The Broken Horn, Capital City Spaceport, Lothal6 BBY (Three Months After Awakening)
The cantina smelled like burnt caf and broken dreams.
Ezra kept his back to the wall, eyes tracking movement through the haze of cheap tabac smoke that hung thick enough to taste. Three exits: main entrance, kitchen service door, ventilation shaft in the back that led to the building's maintenance crawl space. He'd mapped them all within seconds of entering, old paranoia meeting new necessity in a way that felt less like caution and more like breathing.
Cikatro Vizago sat across from him, green skin mottled with age spots, one mechanical eye whirring softly as it adjusted focus. The Devaronian crime lord looked exactly like he had in the show: sharp-dressed, sharper-minded, the kind of operator who survived in the underworld through careful cultivation of reputation and ruthlessness in equal measure.
"You're younger than I expected," Vizago said, voice carrying the sandpaper rasp of someone who'd spent decades negotiating deals that existed in legal gray zones at best.
"You're uglier," Ezra replied.
The two enforcers flanking Vizago's booth tensed, hands drifting toward weapons. Vizago himself merely laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Got teeth. Good. This business eats the timid alive."
Ezra said nothing, waiting. He'd learned in his month of operations that silence often extracted more information than questions. People filled empty air with details they'd otherwise keep close.
Vizago studied him with that disconcerting mechanical eye, the organic one half-closed as if bored. "You're the one they call Solomon in the tunnels. The kid who walked away from that ambush in the spice fields when everyone else got buried."
Not a question, but Ezra nodded anyway. The ambush had been messier than he'd anticipated, the betrayal coming from within the crew itself rather than external threat. He'd survived through a combination of Force-enhanced reflexes he barely understood and a willingness to do what survival demanded.
"I need someone who doesn't die easy," Vizago continued. "Got a job. Delicate work. The kind that requires brains more than muscle, though muscle helps when things inevitably go sideways."
"What kind of job?"
"The kind that pays enough to set you up comfortable for six months. Maybe longer if you're smart with the credits."
"I'm listening."
Vizago leaned forward, mechanical eye clicking through focus adjustments. "Empire's been ramping up production at the factory complex. You know the TIE Defender program?"
Ezra's blood went cold. He kept his expression neutral, gave the barest nod, but internally his thoughts raced. The TIE Defender. Advanced Imperial fighter with shields, hyperdrive, weaponry that could take on entire Rebel squadrons. In the original timeline, the program had nearly succeeded before Thrawn's resources got diverted. A weapon that could have extended the Empire's grip indefinitely.
And Vizago was offering him a chance to interfere with it.
"There's a shipment moving through Lothal's industrial zone," Vizago said. "Components for the Defender assembly. Reactor parts, weapons systems, specialized equipment that can't be easily replaced. My buyer wants those components. Doesn't much care how they're acquired."
"Your buyer have a name?"
"Not one I'm sharing. What matters is the payday and whether you're capable of handling it."
Ezra's mind mapped the implications. Stealing Imperial military hardware was several orders of magnitude more dangerous than ore smuggling or market cons. The Empire didn't forgive that kind of theft. Anyone involved would be hunted, systematically, until they were dead or disappeared into some black site interrogation facility.
"What's the convoy route?" he asked.
Vizago's organic eye opened fully, and something like approval flickered across his features. "Smart. Asking the right questions." He produced a datapad from his jacket, slid it across the table. "Manifest and projected route. Convoy leaves the southern mining facilities at 2100 hours tomorrow, heads through the canyon approach toward the industrial zone. Six guards minimum, probably more. TIE escorts possible but not confirmed."
Ezra studied the datapad, committing the information to memory. The canyon approach was good ambush territory, narrow passage with limited escape routes for the convoy but plenty of cover for attackers. The timing worked too, shift change at the factory meant reduced response capability if things went loud.
But the guards were a problem. Six confirmed meant eight or ten in reality, Imperial logistics always padded numbers for security operations. He'd need help, couldn't pull this solo, which meant trusting people in an industry where trust was currency spent foolishly.
"I'll need a team," he said.
"Already arranged. Three others, experienced, reliable. You're point man, your plan, your call on execution. They follow your lead or the job doesn't happen."
Really? That was unexpected. Vizago giving operational control to a thirteen-year-old kid, even one with a growing reputation, suggested either desperation or genuine confidence in Ezra's capabilities. Possibly both.
"Why me?"
"Because you're hungry," Vizago said simply. "And because hunger makes people sharp. The others, they're good, but they're comfortable. Got routines, habits, patterns. You're still figuring out how to survive, which means you're adapting constantly. That's what this job needs. Someone who hasn't calcified into predictable."
The psychology was sound, even if Vizago didn't realize how right he was. Solomon's analytical frameworks combined with Ezra's street cunning created something neither original possessed, a hybrid approach that defied categorization. Unpredictable because it drew from two entirely different paradigms of thought.
"Payment?"
"Quarter up front, rest on delivery. Components intact and untraced gets full price. Damaged goods or Imperial attention gets adjusted rates."
Ezra considered. The up-front payment alone would cover two months of expenses, and the full take would give him runway to focus on training rather than survival jobs. But more than that, success here would cement his reputation, open doors to bigger operations, create the foundation for a network he'd need when things escalated.
And there was the Force angle to consider. His abilities had been developing, meditation and practice yielding incremental improvements in awareness and control. A job like this would push him, force adaptation under pressure, accelerate learning in ways safe practice never could.
"I want operational autonomy," Ezra said. "I see a better approach, I take it. No second-guessing, no micromanagement."
Vizago's mechanical eye whirred. "Long as the components get delivered, I don't care if you recite poetry while you're stealing them. Autonomy granted."
"Then we have a deal."
They shook on it, Vizago's grip dry and firm, the mechanical eye never blinking as it catalogued Ezra's face. "Coordinates for the team meetup are on the datapad. Tomorrow, 1800 hours. Don't be late."
Ezra stood, pocketing the device. He shifted through the cantina's press of bodies, ignoring the stares that followed a kid moving through adult criminal spaces. Outside, Lothal's perpetual dust wind scraped against his skin, carrying the industrial stink of the spaceport's exhaust recyclers.