Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Whatever I do, I do it to protect you. Say you understand.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “I understand.”

(she doesn’t--understand, that is. she isn’t sure she ever will )

Jyn knows she’s supposed to run--they’ve practiced this enough times that she could do it in her sleep, after all--but Mama’s not following the plan ( trust the force, jyn, and a kyber crystal pressing sharp and cold into her little palms), and so she hides in the tall grass and watches.

And this is how she sees death , for the first time.

(she tries not to scream, pretends it isn’t mama dead and cold on the dirt, and runs through the canyon until she can’t breathe, until she feels like dying, and then she runs harder)

There’s a cave, and inside the cave there’s a bunker, with a hatch that will lock her in until someone comes--Jyn knows this, and she stumbles into the little cave easily, curls herself up and tries not to breathe.

(mama runs from the house and fires at the man in white, and the toy-soldiers all in shiny black lift their arms, all at once, mechanical and synchronized as the little robots papa builds, and fire hisses and spurts from the muzzles of their glittering-sharp blasters, and mama falls)

Sobs rise in her throat, thick and heavy and choking, and she closes her eyes tightly and bites her hand until it bleeds, and the pain distracts her from the scene playing on a loop in her head. And then there’s a rattle, and the hatch above her head creaks open.

( trust the force, jyn, and she goes still as ice, freezes, doesn’t even breathe)

(ice doesn’t breathe)

“Hey, what’s this?” a voice asks, cracked like dust and just as dry.

She looks up.

The man who is supposed to come for her is named Saw Gererra, and Jyn has seen a holoimage of him, knows what he looks like; the man in the damp, dirty uniform that she sees now is not Saw.

(she sees an insignia, worn and faded, on his shoulder. it’s not the same one as the man in white wears, so he’s not empire--but if he’s not saw and he’s not empire, who is he?)

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, and reaches a hand down.

She takes it, after a moment’s thought. “I’m hiding,” she tells him then. “From the man in white, like we practiced.”

( trust the force, jyn, and mama falls broken and empty on the dark dirt)

“The man in white?” he asks, eyebrows climbing high in surprise; she pulls herself out of the hatch, scrambles to her feet, and nods. “Orson Krennic?”

A shrug. She doesn’t know the man in white’s name--Papa never said, just that he’s dangerous and if he comes, then they must follow the plan.

(mama presses the kyber crystal into her palm and then she’s running, flinging herself between papa and the man in white, and that is not the plan but--)

“Okay…” There’s a pause. “Kriff, Mothma’ll have my head for this,” he mumbles finally. “Doesn’t approve of kids in war, but what choice do I have? I can’t just leave you here.”

“Someone’s coming,” Jyn finally thinks to say. “Or, well, supposed to be coming. It’s the plan, Papa said.”

“Someone came,” and for some reason, he grins. “Name’s Jorgen, and you are?”

She only hesitates a beat before replying, a tiny smile of her own starting to form. “Jyn.”

Jorgen laughs. “Nice to meet you, little Jyn. Welcome to the Rebellion.”

[=|=]

She doesn’t think of Mama and Papa during the flight through hyperspace, to the small Outer Rim planet Jorgen calls Dantooine. Jorgen says a lot of things during the flight, things Jyn isn’t sure she’s supposed to know; things like the fact that Dantooine is home to a base for the Rebellion, that ever since the Emperor took over power four years ago the Rebellion has been recruiting, and that he thinks she’ll like it there.

“Do you hate the Empire?” he asks, after that last one. “I mean, I’d think so, since Krennic just did… something to you…”

She hasn’t told him about Mama and Papa yet, isn’t sure she’s going to. But she nods, because she does hate the Empire, with all her heart. The Empire killed Mama, stole Papa; yes , she hates it.

A satisfied (or at least, she thinks it’s satisfied) smile spreads across Jorgen’s face. “Good. How old are you, little Jyn?”

“Eight,” she says sharply. “I’m not little .”

“Smaller than me, though,” and there’s that rakish grin again.

She can’t really argue that.

“Smaller than jus’ about everybody, I’d wager,” he continues, looking her up and down. “So, I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you’re still little, at least for now.”

She glares at him, and turns to stare out at the stars streaming by, and doesn’t say another word until they land.

“Come on, Jyn,” he says, breaking the silence. “I’ve got to take you to Mothma.”

“Who’s Mothma?” she asks, instantly on her guard-- this isn’t the plan and who knows what could happen now.

“Senator Mon Mothma, one of the leaders of the Rebellion,” Jorgen answers. “Come on, this way.”

She follows him without question, then, trusting him to take her where he says he is. The landing pad is in the middle of a open, grassy field, and not far beyond it she can see several large buildings clustered together; it looks far too small to be a base.

Then they step inside, and she sees the turbolift waiting for them, and she understands. The majority of the base is underground.

The turbolift descends several hundred meters, opens up to a small corridor; Jyn follows Jorgen through several intersections to a door. “In here,” he says, and knocks.

“Enter,” a woman says.

(trust the force, jyn)

She opens the door.

A tall woman in white sits on one side of a desk, a hard-eyed man on the other; both stare at her like she’s wearing stormtrooper armor, or worse.

“What is this? ” the man says.

“Um,” Jyn answers, freezing under his scrutiny; his eyes are so very hard and cold and sharp.

“Senator, General,” Jorgen starts, saluting both, “this is Jyn. I found her hiding from Director Krennic in a bunker on Lah’mu.”

“You have to help Papa,” she says in a rush, suddenly, desperate and pleading. “The man in white came, he shot Mama, and he took Papa away, you have to help him, please! ”

“Easy, child,” the woman says. “We can’t help your Papa unless we know his name.”

Jyn thinks for a moment. “Galen Erso,” she says finally. “And I’m Jyn Erso, that’s my name.”

Silence.

She looks between the hard man and the woman in white, waiting anxiously. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

The woman in white answers after one last long look at the hard man. “Yes, of course, Jyn. It might take us a couple of weeks to get in touch with your Papa, but we’ll do all we can to help you. Why don’t you go with Jorgen, and he’ll help you get settled in, find you some extra clothes and whatnot?”

Jyn beams, brilliant and blinding. “Thank you!” she exclaims, then turns to Jorgen and follows him back out of the room.

“What the kriffing hell are we going to do with Galen Erso’s daughter?” General Draven mutters to Senator Mon Mothma under his breath as the two leave.

Mothma frowns thoughtfully. “I may have an idea. General, do you think you could figure out where Galen Erso has been taken?”

[=|=]

Galen Erso is more than just a genius; he also prides himself on his observation skills. Even so, he at first doesn’t realize the stormtrooper casually marching towards him isn’t, actually, a stormtrooper until it brushes against him, mumbles an apology, and continues on.

Even then, he still doesn’t notice the deception, until he sees the holocube that’s somehow been palmed into his hand.

He takes his time returning to his quarters, not wanting to arouse Krennic’s suspicions; however, as soon as possible, he locks himself in his room and turns on the holo to find a man and woman sitting behind a desk. “Galen Erso,” the woman greets him with a polite smile. “I am Senator Mon Mothma, and this is General Davits Draven, Head of Rebel Intelligence.”

He freezes.

“Before you alert the Empire to this hologram message, you might want to know that we have your daughter, Jyn,” Draven continues; Mothma smiles pleasantly and holds up a crystal necklace that Galen knows very, very well. “Work with us, Erso, or we punish your daughter.”

It takes him a moment to find his voice, and when he does, it’s nothing more than a rasping croak. “You’d use my daughter as a hostage?” he asks, disbelieving; then, recovering himself somewhat: “I’ve already begun making plans to sabotage the Empire from the inside.”

There’s a silence while Mothma and Draven exchange looks; clearly, neither of them had planned on his willingness to aid their cause. He takes advantage of their momentary silence. “If you allow me to speak with Jyn a couple times a month, I’ll do my best to use my connection with Orson Krennic to get sensitive information for you. Just let me see my daughter. Let me speak with my Stardust. Please. ”

There’s another second of silence, then Mothma nods. “Very well, Galen. I look forward to our continued partnership.”

“As do I,” Galen says, and smiles truly for the first time since Lah’mu.

[=|=]

The boy is tiny , no older than six standard years, when Saw Gerrera finds him; now at nine, young Cassian Andor is one of Saw’s best soldiers. He’s intelligent and observant, excellent qualities for a spy; his small size makes him perfect for all kinds of sabotage and espionage. After all, no one suspects a child.

Saw hates this, raising an orphan of war to be yet another child soldier in this self-perpetuating conflict; the boy has lost enough, with his entire family slain by stormtroopers in a raid on Fest, and training to become a soldier immediately after does nothing more than increase the psychological trauma tenfold. Saw knows this very well; if he was just a little stronger, he’d leave the boy behind somewhere. And until a couple standard weeks ago, the leader of the Rebel sect known as the Partisans was planning to do just that.

But ever since finding the cave on Lah’mu empty of little Jyn after Galen sent the signal saying the Empire had found the Ersos, Saw can’t find it in his heart to let Cassian go. Jyn isn’t necessarily dead , of course, but the chances of her still living are so monumentally small that Saw can’t allow himself to hope.

In any case, whether dead or alive, the Erso girl is lost to him now, and in her own way she’s just as much an orphan as Cassian is; Saw supposes it’s selfish, to keep the boy around for that sole reason, but he’s nothing if not a selfish man if he dares step away from the cause, even for a moment.

The boy will do well, however. In the three years Cassian’s been with the Partisans, he’s become quite adept with a blaster, and he’s already begun to master the lessons about emotions. It is certainly not the upbringing he should have received; but, then again, none of them are living the lives they should be. Not with the Empire in power. No one lives like they should while the Imperial flag flies.

Cassian will be alright, Saw thinks, and rolls over, closing his eyes. And maybe, just maybe, if the Force is feeling particularly benevolent, Jyn will be, too.

Chapter Text

Jyn is sent out on her first mission when she is nine, not quite a standard year after Jorgen found her. It’s simple: Jorgen acts as a distraction, starts chatting up an Imperial officer with an important datacard in his pocket, and Jyn sneaks up and steals it. There are lots of other children around, and pickpocketing isn’t exactly uncommon on Nar Shaddaa; by the time the officer realizes he’s lost his intel, it’s too late.

(it isn’t the last time she’s sent on a similar mission)

(but it is both the first and last mission where she doesn’t have to kill someone to succeed)

She doesn’t tell Galen that, though, just as he doesn’t tell her about the project he’s working on. Little Jyn doesn’t want to worry her Papa; Galen doesn’t want to burden his daughter. So they talk about anything and everything--recent holodramas, the planets they’ve been to, anything that doesn’t involve the Empire and the Rebellion.

(When Jyn is eleven, she returns home from a solo mission for General Draven; he’d sent one of his Intelligence agents, but the man had been captured before obtaining the intel. It was Jyn’s job to complete the mission that Sergeant Ryn failed--at least, publicly, that’s the order Draven gave. In secret, the general also gave her another order: sneak into the prison where the Sergeant was being held, hear his last words, and deliver a blaster shot to the head. He hadn’t been able to take the lullaby, the suicide pill, had been expecting her arrival since being captured, had already composed his final words to the fiancee he’d left behind; none of that made it any easier to murder him.

She did it anyway. She’s awarded the rank of Sergeant for her success, the youngest sergeant ever, and that’s when she stops trying to keep her father from worrying and starts protecting the secrets of the Rebellion from an informant.

