5

ASHES ON MY TONGUE

"I had been withdrawing
into a retreat of numbness:
it is so much safer not to feel,
not to let the world touch one."

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

THE IMPERIAL ACADEMY burned three times before Zoya finally woke up.

Cold sweat and clammy palms drove her from sleep, eyes wide in the dark. The room was silent around her—it must have been early morning, same as every night this happened—and Zoya clutched her pillow against her chest, choking on a scream. Sabine's soft breathing was the only sound in the room, save for her heartbeat slamming against her chest. Pulse echoing in her ears, Zoya lay still for a second, willing her body to calm down.

Mai had been particularly vengeful this time. The weapon was different every night; sometimes it was a handgun, other times a sniper. Most times, Mai was there on the roof with her, eyes glued to the skyline and mood benevolent until it wasn't. Her voice dripped with the satisfaction of someone who'd won. Even on an imaginary playing field, she was always five steps ahead.

Tonight, she'd had a military-grade blaster and sniper, both wielded with the pinpoint accuracy Mai had always lorded over her. It was like a slap to the face with each shot. Zoya would never be as quick to the trigger.

The first time, she'd snuck up behind Zoya, and when the gun had tousled her hair, she'd swallowed the sob building in her throat. The second, Zoya had looked over the side of the building to see the gun already there, leveled directly at her face.

The third time, Mai had a blade in her hand and a grin on her face, and the lines of what was real and what wasn't blurred like water on paper.

Zoya inhaled, reminding herself that it wasn't—that no matter how often she relived it, it couldn't hurt her, not really—and rolled over the side of the bunk, climbing down the ladder. Careful to keep her footsteps light, she padded across the room and opened the door, poking her head out to make sure no one was awake. Both rooms were dead quiet, the hallway practically dead, and Zoya sent up thanks to whoever was watching over her for running interference where she couldn't.

Hera had discovered the medicine a year and a half ago, on a routine run-through on Coruscant, before Coruscant became off-limits to them. They'd been picking up a shipment of supplies or food or guns, and Zoya hadn't slept in two days straight. The only reason she was allowed out of the Ghost was that Hera thought it was one.

She'd completed the job without caving and taking the day off like Hera had been asking, but when they returned to the Ghost, Hera seemed inexplicably cheerful; it wasn't until later that Zoya learned it was because of the stack of pill bottles in her hand, flashing orange light in Zoya's eyes with enough glare to blind her.

"For you," she'd smiled. Zoya took the pills without questions and swallowed the prescribed two dry.

It was the first night she'd slept peacefully in months, and they'd spent the next trip there stocking up for several months' worth. Zoya had never cried in front of the others, but the morning after she'd tried them that first night and slept through noon, she'd been close enough that the taste of salt followed her all day.

The bite of the cold air in the hall against her face jolted Zoya back to reality. Her suit, still warm from sleep, clung to her body in a desperate attempt to hold more heat as she slipped around the corner and down the stairs. Around her, the soft hum of the venting system rumbled, the Ghost's machinery still in effect while everyone else was asleep. Even Chopper would have been shut down at this hour, only to be turned on by Hera in the morning or an especially loud noise.

Zoya's hair fell in a thick, dark sheet around her face, rustling when she pried open the cylindrical hatch that led to the roof. It groaned with years of overuse and built-up rust, resisting her efforts. Zoya frowned and pulled herself through as quietly as possible.

Pausing to check her surroundings, Zoya let the hatch slide closed. It was always eerie when she was the lone alert inhabitant, always a little too still compared to the frenzied rush the Ghost was always filled with. The crackle of a wire being tugged at, the clanking of metal on metal, Chopper's wheels rolling over the floor, boots thudding against the floor, voices calling out to one another. The Ghost was a vessel built to fly, but Zoya could swear that sometimes, it felt alive; sometimes, it was less machine than a hulking, metallic animal rising in and out of slumber whilst its inhabitants continued about their day.

Tonight, the beast slept soundly, the ground vibrating slightly underneath Zoya's covered feet as she picked her way across the rusted landing. She was grateful; it meant no one would see the way her hands shook, even as she crossed and uncrossed her arms.

Two days ago, after Ezra had come back from the undercover mission he'd spent weeks taking on, he and Kanan resumed Jedi training, but it hadn't gone the way Zoya had expected. Whatever conversation they'd had that day—whatever words had been exchanged after she'd returned to her room and evaded sleep for the second night in a row—worked.

Even Sabine, for all her criticisms and insults and sarcasm, had been impressed at the way Kanan and Ezra worked—more fluidly, more in tune with one another.

