Kanan Jarrus

Leave a comment here if you need to contact us! Comments are screened.

“She will make it,” the med-droid says, and Kanan can feel that relief all the way from his scalp to his toes.

Hera will live. She'll be fine. She'll wake up and go back to flying, planning missions, making everyone around her better.

It will be okay.

But first – first, there's a mission to finish.

And Sabine's vengeance plans to . . . gently redirect. He can see that a lot of people are up in arms, and there's a part of him that understands the need to make someone pay for Hera's hurt, for their two lost pilots, but . . . that's never really been him.

It's not just because he's a Jedi, because there were always plenty of whispered tales of Jedi who went dark, who fell, and while as a kid that gave him a glorious kind of shiver . . . as an adult, he can understand it. But Kanan . . .that's not the path for him. He can't muster up that feeling. What he wants, more than anything in the galaxy right now, is to deliver Hera the result she went out looking for, the thing that left her unconscious and badly wounded in the med-bay. That's what will – not make things right, nothing can do that, really – but . . . make it worth it. (Nothing can be worth it, either, but for Hera it is, and that's what he's choosing to focus on right now.)

Convincing Sabine is going to be a nightmare, he can just tell.

***

All right, maybe at this point there's a little desire for vengeance flavoring his actions. There's something satisfying about Fenn Rau's sheer surprise and panic as Kanan leaps on top of his fighter and rides it up into the sky.

Even more when he manages not to fall off, and instead rips his lightsaber through the control panel, destroying any hope of flying his way out of this the Protector of Concord Dawn has.

And sure, he's also doing this because an imprisoned Fenn Rau won't be able to report their presence to the Empire. His subordinates won't want to do it either, because no one wants an actual Imperial presence in their system, or at least no one that values independence (and the Mandalorians definitely do). It will give Concord Dawn a vested interest in not having word of the rebel presence get out, and that's a net benefit all the way around.

It makes perfect sense as part of the Rebellion's strategy.

But it's also just viscerally satisfying to push himself to his limits in pursuit of the person that hurt Hera, and to succeed in capturing him.

Kanan's perfectly okay living with that.

Go to a club opening, the mission brief said.

Pass codes over and receive a beacon location for the goods they have to transport, the mission brief said.

Buy formalwear for the first time in your life, the brief did not say, but that's Kanan's current assignment, regardless.

He has found dark-colored pants, at least, but are they sophisticated pants? Are they the kind of pants a rich, suave guy would wear to a club opening intended for high rollers and the idle rich?

They're certainly sparkly, when he tilts them in the light, so maybe so. But then, if he chooses these pants, what sort of shirt is he going to need, and will his boots be all right, or is there some kind of shoe he needs to use, too.

And what about make-up?

Which is why instead of choosing several items and making his way to the front of the shop to pay for them, Kanan is standing, stunned and overwhelmed, in the pants aisle. One of several pants aisles, actually.

This is hell.

It's not like Kanan's trying to let Rex get under his skin, but if the clo -- guy -- could just keep his opinions about what makes a good Jedi to himself, this would all be a lot easier. Not that Kanan's jealous of him trying to mentor Ezra, there's nothing wrong with that.

Nothing.

Just --

"You really think wit's going to get you out of every hole you dig yourself into?" He finds himself asking Rex, halfway through heating up a protein pack in the galley. "I thought you couldn't fly by the seat of your pants in the army."

Rex folds his arms across his chest, scoffing out loud. "You have to have heard the one about battle plans surviving enemies. Maybe you didn't remember it, in all the time you spent off the front lines, but surely you heard it somewhere."

First, there's the smell. It's so strong, and it hits Kanan all at once as they climb up into the narrow passages of the enormous sandcrawler. Somehow he hadn't noticed it on the Jawas before, but now it was so much so fast that he had trouble keeping his eyes ahead. It wasn't sickening, but strange, and so much at once - like burnt spices, bitter mint, the sharp scent of salt soured with a stale sweetness, warm moisture like condensation on hot steel, and a metallic tang like blood. Even in his worst days when he was younger, when he'd slept behind dumpsters or collapsed drunk under a cantina bar, or even sharing close quarters with injured and battle-fatigued clone troopers, he'd never experienced anything like this. If the smell is getting to Hera, she doesn't show any sign of it, so Kanan tries to do the same. There's enough to worry about when navigating the sandcrawler without getting distracted by the smell.

The passages are dark and very narrow – at some points they can lean forward, at others he and Hera have to get down and crawl in order to follow Tsedec. This was not a place designed for anyone other than Jawas, which makes sense. Kanan can't help but wonder if any non-Jawa had ever been in this sandcrawler before. He also has to conclude that Jawas can see much better in the dark than he can. There are only occasional low lamps, and once or twice he realizes what he thought were low lights were actually a pair of yellow eyes peering out from a slat in the wall of the passageway. There's nonstop chatter, as well as the occasional call of higher-pitched voices Kanan thinks must belong to children, though they only ever see fully grown Jawas.

Eventually, they reach a room Kanan is sure must be the center of the crawler. Like the passages around it, this room is dimly lit, but there's some kind of combustion chamber at the far side of the room that's so bright Kanan has to blink his eyes against the orange-yellow light. The room is large, tall enough for Kanan and Hera to stand with still a few meters above them, a wide rectangle that was clearly used as a gathering place. Small brown mats were arranged around the floor, and the somewhat battered metal walls were decorated, with long hangings Kanan realized were woven both with thread and old wires, and the dim light not from the combustion chamber came from small, strung lights, made from narrow tubes and mismatched vials.