If Galen notices the difference, he doesn’t act like it.)

By the time she’s thirteen, Jyn is a Lieutenant and is easily Draven’s best agent; the only thing hindering her from taking on more high-risk, deep-cover missions is her age. Small for thirteen, she’s obviously too young to pass inspection in most Imperial covers, and she’s too short to make a convincing stormtrooper. But she can take on just about any persona she’s given, and she’s not only kept up with Draven’s contacts but also doubled the number of them, and she’s been the best shot in the whole Rebellion for more than a year now, and she’s beat Jorgen in hand-to-hand enough times that he refuses to spar with her. She’s mastered the spy’s mask, Draven made sure of that a long time ago; all in all, Jyn Erso is the perfect Rebel soldier, and she’s only just entering adolescence.

It’s no surprise to anyone, Jorgen least of all (as he loudly proclaims when he sees the decoration on her fatigues), when she’s promoted to Captain at sixteen, after returning from her first deep-cover mission. They take her to the cantina as soon as she’s finished debriefing; someone breaks out a bottle of Corellian whiskey for the occasion. It’s the first time she’s tasted it; she downs five glasses one after the other, and the rest of the evening is a fog.

She wakes up the next morning with a killer headache, but she thinks the momentary reprieve from the memories is worth the hangover.

(nightmares are another thing she doesn’t tell galen about, and he never even knows she suffers. she’s very good at controlling her emotions, after all)

(and as the list of people she’s killed grows longer, as she commits atrocity after atrocity in the name of orders, as she delivers the last words of yet another captured agent she’d silenced to keep security intact, jyn can only hope desperately that the rebellion is worth it)

(because if the cause she’s done everything for is worthless, well…)

(how could she live with who--and what--she’s become in its name?)

[=|=]

Cassian can still recall, in excruciating detail, the first week he spent with Saw.

The first night there was someone there to comfort him when he awakened, screaming and sobbing, from a nightmare reliving his parents’ deaths; by night number three, no one came, and there was no one checking in to make sure he was alright. He was enraged, at first; how dare they act like a six year old boy needed no more comfort and care than an adult?

It took the entire first week for him to learn that as far as everyone else was concerned, he was an adult.

That was when Cassian Andor went to Saw. Teach me how to be an adult , he’d asked, and Saw had agreed; and before a month had gone by, Cassian had learned how to ignore his nightmares, how to put away the pain.

(He’s not a genius, but he’s clever, and sometimes being clever is the best thing to be. He learns quickly that Saw treats him differently than the other Partisans; Saw is softer to Cassian when he speaks, but harder on him in training, and Cassian soon realizes that’s because Saw wants him to stay alive. So he learns, quickly, as fast as he can, and he hopes it will keep his new father from leaving him behind like so many others have been.)

By the time he’s fourteen, Cassian is Saw’s right hand; he leads nearly every mission, now, and he has a history of brilliant improvisation, finding a way to succeed even when just surviving seems impossible. He’s a bit more lenient, too; while he still follows Saw’s rule, that the ones who can’t keep up get left behind, he lets a friend hang back to help a non-fatally injured soldier back to the ship, and everyone knows that he’ll wait as long as he can and still ensure mission success, but if he’s gone when you make it back then he’s not coming back. Saw didn’t like it at first, meant more losses on the missions where they’re too slow, but it’s hard to deny that saving less severely injured soldiers is always a bonus. Manpower is hard to come by, after all.

But it’s about three months after Cassian’s fourteenth birthday that everything he’s worked so hard to create begins to slowly fall apart.

At first it’s nothing big: Saw gets injured. It’s not the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last time; he wraps the long blaster burn on his leg and keeps going. Nothing seems to be any different; nothing, that is, until the burn gets infected.

It is a bad burn, yes, but nothing that some bacta couldn’t cure; and the infection would easily be cleared up by some antibiotics. The only problem is that bacta is too expensive (and too well-guarded to steal), and the only way to get antibiotics outside of a hospital is the black market, and no one wants to deal with the Partisans, and so the burn continues to fester and rot until the infection’s spread through Saw’s entire leg.

Cassian manages to find a prosthetic for (relatively) cheap on the black market; no healer will touch Saw with a ten-meter-long pole, so he finds (steals) a bonesaw and some painkillers, and heats a knifeblade until it glows red-hot.

(He can’t find any anesthetics, and it’s not like he really knows what he’s doing anyway, so Cassian gives Saw the painkillers to swallow and pretends he’s locking onto a target through his blaster’s scope; he blocks everything out, ties a rough, messy, but functional tourniquet as close to Saw’s hip as he can, and starts sawing. Sawing Saw, and that really shouldn’t be funny, it isn’t, but it keeps him from listening to his father’s screams.

Apparently that painkiller isn’t as good as he thought it might be.

Cauterizing the stump is worse, in a way; he’s smelled burning flesh before, when he’s strayed too close to one of his bombs, but that’s nothing like this. Blood dripping thick and sluggish from the jagged stump of a leg; skin shrivelling in the heat, blackening and crisping and hissing; the bone so sharp it slices his hand open on accident, forcing him to pause to wrap a bandage around the gash before it gets infected; the way Saw’s screams pause every time Cassian pulls the knife away to heat it up again, only to crescendo abruptly at each new application of burning metal.

Cassian grits his teeth, pictures the world through a scope, and forces his hands to remain steady, just like he does when he’s about to pull the trigger. It’s only after he’s finished, and the stump has been bandaged, and everything cleaned up and put away, that he lets himself flee the room, vomit into a bucket, utterly disgusted, sick of the smell of blood and pus and rotting flesh; he sprints into the training room, after, and exhausts himself against punching bags until he’s soaked in sweat and choking instead of breathing.)

(He has nightmares about it for weeks afterwards.)

Maybe it’s the leg that starts the slow decline; Cassian doesn’t know for sure, but it seems like every few months something else shuts down, and that’s when he hears word that the Empire’s busy stripping the moon of Jedha of kyber crystals.

Shortly after, Saw orders his Partisans to pick up and move, and they settle into a base outside the Holy City on Jedha, where even a shell of the revolutionary Saw once was can still cause trouble. Saw gives the orders, and Cassian carries them out, and watches from an ever-growing distance as his father dwindles away into nothing more than a mere shadow of brilliance.

It breaks Cassian’s heart.

(what’s left of it, anyway)

[=|=]

Jyn is seventeen, on a mission unexpectedly gone drastically wrong, when she runs into the KX-series droid.

(ironically enough, her immediate thought isn’t that she’s failed the rebellion; it’s that she hasn’t even held the rank of captain for a year)

It’s with some surprise that she realizes (when her life finishes flashing before her eyes) that the droid isn’t moving; it takes her a few minutes, but she soon discovers that somehow, in hitting the droid at a full run, she accidentally powered it down.

“Trust the Force, Jyn, indeed,” she mutters to herself as she wrangles the hulking black body onto the ground and pries off the panel in the back. “Guess the Force still has some use for me, after all.”

Reprogramming droids isn’t her forte, but the chances of completing the mission successfully and getting out alive are much higher with such a formidable droid on her side, so she goes to work and hopes fervently that she doesn’t make any big mistakes.

(She’s right; K-2SO’s aid allows her to finish the mission and get back to Dantooine. What she didn’t expect is the fact that something got very messed up in her reprogramming job, because Kay now quite clearly has a personality .

What the kriffing hell is she supposed to do with a droid that has a personality?)

(Apparently, the answer turns out to be let him tag along on the missions you need his help on, and also the rest of them, because he’s very insulted when he doesn’t get to spout statistics at you when you’re trying to concentrate , for fuck’s sake, Kay!)

The other members of the newly-formed Rebel Alliance give her strange looks whenever Kay shows up; Draven doesn’t really care as long as she keeps succeeding at missions; Jyn just wants to dismantle Kay and leave him in a scrapyard most days, a threat she says frequently and viciously.

(And if they’re somehow becoming friends, well, neither of the two of them are going to admit to something so… ludicrous.)

And twice a month, regular as clockwork, she spends thirty standard minutes talking to her father via hologram.

Then, when Jyn is twenty years old, and Galen’s project is nearing completion, she gets called to Draven’s office for her bimonthly time with her father to learn that Galen Erso has gone completely dark, and they have no idea why.

[=|=]

Cassian Andor is twenty-one standard years old and the leader of the Partisans in everything but name when the Imperial cargo pilot, Bodhi Rook, defects and travels to Jedha, claiming to be the bearer of a message for Saw Gerrera from none other than Galen Erso.

He doesn’t know much about Galen Erso, nothing more than the man’s a high-ranking Imperial scientist and Chief Engineer of some huge project, but the man behind the message isn’t the important thing. The message itself, even, isn’t the important thing.

The important thing is that with Bodhi Rook’s arrival comes hope.

And all rebellions, big or small, are built on hope.

Chapter Text

“We don’t know why your father’s gone dark,” Draven says carefully, “but I don’t think we should assume the worst. The Empire might’ve gotten suspicious enough that he can’t risk any transmissions. I have heard news of a cargo pilot, though, an Imperial defector supposedly carrying a message for Saw Gerrera.”

“And you think I might be able to get inside the door?” Jyn asks. “Saw’s probably thought me dead since he found me gone from the bunker on Lah’mu.”

“We hope that your name will interest him enough to at least get you an audience with him,” Mothma explains. “If that message is from Galen Erso, we must have it. The Partisans are currently based on Jedha.”

Jyn nods. “Right, simple enough.”

“Captain Erso,” Draven adds in a warning tone, “the last time we spoke with Galen he said the Death Star is fully functional. Be careful . The Alliance cannot lose you.”

“I’ll take Kay, have him run a decryption program on local comm signals,” she says thoughtfully. “That should give me enough of a warning if the Death Star comes around.”

“Good luck, and may the Force be with you,” Mothma says softly.

Jyn nods once in acknowledgment, then turns and heads for her U-wing.

[=|=]

Cassian pretends to let Bor Gullet loose on Bodhi, and tells Saw that the pilot is indeed being honest; he’s always had a dislike for that particular form of intel gathering, and the honest ones get the worst of it. He manages to give the pilot a few tips for how to act while locking him up in a cell; that’s when one of the kids comes running up.

“Saw’s left his room, Cassian,” the girl says in a rush, and then she’s gone again.

He grins. It’s high time he sees what this message is, and why Saw refuses to say anything about it.

It’s ridiculously easy to steal the holo and hide it in his pocket; he’ll watch it later, but for now there’s going to be a raid on the transport scheduled to come through the Holy City in about twenty standard minutes, and he needs to get as many innocent civilians out of the line of fire as he possibly can. Luckily, he knows just the men for the job.

“Twenty minutes?” Baze Malbus confirms, fingering his repeating blaster cannon.

Cassian checks the chrono on his wrist. “Fifteen, now,” he corrects. “I’ll have my Partisans redirect the transport to the usual rendezvous, assuming you’ve got someone waiting for it?”

The massive man nods. “I don’t know who, this time, but we are prepared.” There’s a pause, then: “The Guardians will be forever in your debt for this.”

Cassian nods somberly. “As I am forever in yours. May the Force be with you, Baze Malbus.”

Baze doesn’t answer for a moment. “And with you,” he finally says, with a heavy sigh.

[=|=]

The Holy City of Jedha feels rather like a ticking bomb, just waiting for the last straw to go off. Jyn ducks through the crowd carefully, trying to avoid the stormtroopers scattered about; her forward progress is made even more difficult by the fact that most of the people seem to be hurrying away from the direction she’s trying to go.