Zoya was just relieved that she wouldn't be called on to give advice again; Ezra, thankfully, was eager to learn now that he'd returned from his mission, careful not to repeat the events of the Spire.

Zoya almost wished she'd never said anything at all. Ezra's searching gaze that day after they'd returned from trying to rescue Master Unduli had been an uncomfortable feeling on her shoulders. Zoya didn't like the way his mouth had drawn into a line when she finished—like he'd wanted to say something more but stopped himself.

Sleep came even slower when the fear that Ezra knew pulled her back from the darkness.

Lothal's skies were yellow-gold in the day, a domed pool reflecting the grainy sea below, but at night, a deep indigo infiltrated the stars and clung to them steadily, grey-purple turned black in the darkness. The grasses swished softly, the only sound in the near-pitch-black night.

Exhaling under her breath, Zoya leaned back on her elbows. When she was little—and Lux was no longer a novelty whose presence made her rethink every word she said—he'd invented a game to help her sleep: they'd crouch on the roof of the house and make up names for the constellations, inventing outlandish names for even the most modest of clusters.

There's your mother, he'd say, pointing to a thin line, and Zoya's lips would twist in disagreement.

That looks nothing like her, she'd argue, unimpressed. You're just saying that to sound cool.

Every time, Lux would smile, and his accent—all Onderon wealth, more polished and clipped than hers—would come in full force. Ah, you're right. You caught me.

Zoya stared hard at the constellations, but she couldn't think of anything. Another minute passed without a sound, and Zoya huffed to herself, trying to conjure up images of Lux, her mother.

Mai stayed decidedly at the back of her mind, though the harder Zoya tried to repress the memories, the stronger they became.

Zoya was a few weeks shy of seven years old when her mother sat her down and told her that she'd found her father. 

Even then, Zoya had understood this was important, and she'd already spent years with an imaginary man in the back of her mind. He was blurry, and his physical features were crude in the way that a child's mind made them out to be, but he was kind and smart, and he told a Zoya from another life stories before bed to help her fall asleep. He was a better cook than her mother. He cared.

Lux Bonteri did not quite meet all of the criteria—he looked nothing like her, with pale skin, deep grey eyes, and a thick wave of dark brown hair he kept neatly out of his face, an untouchable painting that belonged in a museum. His smile was more tentative than anything, unsure and uncertain of his place among them, and he sometimes looked lost during conversation, not entirely there while he listened to her talk. He was tall, willowy, and towered over all of them. Even Mai, who had already reached their mother's height by that point, was several inches below him.

But he did tell her stories, and he knew how to cook, and it was impossible not to believe that he cared when he started a miniature garden on the windowsill just to grow her mother's favorite flowers or came home early from his senate work on the weekends, even when it meant he'd have to make up paperwork the following week.

Mai hated him, and Zoya wondered if it was because while he was Zoya's father, he wasn't hers. It wasn't until she learned he wasn't that Zoya started to piece together why her mother was so intent on separating her and Mai those first few weeks of Lux living with them.

You two look nothing alike, Mai would whisper, the way someone else might say the sky is blue. Another time, she asked Zoya, Don't you think it's odd that he only shows up now? What kind of father waits so long to find his daughter? Maybe he doesn't care.

One day, when Zoya was lying in the grass under the great sakoola tree, fanning her face in the shade, Mai stormed out of the house and told her the truth.

He's not your real father, Zoya, she'd snapped, and some part of Zoya had been expecting it, had always expected it, the sting of the words potent. Mom only married him because he has money we need and he's a senator. He's only here because she asked him to be, so stop acting like this is all a dream come true.

Zoya shook her head, angry to find her vision blurring a little, the stars forming small white pools in her vision.

"Zoya?"

Zoya froze, whipping around towards the sound of Ezra's voice. He was halfway through the hatch, wearing a rumpled jacket and pants that told her he'd only just woken up. His dark eyes scanned the rooftop, then widened fractionally when he saw her.

Still stuck in place, Zoya watched with bated breath as Ezra pulled himself the rest of the way and walked over to her. She was surprised to see he barely made any sound, save for a few soft footsteps on the metal below. She hadn't thought he could be that quiet.

"You're going to collapse on a mission if you stay up this late," Ezra said bluntly, plopping into the empty space on her right.

Zoya gave him an irritated look, feeling dejected and certain that it was too early in the morning for Ezra Bridger to be pushing boundaries where he didn't belong. "I don't collapse on missions. I'm not like you and Zeb."

