doesn't notice as Chopper plugs into the Dejarik board, and starts moving the hologram creatures to attack. "Really? Now?"

"We can't really wait on this one." Hera walks across the galley, carrying the cups to the caf machine. "Kanan will be along soon."

It's not as though there's ever a good place to be on E Day. It did often make for a good distraction, depending on how much the local governors and ministers had invested in parades or other celebrations. Any major system would be required to put on some kind of ceremony, though especially in minor industrial colonies, watching the annual message from the Emperor might be the most expected of citizens and Imps alike. Regardless, it was a consistent, predictable break in Imperial patterns – which meant that the weeks leading up to Empire Day were always dedicated to coming up with plans to exploit it.

There was a plan for today, but they weren't planning to start until early evening. The quarries on this colony were worked throughout the day, and rather than give the workers additional time off, the message had been scheduled for deep in the night, when no shifts were scheduled, as it was too cold to run the quarries. In the meantime, Kanan and Hera had taken up seats in The Half Moon, a large, open canteen that catered in particular to the largely Twi'lek colonists. There are also groups of humans, and smaller numbers of Rodians, Sullustans, Suertons, but most are Twi'leks, workers and families grabbing meals between their shifts. Even with the long hours, and the shorter rest period they'll get tonight, most of the workers seem happy here, spouses and friends shouting to each other across the room, children running out from under the tables.

And it wasn't common for Hera to come across a place that served the kind of bitter dishes she'd missed off Ryloth. Fortunately for Kanan, those aren't the only options. He'd taken a table near the edge of the room, moving carefully as he did so, while Hera had taken similar, cautions steps toward the long counters at the front. After nearly ten minutes, she returns, carrying two trays and this time moving openly and easily.

She sets down one of the trays in front of Kanan. The dish looks like a hunk of meat, and a pile of pale grains mixed with stewed vegetables.

"It's done."

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?"

It's morning, bright and early.

Hera rubs the sleep from her eyes, still finishing up brewing the first of the day's cups of caf.

When, of course, a terrifyingly tangled horror emerges from his cabin, similarly sleepy.

"Um. Kanan?"

It's never good when one of the crew takes an injury on a job, but close-range blaster-fire leaves some of the worst marks.

Which is why Hera's currently carrying a tray into Kanan's bunk, loaded up with food that's a little tastier than nutrient paste, as well as replacement bacta and bandages.

"Are you awake?"

Her voice is soft, which means that if Kanan is asleep, the question won't startle him awake (unlike knocking).

It was supposed to be an easy repair, fiddly but relatively straightforward. But then the stored replacement part was bad, every shop in town was out except for one, which was broken, and the repair to fix that made it an uphill slog to even fit it in the Ghost, due to Chopper and Zeb getting into a fight and leaving at least two drill bits where drill bits did not belong.

And since it was meant to be easy, everyone but Hera and Kanan is out at the cantina enjoying themselves and the two of them are here, exhausted, dusty, and covered in grease. The smell of welding torch is heavy in the air.

Then Hera rolls to her feet, shaking her head a little to clear it.

"You know what? This calls for a drink, and I've just remembered where I left some."