It’s really quite irritating, if she’s being honest.

Up ahead, there’s a square that seems to be mostly empty of people, and she adjusts her path so she’s aiming for it; she can make better time when she’s not fighting against the crowd, and time is of the essence on this mission, when the Death Star might show up at any second and blast Jedha out of the sky.

She realizes why everyone’s moving away from the square a moment later, when a squadron of stormtroopers marches in; two of them peel off from the main contingent and head straight for her.

“Identchip, please,” one says, holding out a scanner, and Jyn freezes.

All her aliases are on the ship. She shouldn’t have needed one for this mission--it’s just sheer luck (or the Force having a laugh, she supposes) that the stormtroopers singled her out.

Nonetheless, they did, and they’re getting more impatient the longer she stays silent.

(if she can just stall until the squadron gets past…)

Then the squadron comes to a halt and shifts into formation, and she realizes she’s about to be caught, and there is no way to lie her way out of this one, because the only identchip she has on her is her own.

But she can still try.

“My name is Kestrel Dawn,” she says cheerily, giving the stormtroopers a sunny smile. “If you’ll just give me a moment--oh, where is that blasted chip?”

While she’s speaking, she digs her hands into her pockets, frowning, until she’s made a show of checking every spot the chip could’ve been. “I’m sorry, boys, but I seem to have misplaced my identchip,” she says apologetically, shrugging. “Maybe I left it at home…?”

From the troopers’ stony silence, she gathers that they don’t buy her story.

Oh, well.

She shrugs, then draws her blaster and shoots both of them before they have a chance to react.

Watching the troopers fall to the ground is quite satisfying, but the blaster fire has the unfortunate side effect of drawing the attention of the entire squadron, which now stands in formation around an armored transport vehicle; Jyn gives herself approximately fifteen seconds before they start shooting.

That, of course, is when the grenade goes off, causing instant chaos.

Jyn takes cover in a handy doorway and starts shooting, taking down five stormtroopers before she sees a little girl standing horrified on the edge of the fighting, rooted to the spot by shock. She doesn’t think, just acts; holsters her blaster, sprints across the square, and catches the girl in her arms, rolling behind the transport for cover.

“Give her here,” a man says calmly, and she hands the little girl over without a word, although it’s a bit odd, the way his obviously-blind eyes are focused on her like he can see. “The brightest stars have hearts of kyber, you know,” he adds with a mysterious grin, then backs away.

She doesn’t even have a chance to ask him how he knows her necklace is a kyber crystal.

A moment later, she decides it doesn’t matter, and throws herself back into the fray, this time with her collapsible batons snapped out to their full lengths. There are a few other people fighting, she knows, but she ignores them, focusing instead on taking out the stormtroopers as quickly and efficiently as possible. She does send a mental thank-you to the sniper on the rooftop across the square, who seems to be just as good as she is. With their aid, the stormtroopers are all dead within a matter of moments.

Collapsing her batons and stowing them in her sleeves, Jyn leaps over the bodies and heads for the nearby alley; she only makes it part way in, however, before several stormtroopers appear in the other side and surround her before she can draw her blaster. Next thing she knows, her wrists are in binders and she’s being marched back out to the square.

Draven is going to murder her.

Two blaster bolts sear out of nowhere, take out the two lead stormtroopers; a familiar metal voice shouts from behind, and brute force takes out the rest. Jyn turns, slowly, and levels a glare at Kay.

“I thought,” she starts, enunciating very clearly, “that I told you to stay with the ship?”

“Well,” Kay says, snapping the binders in half, “ I thought it was boring. There are a lot of explosions for one person blending in. ”

“I had absolutely nothing to do with the explosions. I don’t even have any explosives on me!” Jyn exclaims, annoyed, and draws her blaster as she spins around, taking aim at the young man standing in the center of the square, his own (silenced) blaster pointing at her.

“You do not need explosives,” Kay grumbles. “You are an explosive, Jyn Erso.”

The man’s eyes widen a fraction at the name, and the muzzle of his blaster shifts a little to the right--aiming at Kay, she realizes.

“You’re a handsome one, aren’t you,” she mutters, casually adjusting her stance; the man raises an eyebrow, but says nothing in response.

Kay, however, makes some strangled noise (how he does it is beyond her, when he doesn’t even have vocal cords). “You are attracted to him? ” he exclaims.

“Oh, shut up,” she says with a sigh. “Don’t mind him,” she adds, calling out to the man. “He’s a reprogrammed Imperial droid. I don’t even know why he’s here.”

Kay, of course, is furious .

“Imperial?” the man says, his voice smooth and rolling with an accent she can’t place. “Thought so.”

“He’s reprogrammed, I said,” Jyn corrects hurriedly. “Hence the personality.”

“I do not have a personality!” Kay is supremely affronted. “Stop making small talk, Jyn. This man clearly cannot be trusted. He is going to shoot me. ”

“So am I if you don’t shut up, ” she snaps.

“The probability that he will shoot me is high. It is very, very high. Would you like to know how high it is?”

“No, I would not.” Jyn rolls her eyes, but doesn’t look away from the man.

“Are you sure? ” Kay asks.

“One more word out of you, and I will turn you into scrap metal and leave you in a junkyard somewhere.”

“The probability of that is quite low,” the droid answers, sounding very satisfied. “Besides, I would not make good scrap metal.”

“Can you just get back to the kriffing ship and run the decryption program like I asked?” she says, tired of arguing. “Comm me if you see the slightest evidence that the Death Star is coming. You’ll need to be ready to pick me up.”

Kay sighs heavily, then turns and clanks away, grumbling the entire time.

“I’ll lower my blaster if you lower yours,” Jyn says to the man once the droid is gone.

He nods. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

As soon as his arm moves, she drops hers, and carefully holsters it, watching to make sure he does the same. He does.

“So you already know my name, thanks to Kay,” she starts, “but I don’t know yours. Seems a little unfair, don’t you think?”

(Is she flirting? No, no, she’s not flirting, and if she is, well, who’s business is it anyway?)

“Cassian,” he says. “Cassian Andor.”

“Nice to meet you, Cassian.” She pauses, eyes his blaster critically. “I take it you’re the sniper who was so helpful a few minutes ago?”

“I am,” Cassian says. “You’re pretty good, yourself.”

She grins. “Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to be connected with Saw Gerrera, would you?”

His blaster is out again before she can blink, and he nods at shadows on either side of her--men she’d been too distracted by arguing with Kay to notice. She’s slipping.

“Who wants to know?”

“Nominally, the Alliance,” she says, “but I’m the daughter of Galen Erso. Twelve years ago, a little girl hid in a bunker on Lah’mu and waited for someone to come. The Rebellion found her first. Tell him that.”

“Take her,” Cassian says, and then a bag is shoved over her head and everything goes dark.

[=|=]

Saw is resting when Cassian gets back to the hideout; he has his men throw Jyn in the cell next to Bodhi and retreats into his room, closing and locking the door.

If she really is the daughter of Galen Erso…

Cassian hesitates, then pulls out the holo and flicks it on. An older man, greying, in an Imperial uniform, sits behind a desk, his face grave.

“Saw, if you’re watching this, then I need you to direct the pilot to the Rebel Alliance. I understand that your Partisans have been considered too extremist for Mothma’s tastes, but I hope you can still locate their base.” Galen pauses, runs a hand over his eyes. “Jyn, my Stardust, what must you be thinking? I am so very sorry we haven’t spoken like we should. Krennic has been getting suspicious, and he recently cut off all transmissions. I haven’t been able to get in contact with you. I fear my time is running short--I am no longer needed, no longer necessary.”

Cassian sucks in a breath, suddenly feeling rather like he’s intruding; the message is not meant for him, he should stop and take it to Jyn and let her watch it.

He doesn’t stop.

“I’d request an immediate extraction from General Draven, but I don’t wish to give him such a complex mission when I may not even be alive to be extracted. Stardust, I’ve not been able to find the architectural schematics of the Death Star, but I know a copy of the plans is kept in the Data Vault on Scarif. Remember, one shot to the reactor module will blow the entire thing. My Stardust… if this is the last I am to speak to you, I would make it count. I know I have never been the father that you needed, and I know there is so much you have not shared with me. But know, Jyn, that it has been the pleasure of my life to watch you grow, and it is what has kept me strong enough to do what I must. I have had the privilege of watching as you became the strong, fierce woman I always knew you could be, and whom I wished you would never have to become--I hoped to give you a peaceful, sheltered life on Lah’mu, and I sorely failed in that. But I am so proud of you, Jyn, so proud to call you my daughter. I love you, Stardust.”

The holo flickers off, and Cassian swallows.

Jyn needs to see this. Now.

“Listen, Bodhi, Galen Erso is my father, ” Cassian hears as he approaches the cells. “I need to know what that message says. Please. ”

“You’re Jyn?”

“Yes, I am.” Jyn pauses there, and maybe she would’ve said more, but that’s when Cassian chooses to announce his presence.

“If you want to know what the message says, you need to prove you are who you say you are.”

Jyn’s head whips around, and she pins him with a fiery gaze. He can practically feel the heat emanating from her green eyes. “How am I supposed to prove it to you? You don’t know us.”

“I’ve seen the recording,” he responds calmly.

“Stardust,” she whispers after a moment, closing her eyes tightly. “He calls me Stardust.”

Without a word, Cassian tosses the holo to her, and watches impassively as it plays. There are tears on Jyn’s cheeks when it finishes, but she doesn’t acknowledge them, instead just raising her head to stare at him. “This is all I needed--the message and the pilot. Will you--”

There’s a crackle of static, and the droid’s voice echoes from a commlink. “Jyn, I have decrypted a message from the star destroyer overhead, ordering all Imperial units to evacuate immediately. I recommend we vacate the area as soon as possible.”

“Noted, Kay. Come and find me,” Jyn answers, then stares into Cassian’s eyes. “There’s a planet-killer coming to Jedha. Get the Partisans out of here, let Bodhi and I go.”

He hesitates, considering. There’s something in this girl’s eyes that makes him believe she’s telling the truth--and if this is a chance to save his people, then… He unlocks both cell doors, then turns on his heel, already speaking into his comm. “This is Cassian Andor, ordering immediate emergency evac of all Partisan soldiers. Take the fleet, meet at the rendezvous point, and await further instructions. May the Force be with you.”

He doesn’t wait--everyone knows what to do in the case of an emergency evac--just switches his comm to Baze’s frequency. “Where are you two?”

“In front of your base.” There’s a wry laugh. “Chirrut said we would need to be here. I assume it’s important?”

“There’s a planet-killer heading to Jedha, so yes, I’d consider it important, ” Cassian responds. “Just sit tight for a minute, I need to find Saw.”

He finds Saw in the older man’s room, staring out the window. “I heard the order,” Saw wheezes, taking a gulp of air from his oxygen tank. “You will do a fine job, I think. Take care of Jyn Erso. I only kept you, at first, because I thought she was dead.”

The breath leaves Cassian’s lungs in a whoosh as he stares at the man he considers his father, unable to comprehend what’s just been said.

“At first, I couldn’t just let another orphan of war die,” Saw continues, shaking his head painfully slowly. “But that changed.”

(he sounds like he’s saying goodbye, but that can’t be)

“Why are you telling me this now?”

Saw smiles. “You have been the best son I could have had the pleasure to raise, my child. Go now, and claim your inheritance.”