He grinned, and Zoya was struck with the terrible realization that he'd been ribbing at her for that exact response. She opened her mouth to cut him off, but Ezra beat her to it, smirking. "Unprofessional, right?"

Zoya reached over and cuffed him on the back of the head, rewarded with a muffled shriek that he hid in his jacket. "Hey!" Ezra whisper-shouted, looking affronted. "I wasn't being serious! You didn't need to hit me so hard!"

"Don't be an idiot, then," Zoya bit out.

He made a face. "You sound like Zeb."

She ignored that, taking advantage of the distraction to study him. His hair was mussed with bedhead and he looked disheveled, like he'd rolled straight out of bed to follow her. His eyes weren't on hers, but the usually visible blue had darkened overnight, an intensity Zoya hadn't seen before taking over. There were bags under his eyes, the kind that faded fast enough for people to miss. The kind that were a hair shy of becoming permanent.

She suddenly wondered how he'd been able to hear her in the first place, gaze turning suspicious. "Why're you even awake, anyway?"

"I could ask the same of you," Ezra challenged.

Zoya scowled. Ezra had come back from the undercover mission equal parts more agreeable and arrogant, and his questions chased her into silence as she tried to find a way to respond that wouldn't actually reveal anything.

She settled for redirection. "Don't change the subject. Did something wake you up?"

Ezra's gaze turned guarded, the way it always did before he lied. "No." He paused. "Well, you making so much noise didn't help."

A gust of wind rustled past her, and Zoya shivered around the sour look she cast him, arms starting to go numb under the consistent weight of her shoulders. Lothal's weather was mild year-round, Ezra had told her once, but at night, it frosted over and chilled. Zoya could feel the change in her bones. "I'm pretty sure you were asleep the entire time."

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I couldn't help it. You're loud."

Zoya paused, trying to discern whether or not his blank face was sincere or the thinly-veiled insult to her abilities was meant to cut deep. She knew she'd been quiet. Kanan was a light sleeper—being on the run for half his life bled into everything he did—and she hadn't even heard breathing from his room; he'd been out the moment she left her own. Ezra could have been toying with her, trying to get a reaction from her rather than actually telling the truth. She knew the signs.

Ezra looked away again, and Zoya gave up. "Sorry. I thought I was careful."

"Why did you need to be?" he asked, gaze suddenly piercing. "You're having trouble sleeping, right? Sabine said you used to have—"

"Sabine has no idea what she's talking about and should not be considered a credible source of information," Zoya muttered.

"Even if you weren't having nightmares, which you are," Ezra continued, as if she'd never interrupted, "you not sleeping would affect everyone else. Everyone's screwed if you fall asleep halfway to the checkpoint."

Zoya's lip curled, but she bit her tongue. He was right, and she hated it.

Ezra flicked her a cool look. "If you're not having trouble, just go to sleep."

"Fine, maybe I will," Zoya snapped, and a look of surprise crossed his face. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Wait," Ezra said, looking panicked. "Zoya, I—"

She opened the latch, face burning with shame and hands shaking with anger, and shut it before he finished whatever it was he was going to say next.

✶

Empire Day always brought a shift in the air, no matter what planet they visited. Even if it landed during the warm season, the air felt colder, brisk with a chill that Zoya wasn't sure was imaginary. Tension, thick as meiloorun jam, settled over everything, and Zoya's hand always moved a little closer to the vibroblade strapped to her thigh and the blaster attached at her back. Everyone was a little more on edge, less willing to talk things out in favor of cutting off Imperial attention at the chase.

Today, no bar, restaurant, or establishment would be closed. Across the galaxy, forced parades would saunter through the streets, shoving the reminder of the Empire's power in the face of anyone who walked five feet outside of their home. The Imperial broadcast would be shown on every live channel. Zoya imagined Coruscant's endless stream of levitating screens blaring Grand Moff Tarkin's voice out to the populace and internally cringed.

Lothal more than most was expected to uphold the Imperial legacy; it had been one of the first planets to be occupied, rich with oil and natural resources. It was the Imperials' shining example of freedom and fairness.

Zoya had heard the Imperial broadcast going on in at least seven different homes on their way to the bar. Tarkin's voice, melodic and smooth as ever, nagged at her from her place beside Sabine, who stood with her helmet at her hip.

Zoya knew she wanted to keep it on, hide her face. But Mandalorian helmets—especially ones covered in bright, multicolored artwork that did everything but be inconspicuous—drew too many interested eyes, too many hungry stares. Bounty hunters weren't particularly common on Lothal, Ezra had told them once, but that didn't mean they didn't exist here at all. Zoya's own helmet, however nondescript, tended to draw a little too much attention to be safe.

