Capital City Market District, Lothal6 BBY (Three Days After the Sabotage)
The jacket fit better than anything Ezra had worn since waking in this universe.
He stood before a cracked mirror in the back of a clothing vendor's stall, examining the way dark fabric hung across shoulders that had finally begun filling out with muscle rather than just bone. Not the threadbare scrap he'd been surviving in, but actual clothing designed for function rather than desperation. Reinforced at the elbows and shoulders, interior pockets positioned for concealed carry, material that would blend into crowds without drawing attention through either poverty or affluence.
The vendor, a Rodian female whose antenna twitched with practiced disinterest, named a price that was reasonable enough to avoid suspicion but inflated enough to suggest she recognized desperation when she saw it. Ezra paid without haggling, added two more shirts and a pair of boots that wouldn't fall apart after another month of constant wear.
The credits came from the sabotage operation's success, though calling it success felt like sanitizing what had actually happened. People had died in that explosion, Imperial personnel doing their jobs because the Empire paid their wages and fed their families. That their employer happened to be a fascist military dictatorship didn't erase their humanity, though it made killing them feel marginally less like murder and more like a consequence of circumstance.
The Empire dealt in overwhelming violence. Fighting back required meeting them on terms they'd established, even when those terms corroded whatever principles motivated resistance in the first place.
Ezra left the clothing vendor and moved deeper into the market district, his mental checklist ticking through necessities that credits could finally address. A proper medkit, not the salvaged components he'd been working with. Power cells for his blasters, enough to sustain extended operations without rationing shots. A datapad with better encryption capabilities than the cracked unit he'd been using. Tools, supplies, the infrastructure of survival that separated amateurs from professionals.
The market thrummed with its usual chaotic energy, vendors hawking everything from legitimate goods to items that had clearly fallen off Imperial transports without proper documentation.
The Force had become his constant companion over these months.
More than that, he'd begun sensing patterns, connections between people and events that operated on levels beneath conscious observation.
Like now, for instance. The way three figures were tracking his movement through the market, maintaining distance but adjusting their positions in coordination that suggested either professional surveillance or predatory intent.
Not ISB, too sloppy. Criminal, probably. Ezra altered his route, testing the theory. The figures adjusted accordingly, confirming suspicion into certainty. He was being followed....
He led them toward the industrial sector's edge, away from crowds that might contain collateral casualties, into spaces where confrontation could happen without witnesses. The followers took the bait, closing distance now that isolation made subtlety less necessary.
They cornered him in an alley between two warehouses, the kind of space that existed throughout Capital City as negative impression left by Imperial urban planning. Three of them, human males wearing the kind of utilitarian clothing that made them simultaneously invisible and instantly recognizable to anyone familiar with Lothal's criminal infrastructure.
The one in front, older than his companions by maybe a decade, spoke first. "You're Solomon."
Not a question. Ezra kept his hands visible and away from weapons, projecting calm he didn't entirely feel. "People call me that."
"You've been operating in Gray Syndicate territory without permission... That's a problem."
The Gray Syndicate. Ezra had heard the name through his circuit connections, understood they controlled significant criminal infrastructure in Capital City's lower districts. Gambling, protection, the usual underworld economics that existed beneath Imperial oversight. He'd been careful to avoid stepping on their operations, but apparently not careful enough.
"I wasn't aware territory needed authorization," Ezra said. "Thought Lothal was open market."
"Shows what you know." The speaker moved closer, his companions flanking in patterns that suggested this wasn't their first coordinated confrontation. "Everything's someone's territory. You want to operate here, you pay tribute to the people who run things. That's how this works."
"And if I'm not interested in how this works?"
The man smiled, revealing teeth that had been replaced with cheaper synthetic variants. "Then we make you interested. Or we make you an example. Either way works for us."
Ezra could kill them. The certainty of that sat heavy in his mind, not arrogance... It was just the truth. But killing them solved nothing and created problems. The Gray Syndicate wouldn't ignore the deaths of their enforcers, would escalate until either Ezra was dead or he'd started a gang war that served nobody's interests.
"I'll meet with your boss," he said. "Talk this through, see if we can reach accommodation."
The leader's expression shifted, calculation replacing aggressive posturing. He'd expected resistance, maybe violence, not pragmatic negotiation. "You're smarter than you look, kid."
"Uh huh, let's get moving..."