With agonizing slowness, Saw rips the oxygen away from his chest, and laughs.

(The world narrows, sharpens; he doesn’t see his father, he doesn’t let himself think about the words, best son I could have raised and claim your inheritance, just turns and runs through the twisting corridors towards the exit. He can only hope that Jyn will let him hitch a ride with her; the rest of the fleet is gone and he doesn’t have time to buy a ship, because he can see a wave of dust and rock and ashes on the horizon, and--)

(The scope wavers, threatens to disappear, and he clutches it tighter, knowing that if he loses it now he won’t make it out alive, and so he runs until he catches up to where Jyn stands, waiting, exchanging words with Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze, and he coughs and forces a smile onto his face, and asks, “Have room for one more?” like there’s all the time in the world, and it’s only once he’s on board the ship that he lets himself slide to the floor and bury his head in his hands.)

(Saw is gone.)

(He has nothing left--)

( Claim your inheritance and Take care of Jyn Erso)

(This, then, is what he must do. Saw’s last orders.)

(He will keep them, until his dying breath.)

Chapter Text

Mission target located on Eadu, requesting emergency extraction. Jedha destroyed. Requesting orders, she sends.

Attempt extraction. Will send squadron backup.

Draven’s message is short, straight to the point, and Jyn sends back a simple affirmation, sets the autopilot, coordinates Eadu, and leaves the cockpit.

It’s a somber scene in the hold.

Bodhi paces, fiddling with his hands; red dust still coats his dirty Imperial uniform, his once-shiny black boots, settles in the creases of his face and clings to the grease in his long hair. He makes no effort to brush it off.

(Jyn knows why. It’s the same reason she refused to wash the damp, dark brown earth of Lah’mu off her hands and knees until she had no other choice. It’s his last connection to his home, the last time he’ll ever touch the soil of his homeworld.)

The big man, Baze Malbus, doesn’t pace, but he stares at his blaster cannon and turns it over and over in his big hands. The other man, Chirrut maybe, the not-Jedi, sits and holds his staff and murmurs in a language that she doesn’t recognize, and his hand rests on Cassian’s shoulder.

Cassian, who sits on the floor, back pressed against the wall, his knees to his chest and his head in his hands like all the fight’s been drained out of him; Jyn knows that look, intimately.

Loss.

(Curled up in the bunker in the cave, folded in on herself, as tightly as possible, burying her face in her knees to muffle any sounds, as Mama falling replays over and over and over again)

“I’m sorry,” she says hesitantly.

His head comes up; he regards her silently for a moment, then shakes his head. “You don’t even know who died.” There’s a cutting edge to his voice, one that will hurt her if she lets it.

“An entire world died,” she responds sharply, rolling her eyes. “The better question is, who didn’t ? Focus on the people still alive, Cassian--not on whoever didn’t make it out. You can’t go through life giving the dead more weight than the living. It doesn’t work out very well.”

There’s a long silence, broken only by Chirrut’s prayers.

“We’re going to Eadu,” she says at last. “I’ve been given orders to extract my father, Galen Erso, who’s been working for the Rebellion for twelve years. If you don’t want to come, well… you’re stuck here until after Eadu, for good or for ill. Sorry.”

“How are we going to get Galen out?” Bodhi asks, pausing in his pacing to ask the question.

“Still working on that,” Jyn admits. “Draven’s got a squadron on the way--that’s General Davits Draven, Head of Rebel Intelligence, by the way,” she clarifies quickly. “I have an alias that should get me through the door if we need it--more likely than not, though the squadron’ll beat us there and it’ll be general chaos. If we play it right, no one will even notice.”

She pauses for a moment, gathers her thoughts. “Bodhi, you’ll have to stay in the cockpit--your face is probably everywhere in the galaxy right now--but you can help Kay have the ship ready to take off as soon as we’re back. Baze, Chirrut,” she starts, turning towards the Guardians, “you’ll stay in the ship and provide cover fire if we need it. The both of you are too conspicuous as you are now, he’s blind, and frankly, I don’t think they make stormtrooper armor big enough to fit you,” she finishes, looking between the two men.

Chirrut snorts at this pronouncement. “She does have a point,” he says serenely while Baze grumbles.

“Cassian, you’ll be with me,” Jyn says, turning to face the Partisan. “I think I have some stormtrooper armor around your size laying about, somewhere. Just let me go look.”

She leaves the main hold and ducks into the small side room she barely uses; a box under the narrow cot is overflowing with white plastoid, and she pulls it out, leaves it for Cassian to sort through. There’s not really enough space for both of them in the small room, but Jyn got used to changing in common areas long before this and so Cassian’s proximity doesn’t bother her. Instead, she pulls out a sharply-creased, spotlessly clean grey uniform, strips out of her civilian clothes, and dons the perfectly-tailored Imperial uniform with easy efficiency.

(She pretends not to notice the fact that Cassian pauses in his assessment of the armor to watch her, but she can’t deny the little thrill his scrutiny sends through her.)

She adjusts the rank pins that proclaim her to be a Lieutenant, then sits on the edge of the cot to pull her boots back on, tucking a small, thin vibroblade in each boot as she does so. Her blaster is holstered on her hip, as per regulation; she takes a moment to tuck her hair into a severe knot at the back of her neck before standing, making her way around Cassian--who’s now pulling the armor on over his dusty clothes--and back to the hold.

“Kay, what’s our status?” she asks, poking her head into the cockpit.

“Transition to realspace in one minute, twenty-seven seconds,” the droid intones.

“Bodhi, you ready?”

The Imperial pilot nods and slides into the pilot’s seat, teeth gritted and hands clenched. “As I’ll ever be, I guess. Engaging sublights in three, two, one…”

The ship shudders around them.

“Sublights engaged,” Bodhi confirms, and takes a deep breath before wrapping his hands around the controls. “Here we go.”

Jyn takes a deep breath as well, offers him a grin--which he returns, even if his smile is strained and thin--and leaves the cockpit entirely, turning to face the motley ‘crew’ she’s somehow acquired. “Right. I’ll be going by the name of Lieutenant Liana Hallick--who is a legitimate ‘person’ in the Empire’s eyes, by the way. Cassian is my stormtrooper escort. The lab should be in enough turmoil, what with the sudden Rebel attack, that our presence won’t be questioned, and once we have Galen it’ll be a moot point. I’ve memorized a pretty detailed map of the facility--my father provided it--so just follow my lead.”

“The Force is with you,” Chirrut says with a mysterious smile.

Baze grumbles under his breath in that other language, as he seems to do quite frequently; Jyn thinks he’s speaking a dialect native to Jedha, but she’s not one-hundred-percent sure. Whatever it is he says, she has to wonder at his almost-animosity towards the Force. What could’ve possibly happened to him to make him so bitter?

It’s a question that doesn’t matter in the here-and-now, though, so she pushes it aside with some difficulty and returns her focus to the extraction in front of her. The ship trembles with the force of entering atmosphere; Bodhi guides it towards the research facility’s platform with a masterful hand. As they descend, Jyn catches a glimpse of tiny dots--some of which look vaguely x-wing-shaped--darting around, spurting lines of red flame.

Her diversion.

She spots multiple x-wings leading what looks to be a black delta-class Imperial shuttle on a merry chase, and hopes fervently that whoever is inside the shuttle doesn’t make it down to the platform before she can get Galen out.

Bodhi lands the ship a moment later, and Jyn lowers the hatch and strides casually onto the rain-soaked platform, Cassian two paces behind her as is appropriate for her rank, ignoring the alarm klaxons blaring and red lights flashing on every corner. The two stormtroopers on guard at the door are too rattled by the abrupt Alliance raid to ask questions; Jyn shows them her identchip and they let her through.

The corridor beyond is nearly empty, the occasional pair of stormtroopers passing by at a near-frantic pace, moving out of her way at the sight of her uniform; clearly, a Rebel attack has never been a strong possibility at this particular facility. Jyn’s never seen so much chaos at an Imperial installation before. It just doesn’t happen.

She wants to glance back at Cassian, make sure he’s still with her, but no true officer would and she can’t break her cover, so she just walks on, headed to the laboratory in the lower levels, and hopes.

They take a turbolift down to the correct level, and here is where the plan starts to get complicated. The uncontrolled chaos of the upper levels doesn’t reach this far; no self-respecting engineer or scientist would ever be disturbed by something so small as an alert. It’s doubtful that the base itself falling down around their ears would even be enough to startle a scientist absorbed in a problem, as Jyn’s seen several times in conversation with her father.

Even her arrival doesn’t make much of a difference in the general air of the lab; harried-looking scientists jog through the corridors at surprisingly high speeds, and she and Cassian pass several rooms full of men and women deeply involved in computations. All in all, it’s a pretty easy trip to the back of the level, where Galen Erso’s private laboratory is located.

The door isn’t locked, and Jyn pulls it open easily, slipping inside the lab with Cassian directly behind her. The room is larger than she was expecting; simple and utilitarian, with harsh florescent lights, multiple desks covered in datapads, a handful of holoprojectors, and a whiteboard on one wall. The latter of these is covered in unintelligible scrawl, mathematical equations she can’t even begin to comprehend; schematics shimmer in the air above the holoprojectors. Galen Erso himself is slumped over one of the desks, his head resting in his hands as he massages his temples--looking older than she’s ever seen him.

An involuntary sound slips out at the sight; Galen’s head flies up and their eyes meet, and everything falls away, the alarms fading to white noise, and suddenly she’s flying across the floor and flinging herself into his arms.

(She’s not quite sure when he moved, but he’s on his feet and waiting when she slams into him, and then his arms fold around her, filling all the empty places in her heart, and for the first time in years she’s truly home.)

“Jyn?” Galen whispers, voice hoarse and disbelieving. “Are you really here?”

“Papa, Papa,” she murmurs in response, “it’s me--it’s your Stardust. We’re here to save you.”

He pulls her closer, rests his chin on top of her head and rocks her side-to-side--hugging her for the first time in twelve years. “ Stardust,” he chokes out. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Not to interrupt,” Cassian calls from near the door, “but we’ve got company coming, and Lieutenant Hallick doesn’t have an excuse to be down here.”

Jyn takes a deep breath, disentangles herself from her father’s arms, giving him a soft smile before turning to the Partisan, slipping back into her role as Rebel spy with ease. “They’re just stormtroopers. We both have blasters. It’s the upper levels I’m worried about. Right, let’s get the hell out of here--”

“Stardust, wait,” Galen says, and she hesitates. He rushes over to one of the tables, grabs a datastick from one of the holoprojectors and slips it in his pocket. A nod, and Jyn knows he’s ready to leave; she takes a deep breath, then pulls her blaster.

In the corner of her eye, she sees Cassian do the same; they take up positions on opposite sides of the door without speaking, and Cassian counts down with his fingers before pushing the door open. She starts firing the second she can pick out targets, and soon the floor is littered with bodies in white plastoid.

“We need to move,” Cassian says sharply, ducking out the door in front of her. Jyn lets him take point as they move through the corridor back to the turbolift, but they encounter no more resistance.

“It’s going to be a firefight when these doors open,” she says after the turbolift begins to rise. “We can only hope they’re distracted by those fighters, and that our ship is still waiting for us.”

“Stardust,” Galen says quietly, “who is your partner?”

She blinks a little at the sudden question, and Cassian beats her to the answer.

“I’m Cassian Andor,” he says. “Saw Gerrera’s son.”

His voice and body posture just dare someone to challenge him.