Zoya glanced over at Hera and Zeb. Hera's fingers were steepled in front of her, pensive, and Zeb kept his face noticeably blank, almost detached. Neither of them looked suspicious. Neither of them looked out of the ordinary.

Trying to do the same, Zoya smoothed her furrowed brow into a neutral stare, keeping her gaze firmly down in her lap.

She'd been angry enough at Ezra's knowing gaze and intrusive words that sleep had finally found her after a week of being in and out of it, and her body felt rested and tense with anticipation. His interruption had proved helpful, in a way.

Feeling her fingers curl into a fist again, Zoya willed the irritation at the memory to subside. Ezra didn't know what he was talking about, and neither did Sabine. She wouldn't let the dreams affect her missions. If she did, and she slipped up, then what would happen to her? Would Kanan and Hera decide she wasn't worth keeping on for jobs anymore? Would they make her tell them the truth?

Worse, what if Ezra already had?

Zoya worried her lower lip, averting her gaze when Hera looked over. She doubted Ezra would say anything, but if he did—if Kanan and Hera found out—she wanted to be ready. Maybe she'd leave, smuggle herself off the planet. It would certainly solve a lot of problems.

Ezra hadn't arrived yet, though, so until she knew definitively, she'd wait.

Kanan had decided to take advantage of the outer farmers emptying from their settlements into Capital City and take Ezra out for training where they wouldn't attract too many prying eyes. Zoya hadn't seen Ezra before they'd left, and unease from their last conversation had kept her from searching him out. The look on his face when he'd prodded at the truth and come dangerously close bothered her. She didn't want to see it again if she could help it.

Raised voices dragged Zoya's attention back to the bar. A cluster of stormtroopers—special forces, if the black armor they wore gave any indication—had stormed into the canteen, and the tallest one had his hand around the arm of a green-skinned Rodian.

The bar had gone still. The trooper held up a holopad with the face of another, slightly rounder Rodian on it, looking between the two. His companions jostled the Rodian, as if that would draw whatever answers they were looking for out of him.

"He's not the one," the trooper finally said, turning away decisively and marching to the Ithorian manning the bar. His movements were stiff, and Zoya could see without having to ask that the Imperials had been searching for the Rodian on the holo for at least a day already, maybe more. The strain of constant questioning must be setting in.

The Ithorian turned just as the stormtrooper slammed his fist on the counter, anger bleeding through his words. "The Imperial broadcast should play here at all times."

Shrinking back, the bartender muttered something, but Zoya missed the rest of it. It always went the same way: either they complied, or they got taken. What did it matter to that officer that he hadn't found his Rodian? If he brought another species in on charges of sedition, it was likely he'd get praised anyway.

Zoya's jaw clenched and she had to force herself to look over the rest of the bar instead of watching the two.

Light had started to stream in from the jarred door, but she hadn't seen anyone come in. Zoya scanned the room, searching for any new faces to catalogue, and stopped when she caught sight of Kanan and Ezra.

As if she'd summoned him, Ezra's tense gaze swiveled towards her. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and Zoya felt her own mirror the movement. He stood a little straighter, taking a step forward like he wanted to walk over.

The previously silent bar jolted to life as the broadcast suddenly turned on. It shook Zoya out of her stupor and she turned towards the noise, distracted from Ezra's scrutiny.

"Because today is Empire Day, celebrating the 15th anniversary of the galaxy's salvation, when our great Emperor Palpatine ended the Clone Wars and founded our glorious Empire," it was saying. "On Lothal, Governor Pryce has commissioned a parade."

The troopers, still stationed standing in a group near the door, started making their rounds, ordering those still standing to begin the celebrations expected of them. Zoya instinctively reached for the empty cup in front of her, moving it out of sight so she'd have nothing to give them reason to talk to her.

Then the broadcast burst into static, and Zoya turned to stare directly into the eyes of the same senator who had sent them running to Stygeon Prime.

"Citizens, this is Senator-in-Exile Gall Trayvis. I bring more news that the Empire doesn't want you to hear. I urge you to boycott all Empire Day celebrations to protest the ongoing injustices of the Imperial regime."

Zoya leaned forward, straining to hear more as the black-clad trooper started fighting with the bartender again, the words lost to the modulated sound of Trayvis's voice. When she couldn't make out anything else, she leaned to her left.

"They were hassling that Rodian earlier," Zoya murmured to Hera, low enough that no one walking by would be able to hear. "They're looking for someone."

