I don't know how ship mechanics work and this is like four months old. Dedicated to pileofsith and lledra-fanstuffs from tumblr.

"Hera — incoming!"

Ezra Bridger barreled into the cockpit of the Ghost, hollering and nearly tripping over his own seat. The Twi'lek pilot rolled her eyes mightily and jerked the controls just in time to send the clumsy fourteen-year-old tumbling right out of the seat again, and right in time to evade the squadron of TIE fighters closing in from the side.

"Oh really?" Hera gritted her teeth, righted the ship and let its artificial gravity do the rest. Comms were down…but shields were still fired and strong. Her dashboard was exploding with incoming red lights. "Couldn't tell."

Ezra stood up, dazed and looking a bit offended, she gathered from the brief glance out of the corner of her eye. Okay, she probably should cut him a little slack. The young Jedi-in-training could face Sith lords and sun-sensitive wolf creatures without batting an eye but he'd never totally gotten used to space battles — and she couldn't blame him. Kid was just a kid, after all.

It was a fleet of nine fighters today — one formation of three on port side, another formation of three behind, and three solo fighters flying in their delicate, lethal spirals around her ship like erkli birds gliding around their prey. Granted, from the others' reports, the Imperial infantry needed a lot of work, but their space forces…some of them could bedazzle even Hera Syndulla.

Until, that is, she blasted them to bits.

Her brow furrowed and her fingers curled ever tighter around the controls as she took another sharp left curve, right between the side-following formation and a solo fighter closing in from the front. There was an explosion from somewhere behind her as, obviously, the soloist collided with one of his own comrades, which Ezra was craning out the windows to see the results of.

"Oh — uh, Hera," the boy piped up, still staring unblinkingly out the windows, "I told you about Kanan, right?"

Hera wasn't in much of a mood to listen about more of the Jedi's helpless attempts to get girl advice from Sabine, Zeb, or in general anyone except the object of his affections. Honestly, sometimes he could be so insecure about everything — if he had a problem, why couldn't he just tell her instead of being so freaked out about what she'd say?

"Yes, you did. Tell him that his captain told him to calm his pants and get up on our blasters like he's supposed to be doing," she shot back, just as the ship's shields took a sprinkling of laser blasts that shook Ezra nearly off his balance again.

"Wait — what? Oh," Ezra cringed as he realized what she was talking about. "Uh, no, that's not it. I meant, like, the fact that he kinda can't man the guns, because…uh, well, he like, can't see anymore?"

A solo TIE let out a spray of lasers that passed only barely overhead, due to the quick, fortunate dive that Hera pulled out just in time. That would set them off — just long enough to allow her to turn around, glare at Ezra, and yell, "WHAT?!"

Ezra looked totally unfazed by this reaction, as he seemed a bit more preoccupied with holding on. "Uh yeah, we kinda ran into some acid-spitting gundarks down there, and Kanan got on the bad side of them," he explained. "Sabine says it's probably not permanent damage but Kanan's kinda blind right now, so…?"

Welp. Her TIE friends were back. Thankfully, Hera could now hear the distinct rattling sound of the lower dorsal guns as Sabine obviously found her seat — but nothing from the topside. Sending Ezra up there was out of the question — he didn't know how to use the controls, and with all the ways he'd screwed up her ship so far she wasn't willing to trust him to figure it out on his own. Zeb could, hypothetically, but (1) he didn't fit in the humanoid-sized seat and (2) he had a tendency of pressing the triggers so hard that they got stuck that way, which wasn't a great thing to have happening when the Ghost went into hyperspace.

Hera sighed, pulling herself out of the half-loop the Ghost had been dipping into. She supposed there wasn't much left to do now except her usual…and then some. It was time to take out some of the big boys now.

"Fine, just get Chopper on it," she called. "You — sit down and find something to hold on to. I guess I'll just have to take care of these morons myself."

She smiled grimly, adjusted her grip on the controls, and braced herself for her own ride.

