A quick, pleasant smile - it's remarkable how his face transforms in that half a second - and he nods toward the exit. "Can I take that for you?" offering a hand.
(He's no one, right now, for all intents and purposes. He exists only as a guide, a flashing signal; a voice that can reassure her, a face she can trust, a body between her and the thousand things that could go fatally wrong with this plan. That's his only job here, and it's almost restful.
He reminds himself of that, to keep his mind from racing.)
For half a second, she contemplates declining the offer, but then that second passes and she offers her own cordial smile in return along with the small bag. "Thank you," she repeats in an echo of her previous words, grateful to have her hands free. There's nothing of great value in the bag, just the clothing and supplies she'd acquired in the days since her awakening, and so it will be no great loss if something happens and they are forced to leave it behind or use the bag as a weapon or shield — he will likely be the better of them to be making such a decision.
As she starts toward the exit, Padmé wishes she had a blaster at her side. Years of war have left scars on her as well, and her propensity for peace is presently overshadowed by a deep-set fear and need to survive if only to finally have the answers she is so desperate for.
"You may call me Tsabin," she tells him after a moment, rationalizing again that using their true names would not be a wise decision in their present circumstances. He likely knows who she is and they do not need that name heard by the wrong ears. "How can I address you?"
"Tsabin," he echoes in a cordial tone, not at all in keeping with those watchful eyes. "Ference Valari. I'm afraid the agency couldn't spare anyone more senior, so you get me." He flashes another smile, disarming, self-deprecating, as they reach the exit, and scans the street up and down before stepping aside politely. "But I hope I'll be able to answer any questions you have. --This way."
He keeps pace with her as they go - and he is armed, discreetly enough that she has to know where to look. Anyone else would have to be looking in the first place, and Cassian is reasonably sure no one will. There's no one to see. Just the woman in her sober gown, the young man solicitous of his companion. "How was your flight?"
Three blocks through a small, sluggish business district. With luck, no more than a quarter of an hour in the open. With care, no proof they were ever here.
Ference Valari. She commits the name to memory, knowing it's not his true name and hoping he's as good as she assumes he must be to be chosen for this assignment. Her life is in his hands, along with any hope she has of finding answers.
"Dreadful," she answers easily, the practiced skills of years past finally finding use again as she crafts a tale that will cause no harm if overheard by anyone nearby. "I was in close quarters with two Sullustans who insisted on offering commentary on every minute aspect of the journey. They were not impressed with the pilot's maneuvers or the route our ship took."
Her boots clicked dully on road beneath them as she kept their pace steady and not too hurried — they don't need to draw attention to themselves, but they aren't inviting anyone's interest either.
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wow I super did not mean to leave this hanging for six months, jesus
(He's no one, right now, for all intents and purposes. He exists only as a guide, a flashing signal; a voice that can reassure her, a face she can trust, a body between her and the thousand things that could go fatally wrong with this plan. That's his only job here, and it's almost restful.
He reminds himself of that, to keep his mind from racing.)
these things happen to all of us, no worries
As she starts toward the exit, Padmé wishes she had a blaster at her side. Years of war have left scars on her as well, and her propensity for peace is presently overshadowed by a deep-set fear and need to survive if only to finally have the answers she is so desperate for.
"You may call me Tsabin," she tells him after a moment, rationalizing again that using their true names would not be a wise decision in their present circumstances. He likely knows who she is and they do not need that name heard by the wrong ears. "How can I address you?"
no subject
He keeps pace with her as they go - and he is armed, discreetly enough that she has to know where to look. Anyone else would have to be looking in the first place, and Cassian is reasonably sure no one will. There's no one to see. Just the woman in her sober gown, the young man solicitous of his companion. "How was your flight?"
Three blocks through a small, sluggish business district. With luck, no more than a quarter of an hour in the open. With care, no proof they were ever here.
Keep going.
no subject
"Dreadful," she answers easily, the practiced skills of years past finally finding use again as she crafts a tale that will cause no harm if overheard by anyone nearby. "I was in close quarters with two Sullustans who insisted on offering commentary on every minute aspect of the journey. They were not impressed with the pilot's maneuvers or the route our ship took."
Her boots clicked dully on road beneath them as she kept their pace steady and not too hurried — they don't need to draw attention to themselves, but they aren't inviting anyone's interest either.