Hera's lips pinched together, but she waited until the Empire had cleared out of the tavern to join the others at the bar.

"Just be glad they're not after us for once," Sabine was teasing, voice light. Zoya jabbed her in the side to take the seat on her left and Sabine huffed indignantly, miming throttling her. Zoya kept her face blank.

"With what we've got planned for today's parade, they'll be after us again tomorrow," Kanan replied, grinning.

Ezra stood up, face unreadable. "Well, you're gonna have to do it without me."

Kanan blinked, eyes narrowing. Hera took a step back to make way for Ezra. "Where do you think you're going?"

Ezra gave the same one-shouldered shrug he'd given the night before without looking over his shoulder. "I just need to be alone. Today has... brought back some memories."

They watched him walk away in silence. When Ezra reached the door, Sabine blurted, "What was that about?"

Zoya didn't know. Was this why he'd been up so late last night? Was that what had been behind his eyes when he'd hesitated after she'd asked if there was something keeping him up?

She wasn't well-versed in people the way Sabine and Hera were. Zoya had no idea if last night—whatever idiotic thing he'd been about to call out to her before the hatch had shut—had played a part in that look on his face. The baffled look in both Sabine and Hera's eyes meant she was walking in the dark when it came to Ezra, and no one else was faring better.

Their confusion mirrored her own, and Zoya had no idea what to think of that.

Realizing the others had started talking, Zoya turned away from the doorway, Ezra long-gone, and startled when she caught Sabine's gaze hot on hers. It was piercing in the way Ezra's had been, piercing like she knew something Zoya didn't.

Piercing like there was something she was looking for.

Zoya pretended not to notice long enough that Sabine gave up trying to search for whatever she thought she saw in Zoya's eyes and started asking Kanan about Ezra's odd behavior instead.

✶

Posted a little ways outside of the crowd gathered along the streets of Lothal, Zoya tried to stay as still as possible and hoped Sabine didn't think she was acting too suspiciously.

Sabine, Zeb, and Zoya were all armed with small steel spheres that looked like grenades to the untrained eye but were meant for an entirely different purpose. Zoya was grateful that they'd been relegated to standing watch, even as Zeb needled her for it and Sabine stared hard into the crowd instead of at her. It meant she didn't have to think too much about what today meant. It meant she wouldn't screw up on the job.

Minister Tua—a tall, thin woman with straight blonde hair tied into a scalp-straining bun at the nape of her neck and the standard blue uniform of her station—was addressing the crowd, but Zoya was only half-listening, eyes searching the crowd for Hera and Kanan. They must have been further back where the Imperials wouldn't see them.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause again, and Zoya jolted. Tua had introduced someone, but Zoya didn't recognize him. Another poster pilot for them to slap on their propaganda, maybe.

He was probably here to fly the fighter on the platform next to them. Its curved sides almost made it look majestic. Zoya would have been sad to see it go under any other circumstances.

It didn't matter. Whoever that pilot was, he wouldn't be flying any of their newer models, because they'd be blown to smithereens after Kanan was done with them.

"Okay, when I say 'now,' throw this as high as you can," Sabine ordered Zeb in a low voice. Zoya dutifully handed her own firework grenade to her, and she took it without saying anything.

The grenade flickered to life, light going red as it started to beep. Zeb's shoulders tensed a little. "Okay. Now?"

Sabine didn't answer. The grenade beeped again, this time more insistently. "Now?" Zeb repeated, face turning alarmed.

The beeps barely paused. Zeb looked ready to chuck the grenade altogether. "Now?" he all but shouted, and Zoya reached out to jostle Sabine in warning. Through the damn grenade, Sabine.

Sabine looked over her shoulder before Zoya's hand met her armor. Zoya withdrew, shoving it into the fold of her arms instead. "Now."

Zeb turned and lobbed the grenade, sending it soaring into the sky. Zoya couldn't help but smile as the darkness lit up in a multicolored light show, the fireworks looking like a natural part of the festivities rather than accessories to a bombing. Even if they were only a small distraction in the larger plan, she still wanted to savor the few minutes of peace. Without meaning to, she thought that Lux would love them.

"Another?" Sabine asked, offering Zoya's grenade. She'd forgotten handing it over.

"Don't mind if I do," Zeb grinned, and cocked his arm back.

More fireworks went up. Zoya, Zeb, and Sabine watched in awestruck silence—even Mandalorians could appreciate fireworkds, it seemed.

And then, somewhere in between the last firework fading from view and the next round going up, the platform housing TIE fighter being displayed went up in flames.