They escorted him through Capital City's lower districts, areas where Imperial presence thinned to occasional patrol and most citizens had learned that authority meant local power brokers rather than distant bureaucracy. The buildings grew more decrepit, infrastructure failing through neglect and the Empire's indifference to spaces that didn't contribute to industrial production.
Eventually they arrived at what had once been a tavern, its sign faded to illegibility but the structure still solid enough to serve whatever purpose the Gray Syndicate required. Inside, the smell of alcohol and old smoke mixed with something organic that Ezra's nose identified as the particular musk of frightened people occupying confined spaces.
Several figures occupied the main room, their attention fixing on Ezra with the predatory focus of apex predators evaluating potential threat or prey. But the real authority sat at the bar's far end, a heavyset human male whose age was difficult to determine but whose presence dominated the space through sheer gravitational weight of personality.
Yahenna Laxo. Even without prior knowledge, Ezra would have recognized him as someone significant in Lothal's criminal ecosystem. He wore authority like others wore clothing, natural and unconsidered.
"Solomon," Yahenna said, his voice carrying the roughness of decades spent in smoke-filled rooms making deals that existed outside legal frameworks. "Heard a lot about you lately. Kid who runs operations for Vizago, moves contraband through routes nobody else knows about, walked out of that canyon massacre when everyone else got buried. Impressive resume for someone who should still be stealing candy from market stalls."
Ezra moved to the bar, aware of the armed presence bracketing his position but projecting confidence he'd learned made people hesitate before escalating to violence. "Appreciate the research. Now tell me what you want so we can both get back to business."
Yahenna laughed, genuine amusement rather than performative dominance play. "Direct. I like that. Too many people waste time dancing around what they actually mean." He gestured to the stool beside him, an invitation that carried weight of command. "Sit. Let's talk about how you and I are going to avoid killing each other."
Ezra sat, hyper-aware of the vulnerabilities but trusting the Force to warn him if immediate violence became probable. "I'm listening."
"You've been building something," Yahenna said. "Network of safe houses, smuggling routes, operators scattered across Lothal's townships. Small-time stuff individually, but it adds up to infrastructure that looks suspiciously like what I've spent years establishing. That creates conflict."
"Wasn't trying to step on anyone's territory."
"Maybe not consciously. But impact matters more than intention in this business." Yahenna signaled the bartender, who produced two glasses and a bottle that probably cost more than most of Lothal's citizens earned in a month. "I've got two options when someone starts building parallel operations. Eliminate them, or incorporate them. Which happens depends entirely on whether they're smart enough to recognize opportunity when it's offered."
"What kind of incorporation are we talking about?" Ezra asked.
"You keep running your operations, I don't interfere. In exchange, you route certain shipments through your infrastructure, provide safe houses when I need them, and we split profits on joint ventures. Think of it as franchise model. You get protection and legitimacy, I get access to resources and routes I haven't developed yet."
It was a reasonable offer, probably more reasonable than Ezra had right to expect. But accepting it meant tying his circuit to Yahenna's organization, creating dependencies that could become liabilities when the Rebellion needed those resources for purposes the Gray Syndicate wouldn't support.
On the other hand, refusing meant war with an organization that had survived through careful cultivation of power and ruthlessness. His circuit wasn't ready for that kind of conflict, and he couldn't afford to lose infrastructure he'd spent months building.
The calculus resolved into uncomfortable clarity... accept the deal, use the partnership to strengthen his position, then extract himself when timing permitted. It meant lying to someone offering genuine cooperation, but strategy demanded flexibility over consistency.
"Alright," Ezra said. "Partnership. But I maintain operational control of my network. You want to use my resources, you ask rather than demand."
Yahenna's expression shifted, respect mixing with intrigue. "You've got nerve, I'll give you that. Most kids your age would be pissing themselves right now, and you're negotiating terms like you've got leverage."
He does, it's knowledge of what's to come. Which makes a deal like this not so bad after all.
"I've got routes you don't. That's leverage enough."
"Fair point." Yahenna extended his hand, and they shook on an agreement that felt simultaneously like victory and compromise. "Welcome to the Gray Syndicate, Solomon. Try not to make me regret this."
Ezra left the disused tavern an hour later. The partnership gave him protection and resources he didn't have to waste any more time building up. Yahenna seemed reasonable now, but reasonable people became unreasonable when their interests got threatened.
Which is why Ezra would make sure the window of getting what he wants is met without substantial compromise.
In his pocket, a data chip contained contact protocols for Gray Syndicate operations and profit projections that promised financial security he'd never possessed in either life.