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Fighting against a tyrannous empire was no small feat. There was pain, death, weariness, danger, stealth. It mostly involved periods of sneaking around, waiting, with sporadic, heart-wrenching, and fearful moments sprinkled in between. There was so rarely time for rest, for relaxation, for contemplation. More often than not, the Ghost crew found themselves on increasingly fast-paced and crucial missions for the Rebellion, and each member took pride in their purpose (admittedly, though, to different degrees).
As seasoned members of the Rebellion, Hera thought that she and the rest of the Ghost crew had bid farewell to the simpler, low-risk missions they were often tasked with years prior.
Evidently, however, this was not the case.
They – or, more accurately, she and Kanan – had been assigned to an undercover mission on some ritzy Core planet. The premise was straightforward: infiltrate a high-profile ball, locate the informant, receive the desired intelligence, and leave. Kanan saw its relative simplicity as a long-awaited break from their usual high-risk operations, a chance for he and Hera to get a moment away from the Rebellion and the chaos that usually ensued on the Ghost.
Hera would only let herself be a little excited, she told her reflection in the mirror of the Ghost’s fresher. After all, the mission always comes first. Just because this objective is leagues behind what they usually find themselves doing doesn’t mean they can afford to slack off.
Hera considered her reflection once more before reaching to fasten a jeweled necklace around her neck.
Maybe Kanan is right. Shouldn’t she try to make the best of such an objective? It’s not often that the two of them get to go out alone together, after all, even if for a mission.
Hera sighed and stepped out of the refresher, making her way to meet Kanan and Zeb at the bottom of the gangplank.
She pretended not to notice the slight widening of Kanan’s eyes as she joined them, his eyes washing over her. She had not had the need to wear such a fancy dress in a long while, and this outfit certainly exposed more skin than her usual flight suit. The dress was a deep burgundy color, sleeveless, with a modest V-neck and a slit down the side of her left leg, going up about to her mid-thigh. What others wouldn’t notice, though, was the small knife strapped to her thigh, or the comm device hidden amongst the jeweled bracelets on her wrist. Her lekku were wrapped in a silk-like fabric that matched the color of her dress.
Kanan also certainly looked his part in a standard black suit that, ignoring the sleeves that were a touch too short, fit him nicely. And he even managed to find the tie that matched the dress, Hera mused.
As she stepped down onto the grassy floor of the planet, she turned to Zeb, concerned. Beside the logical part of her knowing that the evening had a clear and important objective, there was one more thing preventing her from completely engrossing herself in the evening’s activities.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to handle the kids on your own?” She questioned. “If I come back and my ship is covered in spray paint or… or meiloorun guts, you’ll be the one scrubbing–”
“Understood, Captain–”
“And remember, Sabine is allergic to starfruit–”
“Yeah, Hera, I got it–”
“And Ezra usually gets a burst of energy before bed, but he’ll calm down eventually–”
“Hera, I’m the kid’s roommate. I know.”
Hera stopped her tirade, glancing at Zeb one final time, channeling all of her apprehension into her stern gaze.
A small ahem grabbed her attention, however, and her head turned towards the figure standing a couple paces away, patiently waiting for her to join him.
“I’m sure Zeb appreciates the run-down, but if we don’t get moving, we’re going to be late. Noticeably late.” Kanan stated. Hera sighed and shook her head, trying to hide the small smile she couldn’t help but express.
Having said their final warnings goodbyes to Zeb, the gangplank closed with a clang as Kanan shook his head and chuckled, taking Hera’s hand and leading her towards the city center. The two were desperate for a chance to get away, and with the rebellion needing all the help it could get, opportunities for such escapades were few and far between.
The only sound one could hear was the soft swish of the tall grasses as the two maneuvered their way towards the lights of the city. Kanan glanced over at Hera to find her chewing her lip, her brows furrowed.
He nudged her. “Hey,” he asked, “everything alright?”
She sighed. “Love, do you really think going into this with the mindset that it’s an excuse to be together is the smartest idea? If we’re not perfectly level-headed, we’re risking compromising the mission. It just feels… wrong, doesn’t it?”
Kanan considered. “Maybe,” he said, “But, if the next few hours are all I get to spend with you like this, I’m going to take full advantage of it,” Kanan frowned, “Even if that means joining Zeb in scrubbing the floors of the Ghost for the next several rotations. Or making excuses to the Rebellion.” He squeezed Hera’s hand in his.
Hera smiled and leaned into him, bumping his shoulder.
The grass slowly turned into cobblestone as the couple navigated their way into the city through the maze of streets that would lead them to the site of the gala. They located the building with relative ease, and stood back a moment to get a better understanding of the situation. There was a line of people leading towards the entrance of the large building, all dressed in their best clothes and chatting animatedly. Guarding the entrance were two stormtroopers, checking chain codes and letting the crowd of imperials and sympathizers through.