The street erupted in chaos. People screamed, running for the alleys in a hurried throng, pushing over one another to escape. Chaos reigned, the last of the fireworks still sending multicolored shadows dancing over the crowd. Children grasped their parents' hands, yanked out of the line of fire. Soldiers lay on the ground, some not-moving, some stirring to life. The Imperial float was a scrap of metal, and shrapnel from the explosion had been flung out into the windows of the nearest buildings.

Sabine grinned wide, cheering when the Imperials began re-assembling, trying to calm the stampeding crowd. Zeb pumped a fist, but Zoya frowned, watching Kallus help Tua up.

"We should go," Zoya yelled, voice nearly drowned out by the footsteps around them. Sabine's head turned toward hers, signaling that she'd heard.

At the other end of the alley, Kanan and Ezra emerged from around the corner, smiles wide and vindicated the way Sabine's had been, Ezra's face lightened compared to the thunderstorm it had been hours before. Something in Zoya's chest twinged: from guilt, from anger.

"Nice of you to join us," Zeb snapped. Ezra's face went blank at that, the way it did before he was about to throw a punch, but he said nothing. Zoya might be little more than a fool in the dark when it came to him, but she knew his irritation was bubbling over.

"Hey," Sabine jabbed. "Where were you?"

His grin returned, went impish. "Why? Did you miss me?"

Zoya scoffed before she could bit her tongue. "I swear on the goddess, Bridger, say one more of your weird flirty sentences and I will end you—"

She cut off as they rounded the corner, coming face-to-face with a battalion of white-armored stormtroopers. "Time to blend in," Zoya yelled, and pulled Ezra and Sabine into the crowd. Behind them, something exploded, and Zoya had a sneaking suspicion Zeb was behind it.

"Spectre-2, we're en route to the rendezvous," Kanan shouted, comm in hand.

Hera's voice was firm. "Negative, Spectre-1. The streets are blocked. I cannot, repeat, cannot reach the rendezvous."

Kanan faltered. The group slowed to a stop, panting slightly. "I know a place we can hole up until things calm down," Ezra offered. He raised a brow. "But Shoulders here might have a problem taking my route."

Zeb's face darkened. Kanan jumped in before a fight could break out. "Then we need another option."

"Nah, it's fine," Zeb said. He took out his own comm. "Spectre-2, can you make it to the Old Market?"

"Affirmative."

"Then I'm on my way."

Kanan looked like he wanted to object. "Get back to the Ghost," he ordered, finally, irritation drawing jagged edges in his voice, and Zeb nodded, hoisting himself up onto the wall of the housing complex and disappearing over the side of the roof.

"Follow me," Ezra commanded, and for once, Zoya didn't argue as they took off in the opposite direction.

She didn't expect the building to be so run-down. It looked to be one of the older styles, dating back to before Imperial arrival, the windows a different shape than the others nearby—though that may have been the wooden boards levered across them, blocking any sight from inside. Dirt and grime covered the entire outer wall, and empty boxes littered the small alleyway.

From Zoya's left, Sabine let out a slow exhale. "That's an Imperial warning declaring this building off-limits. What is this place?"

Ezra pulled out what looked like a scan card, running it through the panel on the wall. The door opened obediently, letting out a small groan. The aftertaste of disuse lingered in every piece of technology here.

"You were coming here today," Kanan said softly. It wasn't a question, and Zoya's nose wrinkled in confusion. "This was your home, wasn't it? Where you grew up?"

"I grew up on the streets, alone," Ezra corrected, voice sharp. He stood to the side as the three of them filed past.

Sabine kicked a stray box away, pulling off her helmet. Zoya removed her own, tugging a few strands of hair that had escaped her braid from her eyes. "Then why here? Why now?"

Ezra retreated to the far corner of the room, gaze unfocused. "Had this feeling."

Zoya watched him lower to his knees and push a circular cushion off to the side with a carefully blank face. There must have been some secret room below them, out of view, but she didn't want to look—didn't want to see that expression on Ezra's face that was so nonchalant about all of this that it hurt. He force-fed himself the words I am okay until they no longer had meaning, and Zoya despised it. Even if a small part of her argued that it was all she'd done since taking Hera's extended hand two years ago.

Abruptly, Ezra sucked in a sharp breath, body coiling back. Zoya pushed past Sabine, making a beeline for the corner.

"Tseebo," Ezra half-whispered, half-called out to whoever was hiding below. "Tseebo, it's me, Ezra Bridger."

Zoya blinked. "Someone's down there?"

