Kanan Jarrus

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.

It helps, a little, that, as they turn off the main corridor of the command ship, the door opens up into somewhere that's not full of military types.

But it's still a problem.

Kanan can feel his neck muscles tightening, his stomach clenching down with the weight of bad memories. He hates being at odds with Hera, hates it utterly, but --

But this --

He can't be okay with this. He wouldn't know how, even if he wanted to try. (And he doesn't want to try at all.)

Maybe Hera can tell, because she doesn't make a move to stop him, keeping pace with him as he strides through the cantina part, and out the back door.

Kanan only starts slowing down when they reach the far edge of the lake, taking a deep breath and turning around. Finally.

He still hasn't figured out what he wants to say.

Breathe.




Just breathe.


Once, this was a meditation room. There was one Master Billaba had preferred, after her months in a coma. A creek bed was built into its floor, winding a path through the room, dark water trickling over the smooth stones set beneath. The windows were tinted, hiding the city lights of Coruscant beyond, and a constant garden of lycandis, zeka grass, and honeyblossoms was cultivated to blanket the floor. Entering was like walking into a forest glen on a warm night, and it was easy to find peace there. Or to drift to sleep in the sweet-smelling grass. It was hard to think of the blasterfire raining down on other planets, or even the explosions that had rocked the Jedi Temple around them.

Something that makes you feel safe –

It was ashes now. He could only imagine that. The creek was dry, the stones cracked, honeyblossoms dust. Maybe the Empire had transformed it into something else entirely. He could only imagine – Kanan doubted he would ever see that place again. Maybe he even knew he would never see it. Like Master Billaba. That place could no longer protect him. He couldn't feel safe there.

a person, a place, a situation

This room is small, simple, bare. Not entirely unlike his quarters as an apprentice in the Jedi Temple, but he didn't think on that. There was a door along the far wall, just a few meters from him. Low benches lined the walls on either side of him, and two bunks were built into the back. He's sitting on the thin bedding of the lower bunk, his fingers curled gently along the edge. No windows, stale recycled oxygen with the tinny scent of steel. Beneath his boots, the floor vibrated faintly.


focus on that image



There's a flicker of movement to his right. A shadow on the floor, along the wall.





I'll . . . try to get in -

This had proved to be one of the smoothest jobs they'd ever run. Hera, acting as a graduate assistant who had ended up at the administrative building when she'd meant to get to the xenobiologly labs on the other side of campus, had distracted the guards long enough for Kanan to slip in and out of the Imperial liaison's office without any trouble at all. Then again, neither the office nor the files inside were overly protected – the Empire didn't seem too concerned with anyone slipping away with their notes on Bar'leth University's faculty. It wasn't a weapon, or some exploitable resource, so maybe that wasn't surprising. But there were contacts in the rebellion who could use the information on which academics might be sympathetic, and which might be in imminent danger from the Empire.

And so they finish far ahead of their scheduled rendezvous with the Ghost. Kanan changes out of his maintenance uniform disguise, though Hera keeps her civilian clothes, and with little else to do in the meantime, they wander along the edge of the campus, its famous natural and cultural history museum looming not far in the distance. Most students and faculty have cleared out by now, but the paths and column-lined buildings are illuminated with white lanterns, keeping the campus bright as the cool evening sets in. The paths are lined with flower beds, and ahead of them is a wide pond, still enough to reflect the gymnasium just beyond it.

It's a very peaceful place, on the surface. But they had already read enough of the files they'd recovered to find that under that surface, it's anything but.

Zeb's finally gone to his bunk to rest, not least because the Ghost is now safely in hyperspace, headed away from Nar Shaddaa and toward -- well.

Toward somewhere else. Kanan hasn't had the energy to ask. But he also doesn't want to take a break, because that would give him time to think, and to dream.

Which is why he's currently in the galley, brewing up a large stash of caf to keep himself up for the next four to eight hours.

He's fine! Really!

Right. So now that Ezra's Jedi education is underway, there should be some kind of formalized feedback, right?

An . . . exam of some sort. Or maybe not as formal as an exam, but --

No, probably an exam. Which means Kanan needs to come up with said exam, and whether it's written or physical or both, and what criteria count as success, and --

"Uh."

While thinking all this, Kanan has subconsciously made his way to the cockpit, pausing just inside the door as if only now thinking to check if Hera is currently less-than-busy.

"Do you have a minute?"

So imagine there's a woman. You love her, and you want her, and you're partners in everything, and there's very little you hide anymore, and it's good that way, the greatest, but you're not . . . You're not together. Like that.

Now imagine that there's a mission, and it involves a sudden opening in someone's social calendar, and this opening involves a fancy party for married couples where lips are guaranteed to be loose, wine and spice flow like rain, and some very valuable materials and information will be less guarded for six hours than they ever will be again.

Imagine that the person who provided the opening is a Twi'lek, and she has a husband, and it's their slots that someone has to be prepared to take at this shindig.

"I think whoever made these pants cut them a little too tight."

Uh.

"My dear."

For all that the climates of different regions and planets are vastly different, there's something comfortingly the same about every cantina Kanan's been in.

Maybe it's the smell.

Maybe it's the grumbling of pilots and criminals the galaxy over, insults and friendly banter jumbling in and over each other until a body can't tell which is which.

Maybe it's the drink.

And the drink -- and the cheap food that isn't protein paste -- is what gets Kanan to leave his seat at the table with Hera to go fetch them some more of both.

"I'll be right back."