Baron Valen Rudor, number LS-607, esteemed officer of the Imperial Navy, the best pilot on Lothal, was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Or for that matter, a terrible horrible no good very bad career.

It was the same ship. It was the exact same ship that he had chased…how many times? Three? Four? He couldn't even remember! It had only taken a little searching before he was able to put all of the pieces together — that huge thing, the same blasted Lasat who'd attacked him more times than he wanted to remember, and not to mention that little Lothal thief with the electric slingshot — both of them crew members aboard that single ship.

He had lost so many comrades to this ship…granted, he hadn't known their names, just their identification numbers and the fact that they were clumsy and stupid enough to get killed, and also that he had probably insulted them about the aforementioned fact more than once prior to their deaths, but still. How many had the Empire lost because of this ship? Dozens? Certainly. It had never been captured, never been tracked. Its base was on Lothal, they were rather sure of that much, but it moved so often they could never be sure where exactly, or even if. And when glimpses of it were caught…well, there were never many survivors to tell the tale.

This ship, as much of a pile of junk as it looked, was simply untouchable.

The gun turrets and their gunners weren't just good, they were stellar. Its shields were able to take quite the beating. Whatever astromechs waited aboard the thing must have been those brand new models, the ones who were able to process and carry out dozens of commands at once. And the coding — the equipment needed to scramble its signals so well upon hyperspace jumps must have been stolen, because technology like that cost a fortune nowadays!

And most amazingly, the pilot…

If he didn't know better, he would think the pilot was a Jedi, shielded by that myth called the Force. But that was nonsense; the Jedi were all dead. Even still, the Jedi were rumored to have been the best pilots in the galaxy, formidable naval foes in the Clone Wars. In a way, Valen Rudor actually…enjoyed his races with this despicable heap of rusting metal and bolts. Not because it was a challenge and because he liked challenges (he liked to tell people he did but let's be honest here, he was the man who never shut up about stuff he never did) — rather, just to watch that rebel bird fly was a beautiful, horrible thing. The baron would be almost sorry to destroy her if he wasn't already so infuriated that it had outrun him, of all people.

She was dipping into a loop now — no, pulling up! Impressive control — whoops, don't let yourself get distracted Val; get your own controls together before gawking so uncivilly at the rebels'.

He couldn't help but think wryly, and somewhat shamefully, back on that one time with the filthy Lasat — no, the other time. The time the foul-smelling creature had literally thrown Rudor off his own fighter and hijacked the controls. Now there was some impressive control…sarcasm allotting of course. But perhaps that thing may have become a successful cargo master or something of the like had he not gone down the path of darkness and corruption (though never an Imperial pilot, Emperor forbid. No alien would ever lawfully pilot such a beautiful, delicate craft as his TIE fighter).

He felt the contents of his stomach literally turn over as the craft twisted in its path and a stream of lasers came right at him, and as he instinctually pulled up on his controls to avoid it. The rebel bird did 360-degree flip and then some, enough to just barely scrape the wings of his comrade LS-612 with its bottom and subsequently send the TIE spiraling off course.

Rudor gaped and nearly let go of his controls in his surprise — it was almost as if the pilot had known what LS-612 was going to do before he did, was able to calculate the exact amount of thrust and rotation to put into the stunt and predict the exact place where the TIE's wings would clip the rebel bird's hull, somewhere it would damage the TIE but not itself. Of course, he knew a few agility pilots who boasted of skills such as these, and naturally there were the legends of the field, but he'd never seen such a thing up close…

Even as the rebel bird corkscrewed towards him, and even as he gave a very masculine scream as he tried to manage his too-slow controls (it was these moments near death when he actually admitted that TIEs were not the most…fine tuned spacecrafts in the galaxy), that he couldn't help but notice the subtle design in the manoeuvre. This was all so impossible and yet…he was facing a professionally trained human pilot. A professionally trained, experienced human natural.

