Another disguise. That's what she needed. She set the shuttle to autopilot, and stood up with a sigh. She went into the sleeping quarters, starlight framing her as she walked, and she drew out the suitcase.

When Ophelia caught her reflection in the windows, she resented the Imperial uniform. Harsh, strict, starched. She shrugged it off, folded it neatly. Then she slipped into what Krennic had designated "Rebel clothing."

A brown tunic with matching trousers. It fitted strangely well, and when she saw her reflection now, she was brought back to those years ago.

To when she had been owned, possessed. To those dusty, hot nights on Tatooine. To that fear.

That would not happen again.

Ophelia suppressed a shudder and slammed the suitcase shut. When she returned to the cockpit, she was relieved to see the autopilot was well into programming their descent. They would land in an hour.

Tatooine was as dusty, as oppressive, as she remembered, and for a split second, Ophelia was back in that memory. She remembered cowering, holding up her hands in surrender, seeing the Stormtroopers and Krennic come into view.

She shook her head free of those thoughts, and slunk out of the shuttle.

It had landed a few miles away from any of the towns. All she could do now was walk.

And all she has were her clothes, a bit of water and the data pad.

She walked.

A million miles away, shrouded in the darkness of space, Director Krennic waited nervously — although he would never admit nervousness was — in Governor Tarkin's office. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, gazed out of the wide windows, wondered exactly where Tatooine was. Wondered if she would let him down.

"I do have my reservations," Tarkin said as he swept into the room.

Krennic adjusted himself in his chair, moved his cape. Swallowed. "Yes, Sir."

"And, you do, I presume, understand why?"

Krennic watched as Tarkin came to sit opposite him. It was a comfortable, self-confident movement. Again, Krennic himself shifted in his seat.

"I do, Sir," Krennic conceded. "I can do little more than give you my word."

Tarkin leant forwards, stepped his hands on the desk. "You have given me your word before." A pause. His eyes bored into Krennic's. "Tell me, why should I trust it this time?"

Krennic considered, glanced out at the expanse of space once more. He still wasn't sure where Tatooine was. "The girl has valuable knowledge of this Rebel cell on Tatooine. It's a godforsaken world, I know, but if we can control it, the Empire will have names like the Hutts at its disposal."

Tarkin seemed to be thinking that over, at least. He settled back into his chair; he was comfortable. "And she has your confidence?"

For what it's worth, Krennic thought. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders. "She does."

For a while, Tarkin didn't say anything. His face was taught, and his mouth was a thin set line. He was unreadable. "The on your head be it."

"I do understand that, Sir," Krennic muttered, a slight condescension falling into his voice.

Tarkin heard that. But he was too composed to bristle. "Contact her tonight. See how far she's got."

"I doubt she'll uncover much in a day."

Tarkin waved to the door, and Krennic realised he was now being dismissed.

"Contact her tonight," he repeated. "She must find that data pad." A beat. "You haven't told her if its significance?"

Krennic blinked. "She knows it's important. But she hasn't seen the data."

"I didn't ask if she knew. I asked if you had told her."

"No."

"Very well. Leave me now."

Krennic sat at his desk, drank his kashyk. Night was dark and cold and quiet, and the humming of the ship's engines was slowly driving him insane. He poured himself another glass, pretended to study it, downed it in one once more.

A sigh.

He turned to his computer terminal, searched for Tatooine. Trapped in the confines of his stark, white office, Krennic wouldn't have minded the heat of Tatooine.

He reaches for his comlink. Considered. He looked down at his now empty glass, pushed it away.

"Lacemaker?"

Static crackled and fizzled.

Krennic sighed again. It could wait until tomorrow.

He stood, wiped his mouth, decided that he needed to sleep.

"Krennic, you can't be missing me already?"

The voice was distorted, ghostlike, but he recognised it. "You were supposed to tell me when you landed."

A million light years away, he heard that chuckle. "I've been a bit busy," Ophelia replied.

"Busy?" Krennic glanced back at the empty glass on his desk. "Doing what?"

"Gathering information, like you asked," she said sharply.

Sensing she was about to hang up, Krennic cleared his throat. "Governor Tarkin is expecting a full report."

"And he'll get it," she replied. Static again. "But he'll have to be patient."

That made Krennic squirm; he couldn't imagine telling Tarkin to be patient.

He stared into the blackness of space.

