Capital City, Lothal
6 BBY
Ezra moved through the crowd with the fluid ease of someone who'd learned to become invisible. Not literally, not yet, but in the way that mattered on streets like these: head down, shoulders hunched just enough to appear unremarkable, feet finding the rhythm of the flow so he neither rushed nor dawdled. Solomon's memories provided the theory, but Ezra's body knew the practice. The combination made him dangerous.
An Imperial officer stood near a fruit vendor, his white armor pristine against the dusty backdrop of the marketplace. Off duty, probably. The relaxed posture and the way his hand rested on a credit pouch rather than his blaster gave it away. More importantly, that pouch hung loose at his hip, the clasp barely secured.
Amateur mistake.
Ezra drifted closer, letting the crowd push him in the officer's direction. Three meters. Two. A Rodian merchant chose that moment to knock over a display of power cells, the clatter drawing every eye in the immediate vicinity. Perfect timing, though Ezra suspected the Rodian had done it deliberately. Street vendors looked out for their own, and they'd long since learned that Imperial attention was bad for business.
His fingers found the pouch in the moment of distraction. The clasp gave with barely a whisper of resistance. Weight transferred from the officer's belt to Ezra's palm in the span of a heartbeat, and then he was moving again, already three steps away before the transfer registered in his own mind.
Muscle memory. Ezra Bridger had been doing this for months, maybe longer. The body remembered even when the mind recoiled.
Solomon had never stolen anything in his life back on Earth. Honor student, part-time job, college aspirations that had died with him on that street corner. The dissonance twisted in his gut, but he shoved it down. Different universe, different rules. The Empire didn't care if orphans starved, and moral high ground didn't fill empty stomachs.
He was two blocks away when the officer's shout echoed through the market. Ezra didn't look back. Looking back was how you got caught. Instead, he took a sharp left into an alley that Ezra's memories marked as safe, then descended a half-hidden stairwell that led into the subterranean network beneath Capital City.
The tunnels had been part of Lothal's original infrastructure, back when the planet had been known for its mines rather than its factories. Most of the shafts had been abandoned years ago, deemed unprofitable or too unstable to maintain. The Empire had forgotten about them, which made them perfect for people who needed to disappear.
Ezra's footsteps echoed against damp stone as he navigated the darkness. No lights down here except what filtered through grates and service hatches overhead. His eyes adjusted quickly, another gift from months of practice. The path twisted and branched, but he knew it now. Every turn, every deadfall, every spot where the ceiling sagged dangerously low.
Twenty minutes of walking brought him to a wider chamber where several tunnels converged. Old mining equipment rusted in corners, and someone had set up a makeshift camp against one wall. Three figures looked up at his approach, faces hard and wary until recognition set in.
"Bridger." The speaker was a Twi'lek, maybe thirty standard years, with scar tissue where his left lek should have been. "Didn't expect to see you until tonight."
"Plans changed." Ezra pulled the credit pouch from his jacket and tossed it to the Twi'lek, who caught it with practiced ease. "Consider it a deposit."
The Twi'lek's eyes widened as he hefted the pouch. "Imperial?"
"Off-duty officer. He won't report it missing. Too embarrassing."
One of the others, a human woman with dirt ground so deep into her skin it looked like tattoos, laughed roughly. "Kid's got balls, I'll give him that."
"Kid's got a death wish," the third figure muttered. A Besalisk, massive even by their species' standards, arms crossed over a chest that could probably stop blaster bolts through sheer mass alone. "Stealing from Imperials draws attention."
"Everything draws attention," Ezra shot back. "Question is whether you're smart enough to be gone before it arrives."
The Besalisk grunted but didn't argue further. Ezra had learned quickly that respect in places like this came from results, not words. Talk was air. Action was currency.
"So." The Twi'lek pocketed the credits and fixed Ezra with an appraising look. "You here about the job?"
"That's why I'm early."
"It's not a pickpocket run, kid. This is real work. Dangerous work."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
The Twi'lek studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Your funeral. We're moving ore tonight. Imperial factory uses forced labor to process it, but the raw stuff comes from independent mining operations out in the wastes. Someone's been skimming shipments, selling it black market. We're the someone."
Ezra's mind raced through the implications. Stolen ore meant Imperial attention eventually, but it also meant credits. Real money, the kind that could buy better equipment, better food, better everything. The kind that could fund a year's worth of preparation.
"What's the split?"
"Five ways, equal shares. Job goes smooth, everyone walks with enough to live comfortable for a month."
A month. Solomon's Earth-brain did the math automatically. With that kind of money, he could stock his tower properly. Buy tools, supplies, maybe even a decent blaster if he found the right seller. More importantly, he could invest in information. Maps of Imperial patrol routes, schedules, weak points in their security network. Knowledge was leverage, and leverage was survival.
"I'm in."
"Figured you would be." The Twi'lek gestured to the others. "Vorn, Kas, this is Bridger. He'll be our lookout."
"Lookout?" The insult was clear in Vorn the Besalisk's tone.
"Small, quick, smart enough not to panic." The Twi'lek met Ezra's eyes. "That about right?"
"Close enough."
What the Twi'lek didn't know, what none of them could know, was that Ezra had advantages they couldn't comprehend. He knew how this story was supposed to go. He knew the Empire's tactics, their technology, their blind spots. More than that, somewhere deep in this body's cells, the Force waited. Untrained, barely acknowledged, but present.
He'd felt it earlier in the market. A split-second warning before the Rodian knocked over the display, just enough time to position himself perfectly. Not quite precognition, more like heightened instinct. But it was there, waiting to be developed.
"Job's tonight," the Twi'lek continued. "Rendezvous point is the old water treatment plant, western edge of the wastes. Convoy moves at 2300 hours. We hit it in transit, load what we can carry, scatter before reinforcements arrive."
"Imperial escort?"
"Two speeders, maybe four troopers total. Nothing we can't handle if we're smart about it."
Ezra nodded, already planning. Two speeders meant limited firepower but high mobility. They'd need to disable the speeders first, probably with some kind of trap. The wastes were full of places to set an ambush: rocky outcrops, abandoned structures, the remains of old homesteads that had been seized and demolished to make room for Imperial expansion.
"I'll be there."
He left the tunnels through a different exit, emerging into an industrial sector on the opposite side of the city from where he'd entered. The sun had climbed higher, burning away the morning chill and replacing it with the dry heat that characterized Lothal's climate. Workers moved between warehouses and loading docks, too focused on their own survival to pay attention to one more street kid.
Ezra's stomach growled, reminding him that stolen credits did nothing for immediate hunger. He found a food stand operated by an elderly human woman who sold meat pies that were more filler than meat. She didn't ask questions when he paid, just handed over two pies wrapped in greasy paper.