No one does.

“How is Saw?” Galen asks, after a moment.

Cassian’s face--clearly visible since he abandoned the helmet in the lower level--tightens, and it’s a moment before he says, succinctly, “Dead. Like the rest of Jedha.”

Then the turbolift doors ding open, and it’s a fight for their lives.

[=|=]

Cassian stops counting how many stormtroopers he’s taken down after about the fifth or sixth shot. It doesn’t really matter, anyway; some shots have gone wild and hit officers or other support staff, he knows, and really at this point the only important thing is that Jyn gets back to her ship safely.

Theoretically, Galen should be something important, too, and he is to an extent, because Cassian’s lost two fathers now and he doesn’t want Jyn to lose hers, but Saw’s orders only said to take care of Jyn, so in a crisis she takes first priority.

And this is definitely a crisis.

He ducks behind the dubious shelter of a corner and starts firing around it, trying to clear a path for Jyn and staying in front of her as a shield--protecting her, fulfilling Saw’s last requests, keeps his mind off the yawning pit of grief just beneath the surface, and while he can tell she’s not the most pleased about the whole arrangement, he’s already decided she doesn’t get to argue this one. Jyn Erso might be a Captain in the Rebel Alliance, but he is Cassian Andor, leader of the Partisans, and he will not be moved from his orders. Not this time.

As soon as the hallway is--somewhat clear, Cassian takes off again, motioning to Jyn and keeping his blaster out and ready to shoot. The corridor is eerily silent, and no one new rushes in to fill the gaps; the thought that this is all the troopers stationed at Eadu is a bit, well, ridiculous, but… what could be keeping them?

The answer to that is found when he ducks out onto the platform (he’s hit by a gust of freezing cold rain the instant the door opens, and it takes a moment to blink it out of his eyes) and manages to pick out the distinctive form of a delta-class Imperial shuttle hovering near the platform, preparing to land.

If they want to make it out alive, they only have seconds.

Unceremoniously, Cassian grabs Jyn’s arm and takes off towards their ship, not checking to see if Galen follows; the older man is just collateral at this point, and he can die if it means Jyn is saved.

Jyn doesn’t seem to approve of this plan, of course. She struggles against his hold, chokes out a quick, “Papa--”

“I’m right  behind you, Stardust,” Galen reassures, and with that she falls back into line next to Cassian and runs.

Baze’s massive figure appears on the ramp, and he lifts his repeating blaster cannon to his shoulder, takes aim, and fires at the shuttle; it’s a hit, dead-on, and the whole ship rocks from side to side with the force of it. Stormtroopers finally overcome their shock at this sight, and suddenly the platform is a warzone, strafed with blaster fire. Baze just aims and fires, steadily, and when Cassian hauls Jyn up the ramp, followed by Galen, he lowers his gun and hits the button to raise the ramp.

“Go, go, go!” Jyn shouts, as the ramp closes. “Bodhi, Kay, get us out of here!”

The pilot--or the droid, whichever--does as she suggests, and then the u-wing streaks into hyperspace as soon as they break atmosphere.

Cassian sits next to Chirrut and listens to the soft sounds of a reunited father and daughter, and tries to keep the envy from his eyes.

(Take care of Jyn Erso, Saw said.)

(If taking care of Jyn Erso means saving her father, he will do it. If it means joining her Rebel Alliance with all his Partisans, he will do it. If it means launching a raid on Scarif of all places, well… he will do it.)

(It’s his last orders. He will do whatever it takes to ensure the last orders he ever received are seen through to the end.)

(He refuses to admit that there just might be an ulterior motive for taking care of Jyn Erso beyond what his father told him to do.)

Chapter Text

Jyn gives her father one last hug and stands, going to the long-range comm unit and inputting Draven’s personal frequency, wanting to bypass the busybodies in communications.

“Erso?” Draven’s voice crackles with static. “What’s your status?”

“Mission successful, sir,” she reports, a little smile spreading over her face. “We have Galen Erso. There’s one complication, though--I’ve picked up three men from Jedha; two are Guardians, and one is the new head of the Partisans. What’s your advice?”

There’s a pause. “Bring them back to Base One,” the General finally decides. “We might be able to orchestrate a new agreement with the Partisans.”

“Understood, sir. Over and out.”

Jyn walks back into the hold to find Galen engaging in an animated conversation about kyber crystals with Chirrut while Baze looks on silently; Bodhi is still in the cockpit with Kay, she knows. But Cassian?

Cassian just sits there and watches her like she’s something… important, and she doesn’t quite know what to do about that.

(You could start by going over there and sitting down, a voice says.)

She decides that sounds like a good idea and skirts around the kyber crystal discussion, sliding onto the bench near Cassian. There’s a moment of silence while she hunts for an ice breaker before she shrugs and finally settles on, “You look like you’re having fun.”

“Having more fun now that you’ve come to join me,” he shoots back.

She snorts. “Cassian Andor, are you flirting with me?”

He arches an eyebrow. “You tell me.”

There’s a pause before he sighs. “I could tell you weren’t very happy about my going in front of you, in the lab. One of the--one of Saw’s last orders to me was to take care of you, Jyn.”

“I don’t need taking care of,” she snaps, ready to prove it if necessary--

“No,” he agrees calmly, “but sometimes we all want it.”

She stills.

“You aren’t the only one,” he says, very quietly, “who’s lost nearly everything.”

[=|=]

“Scarif,” Draven says, sighing. “It’s a big risk, Erso. This isn’t an Intelligence mission you’re suggesting. By sending the fleet, we’d be declaring open war, painting a bigger target on our back.”

“The Death Star is fully operational, as you saw on Jedha,” Galen says. “If it is not destroyed, it won’t matter that the Alliance has yet to officially state its intent. You’ve been waging a cold war against the Empire for years, General. You’ve gathered quite the collection of intel. You’ve amassed a fleet and recruited an army--now is the time to use it, before you lost everything you’ve worked for.”

Draven is quiet for a long moment, then he nods decisively. “Yes, you’re right. What do you say, Senator? Shall we go against the wishes of half the council?”

Mon Mothma gives him a thin smile. “Is there an Admiral willing?”

“Raddus,” Draven suggests.

Mothma nods. “I’ll speak to him,” she decides, and leaves the room immediately.

Draven turns his gaze to Jyn. “Who will you take?”

“I have some friends in mind,” she answers easily.

The General nods slowly. “I’ll find Gold and Blue squadron leaders. Wonder if the boys are up for some action?”

The smirk that crosses his face mirrors Jyn’s own. “Good luck, sir,” she says, saluting sharply.

He nods. “Good luck, Captain.”

And then Jyn’s alone with Galen.

“Stardust,” he starts hesitantly.

“I’ll come back, Papa,” she tells him fiercely, hugging him hard. “I promise.”

“I am so proud of you, Stardust,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her hair. “May the Force be with you.”

She smiles at him and leaves the room before her careful composure can shatter.

[=|=]

Jyn finds her friends just where she expected them to be: holed up in a small, unused room drinking whatever alcohol is on hand. About thirty men and women welcome her with grins and mumbled greetings when she ducks through the door, stepping into the room she’s spent a lot of downtime in--especially when she needed to recover.

The other Intelligence agents get it in a way no one else can; they’ve all had to assassinate a familiar face trapped in an Imperial prison, shoot an innocent person in cold blood because they’d heard too much. Each and every one of these soldiers has worn so many different faces they no longer have a face that’s their own; they’ve lied, cheated, killed, and manipulated easily a hundred people each.

There’s no group of people Jyn trusts more with her life.

“Hey, you bastards,” she says, raising her voice; silence falls over the room and all eyes turn to her. “I’ve got a just-technically-sanctioned mission if you want it.”

“From who?” Miri Vas asks suspiciously, raising her eyebrows.

“Draven and Mothma.”

“What’s the mission?” someone in the far corner asks.

Jyn grins. “Infiltrate Scarif, steal the Death Star plans, and get out before the kriffing thing shows up to kill us all. I’m going, with a couple of friends I picked up on Jedha; who’s all with me?”

Every single soldier in the room lets out a cheer and raises a hand.

(They’re not cheering for the mission because the idea of an almost-suicidal mission seems fun. They’re cheering because it’s easier to cheer than to cry.)

[=|=]

“Captain Erso,” Mothma calls out, catching Jyn as she makes her way to the hangar behind the other Intelligence agents.

She stops, turns to face the Senator. “Yes?”

“You should leave as soon as you can,” Mothma says. “Admiral Raddus will be following behind you with the fleet, giving you enough of a head start to sneak your way in. There’s an impounded Imperial shuttle we captured recently that’s not being used--you should take it.”

“Of course,” Jyn says, nodding. “Understood, Senator.”

“May the Force be with you, Jyn. With you all.”

She nods once, serious, and turns and walks away.

[=|=]

He has to go to Scarif.

Cassian sits on an overturned crate in the hangar and sighs, staring out over the room. There’s still a comm unit in his jacket--he could have one of his Partisans come pick him up, or even better he could steal a ship and go meet them himself (he knows where the rendezvous is, after all)--but something holds him here. Whether it’s Saw’s order binding him to Jyn or not, Cassian’s no longer sure; but it’s clear he cannot leave, not now.

He has to see this through.

Jedha was not his homeworld, nor was it even the world he grew up on, but he’s spent the last eight years of his life there among the citizens of the Holy City, causing riots and disrupting kyber shipments and generally being a nuisance in the Empire’s side; it was home, for him, and for Chirrut and Baze--and for Bodhi, too. And now it’s--not gone, not exactly, not all the way, but it might as well be. No one can live there, now. And all those people in the Holy City--the little girl he watched Jyn save only hours ago--they’re really gone, just dust and ashes, just like Saw.

It still hurts, thinking about Saw.

Cassian’s not sure it’ll ever stop.

“Weep for what you have lost, but do not let it keep you from gaining something new,” Chirrut says softly from Cassian’s right. “You have lost much, but you have gained more if only you let down your barriers. The Force is still with you, Cassian Andor.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Cassian says back, but there’s nothing more than sheer exhaustion in his voice.

“No,” Chirrut says, grinning, “it doesn’t think like it.”

Cassian blinks, thoroughly confused.

“The Force is not here,” Chirrut continues, tapping Cassian’s temple, “but here.”

The Guardian’s thin finger spears Cassian directly over his heart.

“Feel it,” Chirrut whispers, intensity in his blind eyes, and then backs away.

“Cassian?”

It’s Jyn.

She looks… different, somehow; he can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, but it’s very clearly there. And then she offers him a hesitant smile and he realizes--she’s nervous.

“We’re going to Scarif to steal the Death Star plans,” she says quietly, walking the rest of the way up to him and keeping her voice low. “The chances of making it out alive are, well… Kay could give you the percentages and be delighted, that’s how low they are. But the time to fight is now. It’s time for the Rebellion to stand up, to put actions behind our words--it’s time for us to give everything we’ve got in the name of a brighter future. We have very little--but we have hope, and that’s what this fight is built on.” She takes a deep breath. “You’ve been fighting for this cause for at least as long as I have. You’re not part of the Alliance, but you might as well be. So I ask you this, Cassian Andor: are you with me?”

Cassian stands, captivated by the fire in her vivid green eyes, and very slowly offers up a salute. “All the way, Captain Erso.”

There’s a pause as she takes in his words and gestures; her eyes flood with relief and she grins. “Welcome home,” she tells him, and then: “Saw would be proud of you.”