Ophelia put the comlink away, sighed. Then she smiled at her reflection in the stained mirror, tried not to screw her nose up at the stale smell, and then she was through the doors and back at the bar.

Music pounded, lights strobed, and she almost wanted to smile again. If this was being undercover, she would've done it a long time ago.

The cantina was small, and there were already too many people in it, but that made it better. She felt suffocated, and she felt protected, and it felt good.

She slapped some credits onto the bar top, waited for the droid bartender to come over.

"Another Bespin Sparkle, please." She found herself shouting.

The droid beeped an affirmative.

Ophelia reached out hungrily for the glass, downed it in one, asked the droid for another one.

She became aware of someone standing next to her at the bar, and she caught the man's eye.

"What do you want?"

"What are you drinking?"

"I asked first. What do you want?"

"I wanted to ask what you're drinking."

Ophelia snorted, finished her second — or was it her third? — glass. "No thanks."

"No thanks what?"

What was this man's problem? She turned to leave. "I'm busy. I can't talk."

"I didn't want to talk."

No, of course you don't. "Look, I'm busy."

"Imperial?" he asked, voice hushed and low.

She hoped the fear didn't show in her eyes. Was it that obvious? Was she that and? That stupid? No, he was testing the waters, trying to trip her up.

Ophelia regained her footing, glowered at him. "As I said, I am busy."

"Fine." A beat. His hand on her arm. "At least let me buy you another drink."

"I've had enough."

The man didn't listen. He waved over the droid, and before Ophelia knew it, she was holding another Bespin Sparkle.

"Fine," she said with a groan, drinking it. At least he's wasted his credits, she thought. "Thanks for the drink."

She swept out of the cantina, desperate to escape yet another rendition of Lapti Nek. Even at far gone midnight, Tatooine's sands were scorching, and Ophelia relished it. She looked up, squinted, at the distant twin suns, wondering where that Star Destroyer was.

As soon as she made it back to her rented room, she flopped down on the bed, and was asleep.

Ophelia awoke alone in the darkness and the heat. Her tongue was numb and heavy, and her head was spinning. She'd definitely had more than three — probably more like six or seven — drinks last night. Drawing, or rather hauling, herself up onto her elbows, she slapped a palm to her forehead, felt herself drifting off to sleep yet again.

She'd had fun last night. That's all it was. The calm before the storm. Tatooine's twin suns had been beating down on her, punishing, but she was having fun. And for a split second that night, she'd forgotten — or allowed herself to forget — the reason why she was there.

Then she remembered the sound of her comlink buzzing, and then she realised she wasn't remembering. It was happening now. Grunting, she tore herself out of bed, dug out the comlink from somewhere on the dirty floor.

"Hello?"

Static buzzed once more. She wondered if it was something to do with the two suns. But then. She didn't really care. All she cared about was that damned data pad.

"Lacemaker, you were supposed to report on your progress so far."

Ophelia squinted in the sunlight that was streaming through the small window, and she wandered over to the refresher. "I will, Krennic. I haven't made any progress yet."

"What have you been doing?"

She was thankful it wasn't a video transmission. She cleared her throat. "You know, eating, drinking, being merry." She smiled.

"If I put you on a much tighter leash, you'll choke," Krennic said sharply, and Ophelia was glad they weren't in the same room, was glad for the light years separating them.

She swallowed, began to strip off her clothes. "Yes, I'll start today. It's only—" she broke off, looked for the time. "Dank farrik. It's midday already."

"Whatever the case," he said emphatically. "I'm sure Governor Tarkin can spare a man or two should you need chaperoning."

"Well, that would've exactly be dissected, would it?" she said with a snort. "Krennic, you can trust me. Besides, I made a few friends at this bar nearby. They'll talk."

A beat. She wondered what Krennic was thinking. Then again, she wondered why she should care.

"And you're sure they're Rebels?"

"Well, he wasn't exactly dressed as an officer or a Stormtrooper," she replied, thinking back to that man yesterday who wouldn't leave her alone. The man she had to thank for all those Bespin Sparkles.

"It hasn't occurred to you that the Empire could have other undercover operations on at the same time?"

She considered. "Well, I suppose not." She paused. "Come to think of it, no one in that cantina seemed uptightenough to be Imperial."

She let that sink in. The fizzle of static again.

"Call me back at the end of the day."

The line went dead.

Ophelia sighed, and then she showered.