His gaze cut towards hers, like he'd forgotten she was there. He opened his mouth to say something.

Something climbed out of the hole next to him, and Zoya's hand fell to her blade out of muscle memory or bloody-pressed instinct, eyes glued to the figure warily. Then she stopped, jerking back. It was a Rodian, bright green skin turned bluish in the dark room. It bore the same face as the one on the datapad of the trooper from the canteen.

"Ezra, please tell me you haven't been keeping him here this entire time," Zoya said, voice turning flat and then threatening. "Tell me. I don't care if it's a lie."

"He hasn't! Honestly, I just found him." Zoya raised an unimpressed brow, and he glared. "I'm serious!"

Tseebo started speaking, a language Zoya couldn't understand twisting through the room in a conscious stream. There was a metal ring, semicircular in shape, jutting out of his head, and it beeped contentedly until he slammed into the boarded window.

"That's the Rodian the Imperials are hunting," Kanan muttered, half to himself. "You know him?"

Ezra's gaze darkened. "Name's Tseebo. Friend of my parents'." He threw an arm over the seat he'd claimed, and Zoya heard the carefully pushed-away hurt in the words. "But... something's wrong. What's that thing on his head?"

Sabine, despite the tension that wound thick and syrupy unease through the room, looked delighted, bouncing over to Tseebo to start running her hands over the tech implanted where his ears should have been. "Empire's been known to implant lower-level technicians with cybernetic circuits. Personality sacrificed for productivity." She pressed a button and the Rodian's head jerked up sharply.

"Tseebo's productivity is 19% higher than average Imperial data worker," he intoned.

Zoya raised her eyebrows. Ezra scowled. "Tseebo went to work for the Imperial information office after the Empire took my parents away."

"Your parents?" Kanan repeated, mouth hanging open slightly. "You... never told us."

"What's to tell? They've been gone eight years. I've been on my own since I was seven."

Kanan's face looked close to crumpling, but Tseebo beeped again. "Seven. Imperial..."

Zoya winced as he switched to an indecipherable language, information turning foreign to her. Guilt and anger pooled in her stomach, warring for dominance: Ezra's probing questions and easy understanding of her motivations the night before still made her flush furiously any time she thought of them—she hated the way he'd read into her, uncaring of what that meant. Guilt for what today was to him followed, but she was livid at the thought that he was escaping his problems by poking the Nexu of hers.

Zoya jolted back to the present at Sabine's voice, lowered and frenzied with excitement. "... Detailing fighter deployments on Lothal."

"That's it!" Kanan said. Zoya was still lost. Tseebo has intel the Empire doesn't want getting out. Sabine, can you access it?"

"Uh... think so? I need a few minutes."

"Ezra," Kanan added, attention diverted, "you okay?"

Zoya turned without meaning to, eyes finding Ezra behind Kanan's shoulder. His mouth went strangely tight when he caught her looking, and he averted his eyes. "I'm fine."

"I told you, sometimes you have to let your guard down," Kanan said softly, the echo of some conversation that Zoya had missed.

Ezra's head disappeared down the ladder, but his voice carried. "I said I'm fine."

Zoya watched him go and nearly missed Tseebo's murmur behind her. "Ezra Bridger. Son of Ephraim and Mira Bridger. Born fifteen years ago today."

Zoya froze, body going rigid. "Today is his birthday," she said hollowly. "And I..." She glared at her feet. If guilt had been losing to evasion before, it had been given an upgrade. the feeling hit her in droves. She'd shut him down when he'd probably needed her. He'd had to carry around all of this and the fight with him.

"You?" Sabine probed, eyes slightly narrowed.

"It's nothing," Zoya ground out. "You finished?"

Sabine climbed down the ladder in answer, and Zoya followed.

The Bridgers' basement was dark and coated with a thick layer of dust, untouched after so many years of disuse. Zoya ran a hand over the wall and it came away grey and textured. Ezra had grown up here. It would have been light and warm and full of life when he saw it. Sometime in the last fifteen years, this place had rotted like an unwatered plant. What was Ezra thinking now, seeing the place he'd lived in for nearly half his life go to waste?

"Ezra," Sabine called, to the back turned on them. "You'll want to see this."

Ezra lurched forward, sighing when he realized it was them. Zoya frowned, feeling her brows knit together, but Sabine must not have noticed. "What's with the old disk?" she asked, motioning to something in his hand.

Ezra looked down, mouth drawn in a tight line. "My folks used to do underground broadcasts from here, speaking out against the Empire. It's probably just one of them." He dropped it onto a nearby table and pushed past them.