He drops his hand and struggles to keep his face from showing just how much the casual, throwaway statement means.

“We’re taking an impounded Imperial shuttle,” Jyn tells him. “If you’ll follow me--you and your friends, if they’re with you.”

“Our hearts,” Chirrut remarks, “are with yours.” He shoots Cassian a smirk.

“Wherever that one goes, I follow,” Baze rumbles, approaching from wherever he’s been waiting.

“Right then,” Jyn says. “This way.”

She leads them across the hangar to a cargo shuttle; about thirty men and women are loading it with crates bulging with uniforms, blasters, and what look suspiciously like explosives. A couple of them wear rumpled Rebel uniforms (or pieces of them--Cassian sees one woman wearing an Alliance jacket untucked over her trousers, only half-buttoned, revealing the T-shirt beneath), but most are dressed in close-fitting clothes in neutral or darker colors, with many-pocketed vests or jackets over the top. They look at Jyn when she arrives as though she’s their leader, and he supposes maybe she is; he guesses they’re fellow spies, her comrades-in-arms.

“Little Jyn,” a man says, hurrying over from another part of the hangar; he looks to be in his mid-thirties at least, and the way he moves suggests a bad leg--an injury that never healed properly, more than likely--but he’s fit and the blaster on his leg looks like it’s a permanent part of his body. “You weren’t planning on leaving without me, were you?”

“Of course not, Jorgen,” Jyn says with a little smile. “But hurry up if you’re coming--we don’t have all day.”

“Who’re these guys?” Jorgen asks, giving Cassian a once-over, unabashed curiosity on his face.

“Cassian Andor, Chirrut Imwe, and Baze Malbus,” she answers simply. “They’re with us.”

(With you, Cassian wants to say.

He doesn’t.)

“Right then, the more the merrier,” Jorgen says with a careless shrug before turning and entering the ship.

“Jyn, we’re ready,” one of the spies says from just inside the ship; while Cassian was distracted they’ve finished loading the crates and now everyone’s inside. Waiting.

A nervous shiver crawls up his spine as Jyn nods, stiffens her back, and marches into the ship; he follows her, the Guardians behind him, and tries to keep from instinctively gripping his blaster.

(Are you with me? she asks him, and the fire in her eyes burns at his heart, and he cannot say no.)

(All the way, he says, and he means it, he… he feels it.)

The hatch closes, the ship prepares for takeoff--they have to hurry, Cassian knows, since he’s pretty sure this mission isn’t exactly sanctioned and someone might try to stop them; Jyn’s detailing a plan in rapid-fire sentences to her coterie of spies; Bodhi’s in the cockpit with Kay, arguing with someone over the comm (This is Rogue One, taking off, Cassian hears, and then the ship is launching away from Yavin 4’s surface); he stares around him, meets Chirrut’s eyes (somehow the blind man knows) and sees the man smile.

(Feel it, don’t think it, he remembers, and something clicks.)

He turns again and his eyes find Jyn, looking over at him from across the bay, and there’s a smile in her eyes.

Cassian smiles back, and for the first time in years he feels.

Chapter Text

Everything’s going exactly to plan until Darth Vader shows up.

Bodhi overhears the news as he’s idly listening to comm traffic; Chirrut and Baze have left the shuttle to work on getting the shield gate down, and Jyn and Cassian and her group of spies have already taken off across the beaches for the Citadel Tower.

He blinks, freezing, completely unable to comprehend the words. How could Vader be here, of all places, at just the right time?

(It takes him a minute to realize he needs to make sure the rest of Rogue One knows what’s going on, too.)

“Er, Chirrut,” he says, fumbling with his small commlink, “I just overheard someone on the comms saying that Darth Vader is here.”

“I know,” comes the serene response.

It’s so unexpected that Bodhi’s struck dumb, mouth hanging open in shock.

“I can feel him in the Force,” the Guardian continues. “He will come to me--my very existence mocks him. Do not fear. All is as the Force wills.”

That, Bodhi thinks numbly, is not very reassuring. “J-just get the shield gate down first, yeah?” he finally forces out.

“Oh, Baze will take care of that,” Chirrut says flippantly.

Bodhi gulps.

Over the comm, he hears laughter.

[=|=]

Chirrut leans against the crate he’s taken shelter behind and idly fingers the catch in his staff, just waiting for the right moment.

He would like the rest of Rogue One to know that he’s not stupid : he hasn’t yet mentioned to Baze the approach of his own impending doom. There’s no need to complicate matters with silly things like couples’ spats and sentiment and all the worrying Baze pretends not to do, after all. Anakin--well, no, he’s Vader now--will come, and the two of them will duel, and what the outcome is, only time will tell.

The Force certainly isn’t (telling, that is).

He can feel the darkly oppressive presence coming nearer, questing for that odd eddy in the Force that should not exist. Any moment now it will begin.

“Baze,” he says, “the shield gate is your task now.”

He cannot see his husband’s face. He doesn’t need to see.

With a calm smile, Chirrut shifts his weight and twists his body around, raising a single bony hand to Baze’s rough cheek.

“ Chirrut,” the other says sharply (worry and horror all mixing into one).

“The Force is with you.”

He presses a gentle kiss, no more than a touch of his lips, to Baze’s mouth and then turns and rises in a single fluid motion, fingers finding the catch and pressing down.

One end of the staff slides back to reveal a small hollow space; Chirrut discards the long body of the staff, grasps the lightsaber hilt and twists it free from the hiding place it’s been in since the Order perished. He ignites the blade (pale green, he knows , deep in his bones, although he’s never seen it), relishing the hum as it swings through the air.

For the first time in nineteen years, Chirrut Imwe lets the Force reveal his presence to the fullest, and he glories in the feel of it all.

Everything is sharper; the very air tastes sweeter on his tongue and lends new lightness to his steps, an ease to his movements that he hadn’t realized he was lacking until it returned. His senses sharpen to the point of almost-pain; he breathes deep and releases the air slowly, in a pattern his old master had taught him once.

It has been nineteen years since he’s heard the humming of a lightsaber blade, save for in his dreams; nineteen years since his palms felt the cool bite of the metal hilt; nineteen years since his body moved in the graceful patterns of the combat forms. And yet he has forgotten none of it, his instincts as strong or even stronger than before.

Still, he knows he cannot defeat Vader. Anakin was once the most skilled of all in lightsaber combat, and he has continued to practice and experiment these past two decades, unlike Chirrut. Yet, if the Force is true, the duel will not be a quick one; Chirrut needs only to hold Vader here for long enough that Jyn and Cassian can do their job.

(It will not be an easy task.)

The Force swirls thick with tension, Dark so strong Chirrut can smell it, and then a new hum fills the air.

Vader has arrived.

[=|=]

Jyn exchanges a grin with Cassian as he manages to select the Stardust file and retrieve it--a grin that turns to horror as the power cuts off, leaving the plans hanging in midair a few centimeters from the data core. Only a few meters away from the transparisteel window, within jumping distance--but with a multiple-story fall the consequence for misjudging--the plans might as well be on Coruscant.

“We’ll have to risk it,” she says, thinking fast. “Unless… Kay, can you restore the power?” she says into her tiny commlink.

The answer comes in the sound of the bulkhead doors slamming shut, finality echoing in the resounding thud.

“Your chances of success will double if I remain behind and hold them here,” Kay says after a moment. “You must climb the data tower now. It is the only way out.”

“And what about you?” Jyn persists.

“I have explained. I must remain behind. With every second you waste in useless chatter , the chances of success decrease by--”

“Alright, alright,” she snaps. “I get it. Just, Kay--”

The sound of blasterfire crackles across the comm; immediately, Cassian pulls his blaster and fires through the transparisteel, shattering it.

“Come on, Jyn. You heard the droid,” he says. “We have to jump.”

He climbs on top of the control bank, poised on the very edge, and extends a hand back to her.

Jyn casts one last look back at the sealed door, then, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she takes Cassian’s hand and climbs up next to him.

“You first,” he says, and waits.

She exhales and squeezes his hand; turning to face the data core, she breathes in deep (like she’s sighting down the barrel of her blaster) and launches.

(Don’t look down, she chants silently, and hopes she can make the distance.)

Her chest slams into the tower first, followed by her legs and arms and, lastly, her head (which hits hard enough for her to see stars). Instinct takes over and she digs in, her fingers grabbing for a handhold; before she can start to panic she’s secure and Cassian is making the leap.

He’s graceful as he soars through the air, landing with much less force than she; the second she sees he’s secure she reaches out and snags the Stardust file, clipping it to her belt. Her heart pounds erratically in her chest and she feels almost lightheaded from adrenaline. It’d be nice to pause a moment, to rest, but rest is a luxury they cannot afford now. They must climb.

The blasterfire dies down, a strange crackling slipping through the commlink before it hums static, and she knows.

Kay is dead.

She shoves the emotion aside, to be dealt with later, and inhales. “Ready?”

Cassian’s only answer is a nod.

That, of course, is when the bulkhead finally opens back up again, admitting a small guard of death troopers in shiny black plastoid and a tall man in pristine white.

Krennic.

Jyn’s half-hidden by the curve of the tower, but Cassian’s too exposed; he moves fast, sliding around the edge, but he’s not quite fast enough. A blaster bolt catches him in the shoulder, the force of it knocking him partway off the tower, leaving him dangling, vulnerable, from one hand.

She screams.

“You can’t have him, you bastard!” she rages, and rather without her noticing she’s pulled her blaster and shot Krennic’s person guard in the space of heartbeats.

(Easy shots made easier by the simple fact of who it is standing there, a faint smirk on his face as he watches the events play out.)

“You can’t have him,” she repeats. “Not after everything.”

“And who are you to demand such a thing from me?” the man returns, smugness dripping from every syllable.

In the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of Cassian getting his feet back beneath him at last, no longer in immediate danger of falling.

The desperate panic of a moment before is replaced, abruptly, by fury.

“Jyn Erso,” she hisses, vicious and cutting, glorying in the way Krennic’s face pales, eyes widening with fear for the first time. “The daughter of Galen Erso.”

Her blaster steadies, strength born of pure hatred rushing to her fingers.

“There’s a weakness in your precious Death Star, a bomb just waiting to go off,” she continues, and now it’s her turn to be smug, “and I’m about to tell the whole galaxy how to blow it.”

He staggers back a step, but there’s no way he can outrun a blaster bolt, and she knows he knows it.

“Enjoy your victory, Krennic.”

She pulls the trigger.

[=|=]

Chirrut dances the familiar steps with ease, parrying Vader’s lightsaber and venturing short counterattacks; he does not need to see with the Force as his guide. He can sense where the stroke is about to fall, half a breath before it does, and that is all the time he needs to react.

He can sense the battle around him, too, can feel the life leaving countless soldiers, Rebel and Imperial alike (and he could count them, if he wanted); it’s been so long that all the noise is overwhelming, distracting, and he almost misses one of Vader’s moves, so caught in the surroundings is he.

(He closes himself down, tries to focus solely on the duel, and prays that Baze is moving.)

“You cannot win this,” Vader says, and Chirrut nearly laughs at the thought.

“Of course not,” the Jedhan says. “I never intended to.”

He presses the momentary advantages his unexpected statement gives, nearly slipping beneath the Sith’s guard before Vader catches himself and focuses again.

“You seek death, then?”

“I see,” Chirrut says, quiet and proud, “to defend the innocent, as all Jedi do.”