He winced as the lasers rained and the communications from LS-723 and LS-149 tapered into the buzz of nothingness — just like LS-241, LS-993 and now, LS-612. Truth to be told, LS-723 could be a real son of a Hutt when he wasn't happy, which was almost always, and Rudor wasn't particularly remorseful about his demise, but he was a good shot. The Empire could really use someone like him right now.

Particularly just over the shoulder of that ship, taking out the gunners, Rudor thought moodily as the topside turret took out LS-448. LS-120, who had been just behind and swerved to avoid the explosions' debris, spiraled off course. Six down, one spinning and unable to right himself. Only himself and LS-783.

Underneath him, the green-and-brown orb that was the planet Lothal reminded him of the rebel bird's goal — to get away. That was when it would get the higher ground, if it was able to make the jump to hyperspace. The rebels would be gone again without a trace, just like a ghost.

"LS-783, LS-120, this is LS-607. Do you copy?" Rudor snapped over the buzzing of null comm signals. "We need to drive the rebel ship towards the planet. They are preparing for the jump to hyperspace. Do you copy? I repeat, I order you to get your blasted acts together and drive the rebel ship towards the planet before they can make the jump to hyperspace."

He waited for the response as he glanced out the window at LS-120. He was still spinning, but he'd seemed to be gaining more control and…making tactical retreat? Retreating back down towards the planet, of all places. The coward. Rudor made a mental note to inform his superiors and have LS-120 reprimanded — and possibly LS-783 with him, on charges of ignoring an officer's orders. Speaking of which…where was LS-783?

His question was answered when a TIE-sized explosion lit above the rebel bird.

She pivoted mid-space, turning back towards LS-120. Coincidentally just then his comms crackled back to life and Rudor was about to start yelling atrocities over it, but on second thought they probably would have done no use as LS-120 was doing nothing but screaming in absolute terror and most likely vomiting, if the retching and splattering sounds were anything to go by. For the love of Lord Vader, that boy was hopeless.

Even still, his job was not to let another pilot die. Sighing, Rudor pulled back on the blaster triggers and let a burst of laser at the rebel bird, ceasing fire just as it became too close for LS-120's comfort (judging by the even higher-pitched shrieks and sobs of "STOP STOP STOP FOR THE LOVE OF GOG RUDOR HOLD YOUR FIRE PLEASE STOP"). No hits on the rebel bird…surprisingly and at the same time, not surprisingly at all.

The rebel ship somehow managed to twist and clip LS-120's wing again, sending him spinning now even faster towards the planet. Well, Rudor probably wouldn't be seeing much of him again.

It was as the rebel bird began to turn again, towards open space, that he began to realize that he was completely, utterly alone. Again. And the first time, he had ended up in a stupid field with a totaled fighter, a missing helmet and a damaged ego, which he wasn't willing to repeat any time soon. He tried to contact base, but the comms had winked out once more.

Then the he rebel bird began to gain speed and Rudor was forced to pull out and lose sight of it. Laser blasts began to pour in torrents around him but there was a pattern to them, a certain lack in certain areas as both crafts spiraled around each other — which Rudor was able to use to his advantage. First the blasts were here and he was there; then when they were there he was here.

Easy, he remarked to himself, while ignoring the other voice that said something more along the lines of NO MOST DEFINITELY NOT EASY. THANK THE STARS I GOT OUTTA THAT MESS.

But it would've been a beautiful little mess, he couldn't help but think as he turned his own craft, trying to keep the rebels in view. Once again, he couldn't help but be drawn to the smooth path of the rebel bird as it swerved slowly, gracefully — naturally. Whatever pilot was aboard that ship must have once been a valuable servant of the Empire, he was sure of it. Nowhere else could one ever find such relaxed mastery of thrust in zero gravity, only in the prestigious training academies of his lord Emperor Palpatine…

Oh…

Sparks flew as the dots connected themselves in his brain (also as his comms sputtered and died for the last time, but Rudor didn't see those sparks and did not even notice they almost caught his sleeve on fire), forming a picture that both terrified and beckoned him. There was no way that it could be so and yet no way it could not — and it all seemed so extraordinary like something from a child's fantasy story, but there was no other way.