Zoya reached for it, turning the rusted disk over in her fingers. "He's lying."

Sabine peered over her shoulder, and Zoya held it up for her to see. She squinted, eyes flicking over the small piece of metal faster than Zoya could follow. "You think so?"

"He thinks he's better than he is," she explained matter-of-factly.

Sabine snorted. "Of course you would say that."

Zoya looked over her shoulder, pausing her examination of the disk. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Sabine sang, though she lowered her voice for Zoya's sake. Then she sucked in a breath. "Wait, you're right—this isn't a broadcast disk. These are used to store photo-grade files, not recordings. Do you think he...?"

"Probably," Zoya said. "Though that doesn't explain why he left it lying around like this if he does. Even if odds are it's too broken to use anyway. Most likely, he's too young to remember anything they took and doesn't want to go back through them." She paused. "Have you ever worked with one before?"

Sabine made a thoughtful noise. "No, but how hard can it be? Why do you—" Zoya gave her a flat look and she straightened. "Oh. Oh. I think I could, once we get back to the Ghost."

Zoya hesitated. She wanted to tell the truth—that she'd snapped, that he'd reacted, that she didn't know if this was big or not because everything she'd grown up with had always been big and all-consuming, and small fights didn't exist with Mai—but choked on the memory of ash on her face and tongue. Sabine would only look at her differently, and a selfish part of Zoya just wanted this one thing to be untouched by all the change that had bled into her carefully stable life. "Could you just... if it works, could you not say anything about me?"

Sabine blinked. "I mean, sure. Why?"

"No reason," Zoya lied, and avoided Sabine's eyes when her gaze turned knowing.

✶

Upstairs, Ezra and Kanan were still standing around the table, the room bathed in late-night silence that burrowed deep beneath Zoya's skin. Sabine, oblivious, was barely a step behind Zoya and a touch faster to Kanan's side, leaving Zoya out in the cold and awkwardly to the left. She suspected it was because it was closer to Ezra and slanted Sabine a dirty look. Traitor.

The sound of typing was the only noise in the room; they watched Sabine tamper with the Imperial controls for a moment before Tseebo shuttered, springing to life. Zoya resisted the urge to cringe at the way the machine attached to the Rodian's head whirred, completely detached from the life it was bonded to. It looked unnatural and painful—a foreigner on your own body. Zoya couldn't imagine agreeing to house that kind of presence, for a worthy cause or not.

From the side of the panel, a light flickered. Blue light flooded the small room and Zoya watched, fascinated, as Tseebo projected what could only be a holo into the space between all of them. It was some kind of TIE fighter, with sleek, curved armor panels and twin cockpits. Seconds later, another blueprint followed—a different model, this time a freighter. Zoya's mouth parted in surprise.

"What are we looking at?" Kanan asked.

Sabine seemed at a loss for words, eyes glued to the holos. "It's... well, it's everything."

Zoya tore her eyes from the blueprint. "What do you mean, 'everything?'"

"I mean, Imperial specs on the new TIEs and new T-8 disruptors," Sabine answered. "Schedules of troop movements, tactics, and strategies. Half of it's encrypted, but it looks like there's a five-year plan for Lothal and... and every other world in the Outer Rim."

Tseebo groaned, hands flying to his head, and the images disappeared. Zoya moved without meaning to, pushing him lightly until he stumbled into one of the nearby chairs. She looked back over her shoulder, brows furrowing when she saw the look on Ezra's face.

"No wonder his brain's shorting out," Ezra muttered, sounding incensed. "All that data'd overload anyone."

Kanan pressed a hand to his temple. "The secrets in his head must be damaging to the Empire. We'll need to smuggle him off Lothal."

"Gotta smuggle him out of town, first," Sabine added. "You know, the only reason the Imperials haven't caught him yet is because their forces were occupied with Empire Day. But the day's almost done."

Zoya pursed her lips. "The odds aren't in our favor, then."

As if on cue, Tseebo walked straight into the door behind them. Zoya winced.

author's note HELLOOOOO EVERYONE ok im back and i'd just like to thank everybody who's stuck with this story, i know my update schedule is hectic (re: NON-FUCKING-EXISTENT) so it means a TON to me that everyone has still read/supported this fic. there's such a long way to go but i really, truly want to get there eventually and i hope everyone enjoys the coming chapters, because shit starts hitting the fan soon :))

as usual, please lmk what all of u thought of the chapter!!! i really tried to get the word count down (hopefully we won't have any more 10k nightmares but i make no promises lmao). as always, thank u sm for reading!!!!!