“You have condemned hundreds of lives with this invasion,” Vader returns.

Chirrut smiles. “But I am protecting a million souls all across the galaxy by contributing to the death of your Empire, and that is a cause worthy of the Jedi.”

Vader growls, a sound of pure rage, and moves.

Chirrut senses the strike in plenty of time; but his tired old body reacts too slowly to block the incredibly powerful attack. All he can do is twist his own body, deflect the arcing slash outward with the edge of his blade.

Vader’s strike cuts into Chirrut’s right side, the follow-through scoring the Jedhan across his abdomen.

Fire blooms along his entire side; the agony turns his legs to water and he falls, slow and shaking, lightsaber slipping from his hand and preceding him to the ground. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, sends a supernova from his brain to his toes, leaving the cold blackness of space behind as his soul burns away.

He hopes, in his last second of clarity, that Baze has thrown the master switch, and then unconsciousness claims him and he knows no more.

[=|=]

Cassian’s right arm is screaming by the time he makes it onto the roof, trembling with the exertion. He tries, with moderate success, to ignore the pain; he can’t, however, push away his exhaustion (how long has it been since he’s slept?), and thus he remains kneeling on the burning-hot durasteel roof while Jyn places the data file into the transmitter.

“Kriffing hell,” she swears suddenly, “the satellite's out of alignment.” She sends him a glance, worry etched deep into her skin. “Just stay there, Cas, I’ll fix it.”

Before he has a chance to protest the nickname (and since when are they on nickname terms?) she’s moving.

How she’s still on her feet, he doesn’t know.

Without taking his eyes off her--flinging her small body against the satellite at the very far end of the roof--Cassian adjusts the frequency his comm is set to and speaks into it in a low voice.

“I need immediate emergency extraction on Scarif,” he says quietly, and hopes the message will get through in time. “For myself and four others.”

Then he changes the frequency back and heaves himself to his feet, swaying a bit as the blood rushes from his head; he staggers over to the transmitter and leans against it, weary and in pain but alive.

“Cassian,” Jyn starts as she makes her way back over, and he shakes his head.

“I’ve been hurt worse before,” he tells her, and rests one hand on the lever.

She smiles at him, then, and even covered in dust and grime she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Together, then?” she asks.

He grins through the exhaustion and the pain. “Together.”

They pull the lever.

[=|=]

Baze Malbus does not think he has ever known fear such as this: deep, all-consuming terror that scorches his bones and steals his breath and leaves him wide-eyed and helpless and screaming.

His husband is dueling Darth Vader.

For all that Chirrut has pretended to be no Jedi, living in hiding on Jedha all these years and smuggling what kyber he could (to send it to new padawans across the galaxy), the creed of the Order flows through his veins like blood, influences every decision he makes. And this, this, dueling Vader to give Baze and the others more time, it is so very Chirrut it makes Baze want to weep.

But there is a task to be done, and no time for weeping, so Baze drags his eyes away from the two forms writhing and twisting about each other, glowing blades dancing, and he aims his blaster cannon and pulls the trigger again and again and again. He fires until the Imperial death troopers in their shiny black plastoid armor lie scattered about, limbs twisted in odd angles, like broken toys a child cast aside the moment he accidentally snapped off an arm.

All dead, but so many of Jyn’s ragtag crew is dead too, and Baze forces himself not to dwell on it as he jogs over to the master switch and throws it, dropping the shield gate at last.

That’s when he hears Chirrut make a sound--a quiet whimper of pain-- and Baze flies from the switch to see his husband broken and bleeding on the ground and Darth Vader standing above him with cruel triumph in every muscle.

“Pitiful,” Vader says then, thick with scorn. “Like every other Jedi I have crossed blades with.”

“The Death Star is coming, isn’t it?” Baze snarls back, almost unable to recognize his own voice. “You wouldn’t want to be caught here when it fires. Leave him. We’re all about to be dead anyway, why waste the time?”

Vader pauses as though considering this for a moment before nodding once, decisively. “A sound point. Enjoy your last moments, Guardian,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Baze falls to his knees beside his husband, choking on silent sobs; his hands wind through Chirrut’s long robes, clutching tight, as though by force of will alone Chirrut could be healed. Baze knows that the likelihood of getting off Scarif is slim--were they to by some miracle escape, it would take only bacta and rest and antibiotics to heal Chirrut, but there’s almost no possibility of that happening now.

He doesn’t want his last moments with his husband to be spent with his husband unconscious.

Baze slumps onto his knees beside Chirrut and prays desperately that the Jedi will wake up.

[=|=]

By the time the young Partisan gets her shuttle to Scarif for the emergency pickup, she’s almost too late.

The planet-killer that destroyed the old base is on its way when Rynna pilots through the wreckage of the destroyed shield gate and aims for the top of the Citadel Tower; she follows Andor’s comm signal to the roof and hovers there, drops the hatch and waits as Andor and a young green-eyed woman climb on board.

“We can’t leave Bodhi, Baze, and Chirrut,” the woman says, “not if they’re alive.”

Something unspoken and heavy hangs in the air: there’s every chance they aren’t.

Nonetheless, the woman--her name is Jyn, Rynna learns--directs Rynna to the pad where Bodhi had landed the Rogue One ship. The pad itself is twisted metal and flame and smoke, but off to one side a young man with ash-black hair waits, nervous and fidgeting. His name is Bodhi Rook, Jyn explains; he’s a defector, a former Imperial cargo pilot, and a friend of her father.

Whoever her father is.

They find Baze kneeling over Chirrut’s prone body not far from the master switch, surrounded by many dead bodies (and maybe some that are alive, but there’s no time; the planet-killer has arrived by now, they only have moments until it fires, they have to go) ; Chirrut is breathing but unconscious, blood oozing steadily from a deep gash on his side.

It’s a strange, ragtag group of misfits Rynna’s picking up, she thinks, and her leader not least among them. A strange group indeed; but if these people are Andor’s friends, well…

He has few enough of those. And she intends to see him keep these four.

The small shuttle arrows through the shield gate and leaps into hyperspace just as the planet-killer fires.

Chapter Text

Jorgen lays on his back on the hot sand and stares up at the massive silver shape in the sky, far too large and close (and brightly menacing) to be a moon. That it’s the Death Star, he’s got no doubts about. What else would the Empire send to clean up a Rebel attack? They’re strong believers in sacrificing for the greater good, after all; the Emperor has no qualms about blowing up a whole planet (or the only city on a planet) to teach the Alliance a lesson.

(He’s not around to hear of Alderaan’s complete obliteration; if he had been, he would’ve spared a wry laugh at the irony of things, a laugh that would’ve morphed into tears.)

He sucks in a raspy breath, wincing as the motion aggravates the blaster wound in his chest; blood bubbles frothy and metallic at his lips, copper mixing with the grains of sand on his swollen tongue. The sun beats down, harsh and white, oddly soothing even as it leeches the last drops of moisture from his parched throat--there’s something comforting about the idea that even with the Death Star approaching, the sun still shines.

(He wishes, as petty as it seems, that he still had the strength to lift his blaster.

Or that the stormtroopers had finished the job.

Anything would be better than dying by the Empire’s superweapon.)

Jorgen closes his eyes, sees Jyn painted on the undersides of his eyelids, and feels a pang of grief (regret). He had seen the way she looked at him, back on Yavin; he’d known she didn’t want him to come. And he’d known why, too--the likelihood of survival was abysmally low, even before the Death Star came into play. But there had been no way he was letting his little sister (adopted, yes, but in the end that didn’t matter) on such a dangerous raid without him.

(He’d like to think that his presence helped in some vital way; the truth is probably that the mission would’ve succeeded--he refuses to think that it may have failed--without him, but this way he can die in the most noble cause he knows: protecting someone he loves.)

(If only he could know for sure that Jyn survives. Then he could die happy, no matter the cause of death.)

He opens his eyes, suddenly wanting to see everything he can before the inevitable end arrives; from the Star in the sky there’s a streak of vivid green, stark and raw and sharp against the pale blue atmosphere.

It reminds him of the grass on Lah’mu.

(He can see it, even now, before him: iron grey skies laden with cold rain; the long grass still heavy with the morning’s dew; the rich, dark earth staining his hands and the hems of his trousers and his knees, ingrained in the soles of his boots; the small cave he’d seen the first time he’d followed this path, when he’d landed his ship desperately in need of parts to fix the hyperdrive. He had the parts now, and a bit of time to spare, and more than enough curiosity; he’d just poked his head inside the rocks, not expecting anything to come of it.

Not expecting to see a closed hatch that had clearly been recently opened.

He’d heard there were Imperials in the area; someone was dead, the rumors flew, a woman whose name no one would say. What of the girl, a woman had asked in a choked whisper, and then both she and her friend shot looks his way and fell silent. So he’d opened the hatch with a curiosity born from the whispers, never expecting to see a tiny girl with long dark hair and wide green eyes staring up at him with an expression of pure terror on her small face.

He’d offered her his (dark, earth-stained) hand and led her to his ship and his life was never the same.)

The green light hits the ocean, sends a wave of white roaring at him, blotting out the horizon.

“‘M scared, Jyn,” Jorgen chokes out, chest heaving (lungs empty), choking on his own blood and watching the world shatter beneath his back.

He digs his hands into the sand; it’s too dry and hot and grainy to be Lah’mu soil, but it’s the closest he can get.

(It’s been more than a decade, but he can still feel the dirt clinging to his palms.)

(Jyn is not here, and that’s fitting, somehow; she should live on, unburdened by the weight of watching the breath leave his lungs, the light leave his eyes. Saving her from that maudlin scene is the last protection he can give her.

It feels right, dying alone like this.

But what he wouldn’t give to see her one last time…)

He breathes.

The wave comes closer, cresting over him, and all is white and heat--

(and it is not the jyn of now that he sees, burned into his retinas as his body burns; it is the thin, pale, dirt-smudged face of the little girl who’s just seen her mama die and still doesn’t understand why.

it is the jyn of lah’mu, who reaches up trustingly to take his hand, even though he is not the someone she was promised.

it is the jyn who spends nights curled up in his bed, because in her dreams lyra screams and only he can keep the nightmares at bay.)

There are two things that everyone knows about Jorgen.

One: the Alliance is the blood that flows through his veins.

Two: Jyn Erso is the star that burns in his soul.

Three: Jyn Erso is the air that fills his lungs.

Four: Jyn Erso is--

[=|=]

Rynna watches the way Andor and Erso interact, a barely-masked grin on her face. She’d have to be blind to miss the way they dance around each other, the constant searching looks Andor shoots Erso’s way (like he has to reassure himself she’s still there, still breathing), the way Erso very deliberately does not look at him (the way her hands are clenched together, as though to keep her fingers from twining with those of the man beside her).

“Off to the medbay, all of you,” Rynna says, shooing Andor away with her hands. “Andor, get that shoulder taken care of.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one giving orders around here?” Andor grumbles, but he heads off towards the medbay anyway, his four companions following him.

Well, three companions follow him. The fourth is unconscious in the massive armored Jedhan’s arms.

Rynna spares a moment of sympathy for the couple (it’s obvious, the way Baze clutches Chirrut close) and then pushes all thought of injury out of her mind. There are more important things to be done tonight.

Such as the speed-planning of a very important mission.

She ducks into the room she’s commandeered (the moment they’d arrived at the temp base, it’d been a free-for-all scramble to claim the best quarters) and clears her throat, causing the copper-haired young woman dozing on the bed to open her eyes.