The rebel bird's pilot was too good to just be a rebel. The touch was too controlled, too disciplined. Too elegant for a man, too daring for an alien. No — the pilot was an Imperial baroness, probably mindwashed or held against her will, but Imperially trained nonetheless.

His head began spinning, and not just because he was forced into a spiral due to the rebel bird going on the offensive. She was pulling out the big guns now, pulling back and shooting forward in a blaze of lasers. An Imperial move…and Rudor happened to know exactly which one.

Moves like these…he recognized them. It was such a long time ago (okay, not that much; he wasn't that old) and yet the memories were as clear as day. It was a typical challenge session in the simulators, year one of training — or so his entire fleet had thought. Their team was undefeated and was scheduled that day to challenge another, newer team. Their training captain had been positive they were going to win and told them so, which he and his team had already known already. Their morale was boosted only higher when they found the team they were to be facing — the newly-founded women's team, composed of every female pilot in the academy. Which, as Rudor's team found out upon realizing the girls' team was still smaller than theirs, wasn't many.

But long story short. The girls, outnumbered and less experienced though they were, had still served the boys their defeat on a silver platter and strode to their appropriate place in first with their chins tilted high.

Rudor could still feel the blood rushing to his cheeks from embarrassment as the enemy pilot — her identification number, HS-413, was still branded in his memory — twisted her virtual craft around him twice and barraged him with fire. This…this exact same move. It was easier to evade now as the rebel bird wasn't an agile TIE and couldn't exactly fly circles around him, but there was no doubt about it. He was once again in a battle against HS-413, or at least a student of the same training captain.

As the rebel bird zoomed by again, still spraying fire, he tried to catch at least a brief glimpse inside its windows while evading its blasts. Of course, he couldn't see anything. He wasn't even really sure what he'd been looking for, but already in his mind he'd conjured up a rather romantic picture — if only he could get a bit closer and not be flying for his life, he might see…possibly a beautiful, shapely woman in just the ragged scraps of an Imperial uniform, chained to her controls, fear and defiance in her surely striking blue eyes. The filthy purple Lasat held a blaster to her head, growling commands to fly and kill the enemy — or die.

The image was so intense, it almost frightened him. Rudor was a sensible man and knew it was just a fantasy, just a theory — and yet at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder if there was a grain of truth in it.

It would be quite the tale to tell his pals over drinks, how he scored a lovely pilot lady by saving her from rebels and pirate scum… He had no idea how he'd do such a thing nor if the chance would come, but he was sure that if it were meant to be then by the Emperor, he swore he would do anything it took.

That was approximately when HS-413 blasted him out of the sky — again.

Hera sat back in her seat and let out a long, grateful breath. That had taken longer than she'd thought…by now the Empire must surely be on to something.

"Prepare for jump to hyperspace," she ordered Chopper wearily, prepping the controls. "And tell Kanan to get his lazy Force-fat butt in here; I don't care if he's blind. Tell him his captain needs to have a talk to him."

Chopper gave an annoyed, exhausted noise that does not warrant translation as this is a PG-rated fanfic for a PG-rated television show and made a point of bumping into Ezra on the way out. The boy snapped, "Hey, watch it!" and kicked Chopper for good measure, then flopped down into his seat.

"That was wild," he breathed. "That guy just wouldn't take a hint, would he?"

Hera pulled the trigger and watched the darkness of space tear away into the brightness of light speed. "Guess not."

"You think he was anyone special? He was pretty good."

She just shrugged and reached into the drink holder for her cup of caf. "How the heck should I know?" she rolled her eyes before downing the entire lukewarm cup in two gulps. "Probably just some sarcastic, uptight kid who got on the wrong side of a bantha breaking wind."

Ezra snickered. "Yeah."

They watched the stars whirl by.