Experts at this point, the two managed to sneak their way past the stormtroopers without any trouble. They found themselves walking into a large, crowded ballroom, fit with fancy drapery and shimmering light fixtures that look as if they would cause multiple injuries should they fall onto an unlucky guest.
Hand in hand, Kanan and Hera moved towards a table decorated with more types of drinks than, likely, species in the galaxy.
Hera pulled her date aside. “Alright, so the informant–”
“Will likely not show up for the next hour. Want a drink?” Kanan held up some sort of sparkling blue beverage.
“Kanan.”
A raised eyebrow. A smirk.
“Kanan.”
The drink is nudged closer to her. Hera sighed and took it delicately. “One drink. We need to be able to focus on looking for the informant.”
“Always the picture of professionalism, my dearest.” Kanan teases. Hera rolls her eyes, a small smile creeping onto her face. Maybe I can enjoy myself, just a little.
They spend a few moments huddled near one another in silence, taking in the energy of the room. The Empire, infamous for its preference for humans in positions of power, proved itself no different tonight, although there were a few non-human species sprinkled throughout the crowd. The informant, a Rodian male, would be fairly easy to spot. The couple took note of the few stormtroopers standing guard near the entrances and exits – enough to keep their guard up, but in no way a serious threat. Yet.
Hera felt an arm sneak around her waist. Glancing up towards Kanan, she quipped “Leaning into the undercover couple role strongly tonight, are we?”
Kanan smirked. “Of course,” he said, pulling her closer into his side, “Gotta keep up appearances, hm?”
Hera just shook her head, hiding a small smile against the rim of her glass.
“Care for a dance? I’m sure if we’re moving, we can cover more ground, spot the informant more easily…”
Hera shot him a knowing smirk before setting her drink aside and following him onto the dance floor. Her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist, they slowly began to sway to the rhythm of the soft music.
Maybe Kanan was right, Hera considers. It’s not every day they get to spend time together like this, mission or otherwise, and though it still felt a bit wrong to take advantage of something so important to the Rebellion like this, she found herself enjoying the opportunity to get away with him for a bit. Even if “getting away” meant being on-edge and constantly surrounded by imperial sympathizers.
Hera pressed close into Kanan’s chest. His body swaying slowly with the music, she allowed herself to close her eyes and forget the mission. Just for a second, she didn’t think about the rebellion, or about how her family is probably wreaking havoc on her ship right now, or about the uncertain future.
She took note of his hands on her waist, the warm weight a pleasant reminder of his genuine dedication to her and the family they had somehow brought together. She thought of Ezra, how he had blossomed into a bright and driven young man from the scared child on the streets he once was. How Sabine had slowly come out of her hard, beskar-clad shell to be able to call them all family. How Zeb was always keeping them laughing and was the best shoulder to lean onto in times of need.
She thought of Kanan, the man she never thought she would feel so strongly about. The man who has shown, time and time again, that he was willing to put effort into their little family. That he was willing to face his painful past and move forward, if it meant helping Ezra.
She gazed into his eyes, her favorite bluish-green color, and gave him a soft smile. He smiled back an easy grin, eyes crinkling a bit at the corners.
“I wish we could do this more often.” she murmured softly into his chest.
“Mm. We could convert the hangar of the Ghost into a ballroom,” Kanan replied.
Hera huffed out a laugh. “Sure,” she replies, “If you don’t mind it being decorated with Sabine’s artistic interpretations. Do you remember the painting she did of Zeb and Ezra when the bunk collapsed?”
“Yeah,” Kanan said, “Made me all the more grateful that none of my mistakes are immortalized on the ship. Ezra still won’t stop giving me crap about my acting at our last Empire Day stunt.”
The two fell into a comfortable silence, holding each other as they moved along with the music. It felt as if the moment ended all too soon, however, when Kanan suddenly tugged Hera’s face from his chest. She looked up at him confusedly before following his line of vision across the hall.
The informant.
The two rebels don’t say any words to each other as they fall into position, casually but intently dancing across the ballroom.
“Oh! Excuse me sir, I’m so sorry,” Hera apologized to the Rodian man after Kanan swung her into him – completely accidentally, of course. “I didn’t step on your toes, did I?”
The Rodian blinked. “No, no, miss, not at all. These durasteel-toed shoes wouldn’t bend if a bantha stepped on ‘em.”
Perfect, Hera thought as she recognized the coded phrase.
“Well, allow me to fetch the both of you a drink, as apologies for my carelessness,” Kanan said. He walked off toward the drinks table, leaving Hera and the man alone.
The informant looked over his shoulder, watching out for any prying eyes or listening ears. “Care for a dance? I’m sure it will be easier to… hear each other over the crowd.”
Hera considered her options. She was supposed to wait for Kanan to get back with drinks, which is when the informant would pass the datastick into his hand as the drinks were exchanged. Dancing wasn’t part of the equation. Until now, it seemed.