“Kendra,” she starts, “we’ve got a mission.”

“Oh?” The slender redhead grins at her girlfriend, mischief dancing in her dark blue eyes. “What’s that?”

Rynna grins, shark-sharp and dangerous. “We’ve got a match to make.”

[=|=]

Extremists they may be, but the Partisans certainly know how to throw one hell of a party.

There’s music and dancing from ten planets Jyn recognizes (and more that she doesn’t) and enough alcohol to drown a bantha, from Corellian whiskey to Alderaanian wine and gin smuggled from some backwater planet in the Outer Rim.

It’s almost enough to make up for thirty dead men and women and one droid (and an older brother who never should’ve come), and a Jedi who may never wake up again, and a pilot whose hands are covered in burns, and a Temple Guardian barely able to breathe, and a pair of spies with blaster wounds and guilt on their shoulders.

Almost.

Chirrut is in a bacta tank and Bodhi is asleep with his hands covered in bacta and Baze refuses to leave the medbay, so it’s just Jyn and Cassian at the party. She really should be trying to get in touch with Draven, let him know at least some of them survived, but there’s alcohol here and Jorgen didn’t make it out and she doesn’t want to think anymore.

(There’s a room back on Yavin stocked with an assortment of drinks for off-duty days and now who else knows about it?)

So she swipes a bottle of Corellian whiskey from the drink table and joins Cassian against one wall, twists off the cap and takes a long swig. The liquor burns on the way down.

“You going to keep that all to yourself?” Cassian asks wryly, and she shakes her head, handing the bottle over wordlessly. “Thanks.”

( You didn’t lose your best friends, she wants to say. Why are you drinking?

It’s childish, she knows.

She doesn’t say anything.)

They share the bottle for a while, alternating long drinks, until the world turns fuzzy and the emotions start to fade. The music beckons, and Jyn turns to Cassian with a challenge and a grin on her face. “Wanna dance?”

“Jyn,” Cassian says, “you’re drunk.”

He’s none too steady himself.

“Am not,” she says back, and then balances herself against the wall as the room spins. “Okay, maybe a little,” she concedes. “Bet I could still take you down, though.”

“I bet you could,” and is it her imagination or is there something strange in his gaze?

(Maybe it’s just the whiskey.)

“Is that a yes?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

Standing by the drink table, Rynna hides a smile.

[=|=]

Some time later, they find a seat near the edge of the room, both in need of a break from the heat and closeness of the dance floor. Everything’s a bit hazy from the alcohol, but Cassian’s not drunk enough to forget.

(He’s not sure he can get drunk enough to forget.)

Scarif will be forever in his bones, he knows; even now, he feels sand beneath his boots, the world shifting with every step, and the heat of the dance floor burns like the sun.

(All Jyn’s friends, her spies, her comrades-in-arms--they’re dead, immolated by the Death Star’s fire, never to return; and yet here he sits among his friends and soldiers. It doesn’t seem fair.)

“Who was Jorgen?”

The question slips out before he even realizes he’s thinking it; he waits, heart in his throat, for Jyn to leave--but she doesn’t. She just looks at him, long and slow, until she sees whatever it is she’s looking for, and then she closes her eyes.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” she mutters, and then she pulls the unfinished whiskey bottle towards her and takes a long drink and sighs. “When I was eight years old, Krennic found my parents and I on Lah’mu. He took Papa and he killed Mama and I hid. We’d made a plan--Saw Gererra was supposed to come--but I was found by a Rebel spy instead--Jorgen. He was a brother to me.”

She stops, swallows, takes another drink.

“You were hoping he’d stay behind,” Cassian says quietly, and she nods. “I had an older brother,” he offers suddenly, not knowing where the words are coming from. “Two of them.”

“What happened to them?”

He swallows. “They died. My mother, father, both my brothers--got caught in an Imperial raid. There was just enough time for me to hide under a bed.” A pause. “I was six years old.”

There’s a heavy silence; he can see Jyn digesting the information. A strange look crosses her face, finally, and wordlessly she hands him the bottle.

Another pause ensues as he drinks. He lowers the bottle to find her watching him, still, an emotion he can’t quite place in her green eyes; he watches her back, tries to think of something to say, but it’s as though his mind is wrapped in a fog--he cannot think at all.

( Don’t think, feel, Chirrut whispers, and whether it’s the charged emotion of the moment or the stress or the alcohol he’ll never know, but something inside Cassian snaps and he lets go.)

“We,” and he swallows, throat abruptly dry, “we can drink to their memories later. Right now, let’s drink to forget.”

Jyn nods, reaches out to take the bottle from him, and sudden inspiration strikes.

He recognizes the emotion in her eyes. It’s the same thing that keeps him here, with her, protecting her beyond any obligation or duty he may have had.

(Saw would’ve called it a weakness, but in the end Saw did everything out of love, no matter how he spun it; and what he feels and sees may not be love, not yet, but it only needs time.)

( you have lost much, but you have gained more, Chirrut had said, back in the hangar, if only you let down your barriers. And then: feel it, the Force in your heart, not your head, and Cassian has always been loathe to trust his heart.)

(and Jyn, having lost them all, and still giving him her whiskey because she knows how it feels to drink alone)

(and Chirrut was wrong: it is not barriers holding him back, but chains wrapped around his heart, locked up tight--

and it was never Cassian who held the key.)

Their fingers brush as she takes the bottle (and he’s still staring), and Jyn smiles, soft and sad and barely there--

and something in him breaks free.

By the time his mind catches up to his body (to his heart) he’s got one hand cupping her cheek and the other tugging her closer, and she’s closing her eyes, leaning in--

(a voice in his head screams at him to stop, to back away, to protect himself.

it sounds like Saw.

you’re dead, he tells it, leave me be, let me go free.)

The whiskey bottle falls to the floor, forgotten.

Chapter Text

“Erso, you are damned lucky.” Draven’s voice crackles over the long-range comm, echoing in Jyn’s headset. “Next time, comm sooner. We all thought you were dead. Sent the Princess after the plans. Need you Home ASAP.”

Jyn snorts. “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it,” she says. “Understood, sir. Will be bringing my crew back with me. You remember that alliance with the Partisans you were asking me about? I think we might be able to work something out.”

“Get back Home and we’ll discuss it. Over and out.”

Jyn pulls off the headset and opens her mouth to call for Kay, only to remember--he’s gone. “Shit,” she mutters under her breath, swallowing thickly, and clutches for a moment at the headset, to steady herself.

“Jyn?” Cassian asks softly, standing and stepping behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her against him. She leans into the hug gratefully, letting out a long breath, and closes her eyes against the storm of emotions just waiting to swallow her up.

“I miss Kay,” is all she says, and then she raises her voice. “Bodhi, set a course for Yavin 4. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“On it,” Bodhi yells back.

Jyn sighs. “I need to go,” she says gently, attempting to untangle herself from Cassian’s arms.

He pulls her in tighter. “Bodhi can handle it,” he murmurs, gently pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“But I can’t,” Baze says pointedly from across the ship, scowling down at his blaster cannon.

Jyn dissolves into helpless laughter. Cassian laughs too, rich and warm, and she can’t help but smile at the sound. “Alright, we get the point,” she says, still laughing, and this time when she goes to pull away Cassian lets her.

She climbs the ladder into the cockpit and settles into the pilot’s seat. “We ready to jump?” she asks, turning to Bodhi.

He nods. “Ready when you are.”

“Jumping in three, two, one,” and she pulls the lever.

The stars stretch out around her, and she laughs.

[=|=]

“I want a rank,” Cassian says simply, staring Draven down. “Equal to Jyn’s.”

“We don’t just hand out promotions,” the general says irritably. “Why should you be an exception?”

“The Partisans follow me. I’m Saw’s son, their leader. They don’t move without my permission. If this is going to work, I’ll need to know everything. Everything.”

“Draven, sir,” Jyn interjects quietly, “we can’t afford to lose that many soldiers.”

Draven nods, once, and considers Cassian for a few minutes. Cassian stares back, face completely blank, his breathing even and relaxed.

It’s the general who looks away first.

And then, a slow smirk spreading across his face: “Andor, how would you like to work in Intelligence?”

A matching smile crosses Cassian’s. “I think we could make that work, sir.”

[=|=]

Bodhi flies an x-wing in the Battle of Yavin, and he’s behind Luke when the young Jedi blows up the Death Star. He’s not the hero of this battle--that belongs to Luke, and to Han, who decided to show up at the last second--but that’s okay; Bodhi never really wanted to be the hero, anyway.

There’s no medal ceremony recognizing the survivors of Scarif, without whom the Battle of Yavin would’ve never been won, but there are whispers, and that’s enough for Bodhi. Honestly, he’d rather not have everyone staring at him when he walks through the halls…

He ends up with a permanent place in red squadron, and he does fly with them, but he’s also refused to let Jyn and Cassian go off on any missions without him. Mon Mothma sighs and assigns him to be Jyn’s pilot.

(Not that he ever does any solo flying, when Jyn’s on board, but he doesn’t mind being a co-pilot and with Kay gone Jyn needs him there more than ever.)

Sometimes Cassian helps Jyn fly, instead, and after Bodhi walks in on them once (in various stages of undress) he takes to the habit of shouting whenever he’s getting ready to come in. This reduces the missing articles of clothing drastically.

Officially, Baze and Chirrut are part of the Partisans, meaning they follow Cassian’s orders above all else; this just means that on most missions, the Jedi and the Guardian accompany the two spies. They are Rogue One and Jyn is the lodestone by which they live, and none of them intend to let her fly off into danger without them.

They are Rogue One, yes, but they are also the pilot who brought the message, Draven’s second-in-command, the leader of the Partisans, a Jedi advisor to Leia Organa, and a Temple Guardian with a very large gun. They are Rogue One, and they are themselves, but they are a family--and they are better together.

They have family dinners with Galen, who tells them all stories of Jyn as a little girl; Cassian teases her about them until she recruits one of the older Partisans, a man named Koren, who’s been with the cadre since Cassian was adopted, and bribes him into joining the dinners.

Cassian stops laughing after that.

Nothing is always good, of course; they have their fair share of disputes, but that is not for this story. There are days when Baze storms out into the freezing Hoth icescape and shoots rocks until he returns covered in frost but breathing freely; days when Chirrut hides in his room and meditates, or slays shadowy demons with his lightsaber’s glowing blade; days when Cassian runs laps around the base until he can hardly stand, when he steals rations to make Jedhan food and drowns himself in the smell of the spices. There are days when Bodhi takes his x-wing and flies it for hours, racing through icy spires and blinding snowstorms at breakneck speed (sometimes Luke joins him, and they race each other and their demons until their hands cramp around the controls); there are days when Jyn throws herself into sparring hard enough to injure her opponents, when she disappears inside herself and Lieutenant Hallick emerges instead, days when she cries herself to sleep in Galen’s arms and stays with him for hours.

The nights are bad, too. Jyn takes to finding Leia on those sleepless nights, when not even Cassian’s presence can reassure her, and talking about everything from Alliance strategy to dead mothers to insufferable men (the only thing Leia likes more than arguing with Han is complaining about him), and sometimes Jyn takes the princess to the Intelligence agents’ new-old hideout and gets them both roaring drunk (they may have moved bases, but this place is almost a shrine to the memory of the men and women she got killed).

No, nothing is good all the time; nothing is ever perfect. They all know that happily-ever-afters don’t exist.

But families do.