Tsedec asks them to sit, which they do, settling on two mats in a corner close to the door they had entered. Another Jawa brings them protein bars and small cups of water. Hera again offers payment, which this time is accepted. With that, both Jawas nod quickly to them, and head back to the door, leaving Kanan and Hera alone with their meal. Within a few minutes, there's a loud screech and a heavy thud as the crawler lurches forward. That thudding continues as the crawler moves, becoming steady and constant, though still loud.

Here on the bridge of Phoenix Home, Kanan keeps expecting to see trooper armor, to hear Grey’s voice teasing him about all the questions he's not asking right now, to hear Styles weigh in on the discussion of objectives, to bring his frontline experience to bear on the Rebellion's problems. The bridge isn't as sparkling clean as he remembers bridges being, back when the Republic still existed, when all the wars were new, but the space is right, the lines and curves and angles of each and every corridor, of the comm boards and holo displays, the mess and the bunks and -- everything really. It makes his stomach hurt, makes his neck and shoulders tense, brings a sharp twist of headache to the back of his skull. He looks up suddenly, attention primed for the mention of Imperials, then bleeding into now and all he can feel is relief. Which he knows is going to change very shortly, but --

Some things can't be helped.

Sato, hands folded across his chest in a posture of thoughtfulness and determination, is laying out the scenario. "-- scouted in this area are usually made up of three hauler freighters with docking ports for two fighters each. Even with our smaller squad of A-wings, we believe we could successfully combat their defenses. But we've previously lacked a freighter large and maneuverable enough to pick up any cargo we could free. Could the Ghost accomplish this?"

Ask a stupid question, Kanan does not say. Of course the Ghost can do it. Well -- the Ghost by itself, no, but with Hera piloting --

Hera, herself, speaks up at this point, nothing but respect and professionalism in her voice. "Yes sir, we can use a magnetic lock to pick up the crates."

She's better than Kanan at that, too, especially these days. Especially today, maybe. It shouldn't be like that, and Kanan knows it, but all of this remains far too familiar and that's . . . maybe that's always going to be disturbing.

Meanwhile, Sato and Hera are collaborating on the plan, and it's a good one, Kanan can't even deny that, either.

"All right, Captain Syndulla," Sato says, "In that case, Phoenix squad can clear a path for you."

Hard on the heels of that comes Hera, filling in the gaps as easily as breathing. "With the A-wings busy with the fighters, the Phantom should be used to free the cargo."

Kanan doesn't even need to look to know how pleased Sabine is to be tasked with a pivotal role, he doesn't even need the tone of her voice as she says, "I can do that."

"Good, Sato says, pointing to the holomap. Kanan can't help the way he leans forward to look more closely, and somewhere within him the Caleb-that-was is momentarily resentful.

"They use a position here to shift hyperspace lanes. Once they fall out of hyperspace, we estimate it will take them between ten and fifteen minutes to calculate their next jump."

"Short window," one of the other pilots mutters, and Kanan is already shaking his head. It's like they don't know what the Ghost's crew is capable of, at all.

Hera, of course, sets them straight. "We can manage it if we get the drop on them. Especially if we let at least one ship launch TIEs, they'll have to redock before jumping."

Another voice in the crowd has their own idea to contribute. "In that case it sounds like we should be waiting for them."

Sato, like a good commander, considers this point of view just like he has all the others, saying, "I agree."

Then, like they planned it, Ahsoka pushes herself away from the wall, emerging from the shadows to offer her own piece of the puzzle. "Their next shipment should be within one cycle. You should all take the time to prep yourselves and your ships before we get in position."

And just like that, they're dismissed. It shouldn't get his hackles up, Kanan knows that, but it does, all the same. He keeps a weather eye on Hera, waiting to see what direction she commits to before falling in alongside her. It's the one comforting thing he can find in this whole mess, and maybe if he holds onto it (and her) tightly enough, he'll be able to pull himself through.

Kanan can always hope.

Every nerve is aching still, phantom pains from the Inquisitor's interrogation -- and the more brutally physical one that came before -- still stinging up and down his legs, his arms, making his lungs ache when he breathes.

Ezra's gone.

It's too much for pain, a great gaping coldness there at the heart of him, rising up to swallow everything else, and --

This is why Master Billaba told me to run

For the first time, maybe, he understands her impulse, understands what he spared her from by fleeing, even if he also left her to die. He would rather Ezra had run.

Part of him had rather they'd all run, really, while at the same time being incredibly grateful they didn't.

Ezra's dead.

It's the worst thing he could think of, dreams of failing his apprentice haunting the night hours for days, weeks, months -- maybe even longer, with some nebulous face filling in for Ezra until he'd actually met the boy.

It burns. But if he's learned nothing in all the years since Caleb ran, since he let that guilt eat him alive and turn him into someone else completely --

Kanan has learned that some flames purify. And here and now, if he keeps the Inquisitor focused on him, if he defeats him --

Nothing else has to be lost here. And for the first time since Kaller, Kanan Jarrus the Jedi is truly unafraid.

There's tension on the Ghost. Kanan isn't sure if Hera's contributing to it at all, or if it's just him and his awareness of how colossally he messed up. Letting Zeb bet Chopper was bad enough, but Calrissian sold Hera as the end consequence of Kanan's bad deal-making and it just --

He's not even sure it's something that can be fixed. (Should it be fixed? It is a truly epic fuckup.)

But since avoiding Hera's only going to make it worse, he makes his way to the cockpit once they've landed again, and he won't distract her from piloting.

"So, uh -- "

The sound of crates clattering from a neat stack into a haphazard pile resounds from the cargo bay, followed shortly after by contentious voices -- and bleeps -- raised in a chorus of 'he did it'.

Kanan rests his face in his hand for a moment, eyes closed.

"Do you think they'll clean it up, or are they going to pretend we couldn't hear them and have no idea who could have made the mess?"

They can get back to mission planning in a minute, and should. But --