“I suppose one dance wouldn’t hurt,” she said, accepting the Rodian man’s arm and stepping back into the crowd. “Though we should stay close by. I’m sure my husband would not be pleased to have to weave through the crowd to find us.” Her new dance partner nodded understandingly.
Her husband. Was that part of the plan? The ease at which she let slip that particular lie shocked her a bit. Sure, it was a good cover, and helped ensure the informant remained rather removed from any true knowledge of the Rebellion’s operatives, but was it necessary?
Despite a small voice reminding her of this, Hera allowed herself to indulge in the thought as she spun around the ballroom floor. Kanan, her husband. Hera had never thought much about marriage as a child, and especially not as the Empire rose to power. It was still hard for her to picture. The future was so uncertain, and she didn’t want to fool herself into hoping for something that may never come. But, a small voice inside her head noted, isn’t that the whole point of the Rebellion? Having enough hope to fight for something that may never come?
A familiar cough shook her out of her thoughts. She glanced up to find Kanan staring at her, holding out a drink for both she and the man she had been dancing with. Back to business. Both Kanan and the informant played their roles with confidence and skill – only Hera’s careful eye noted the exchange of hands between the two men. The drink and datastick each in the correct hands, Hera allowed herself a small breath of relief.
Well, that really was easy, she thought. Hera listened as Kanan and the informant conversed politely. She stood to the side, sipping her drink and watching the people around her whirl around the ballroom floor, smiling, laughing, and oblivious. Her eyes moved back to Kanan to find him leaning down to allow the informant to murmur something in his ear, and only Hera’s years of knowing her companion allowed her to recognize the quick look of concern that flitted across his face before he schooled his expression into one of feigned surprise, throwing his head back in practiced laughter.
The Rodian chuckled and bid his farewell, glancing towards Hera and nodding, before turning away and disappearing into the crowd.
Hera raised an eyebrow. What was that about?
Instead of letting her in on the secret, Kanan asked, hands in his pockets, “If you’re finished with your drink, care for another dance before we head out?”
“I suppose,” she replied.
She once again found her thoughts wandering back to the others on the Ghost as she spun around the ballroom. Her family. In a different galaxy, one with no Empire, no war being fought, she thinks she would like to go to an event like this with them sometime. She imagines Ezra being fascinated by all of the different drinks (though he would only be able to drink a select few). Growing up as he did, never sure where his next meal would come from, there is no doubt he would revel in the unique choices offered.
Sabine would enjoy critiquing the decor: the art on the walls, the sculptures of imperial elites littered throughout the ballroom. Nothing as colorful and compelling as her own work.
Zeb would focus most on the music — though the ritzy strings playing tonight are not necessarily his style, he would surely take interest in the rhythms, the dancing.
After a few moments of gentle sways and twirls, Kanan leaned down to murmur into Hera’s ear cones.
“Security has increased since we got here. Getting out might be a bit tougher than getting in,” he said, “but the informant mentioned a side exit that seems to have fewer troopers guarding it.”
“Sounds like nothing we can’t handle, love.” Hera smiled, and raised her voice a bit, “I hate to cut our evening short, but I’m afraid if we stay any longer, we may not have a ship to go back to. Who knows what Zeb and the kids have been up to.”
“And Chopper,” Kanan added.
“Especially Chopper.”
Arm-in-arm, the couple made their way off of the dance floor and over towards the side of the ballroom. As the crowd thinned, it became easier to form their exit strategy: across the hall from the main doors was a small hallway, intended to lead guests outside into a petite garden. It should be easy to sneak away from there, Hera thought to herself.
Two stormtroopers stood guard at the doors leading to the garden. Paying them no mind aside from a polite nod of acknowledgement, the two rebels posed as the perfect image of an imperial couple. Heads held high, one of Kanan’s arms snaked around Hera’s waist as his other hand rested in the pocket securing the data stick, they quietly chattered simple nothings to one another as they passed just over the threshold—
Hera felt the moment Kanan’s foot misstepped over the uneven ground.
His arms having shot out in front of him to catch his fall, Hera watched in horror as the data stick flew out of his pocket. As if in slow motion, it soared through the air before clattering onto the cobblestone pathway a few paces ahead of where Kanan’s face was now parallel with the rocky ground.
A beat of silence.
“Hey, you two.” Hera’s heart sank as she recognized the modulated voice as that of the stormtrooper behind them. “A datastick is a pretty atypical party favor. What are your chain codes?”
“Love,” Hera warned, “run.”
•••
Tearing through the city and into the grasses that would lead them back home, Hera knew Kanan had a question he was dying to ask.
“Did I at least look cool when I fell?”
She huffed, preoccupied. “As graceful as a Gungan, dear.”
He scoffed.
“Let’s just say,” she gasped, “Once Ezra hears about it, he’ll stop teasing you about Empire Day.”
As they ran back toward the Ghost, hand-in-hand, they couldn’t help but look over at each other and laugh. Nothing could ever go as planned, it seemed, no matter how simple the objective.