Tag: cassianandorappreciationweek

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incognitajones:

A ficlet for @siachti and @englishable, who probably weren’t expecting something quite this grim. I’d apologize, but well… this is where the prompts for Day Three (Alliance Intelligence/Fulcrum, “collateral damage”) and Four (“silence”) of Cassian Appreciation Week led me.

Your mistakes aren’t the worst of it, other Fulcrum agents had warned him. You might expect that, but no.

They sting, they wound—how could it not, knowing that your error, your wrong choice, led to people dying?—but they also reflect imperfect knowledge. Time pressure. Not seeing the terrain clearly through the fog of war. Things that, as clichéd as it is to say, could happen to anyone.

Other times, it’s been the harsh demands of self-preservation. Tivik was bad, but at least he’d done his own killing that time. Looked the man in the eye. Had a reason more pressing, less abstract than the calculus of what was to be gained in future.

No, the deaths you let happen with clean hands and clear sight are the worst.

Every time he leaves a city knowing exactly when it will be bombed. Every time ships jump straight into an ambush because warning them would be too obvious. Every time he and Draven agree they can’t act on intercepted intelligence yet, because it could give away their source and choke off the flow of valuable information. Standing aside, watching the numbers on a screen tick up and up.

Cassian’s silence has killed more than his hands ever will.

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jyner-sew:

For Day #1 of Cassian Andor Appreciation Week, I was kind of struck with the idea of how Cassian might react to hearing Saw’s last words and realizing, at the heart of it, they were all chasing the same ‘dream’

“Save the Rebellion! Save the dream …”

Cassian hears the words, distant — yet oh-so-loud, echoing off the chasm growing deep in front of them.  They sting, for a heartbeat … because, well… could he?

It’s what he’s fought for, all he’s known since he was six, but still … could he?

He stows away the thought, registering Jyn’s breathing behind him, ragged and rough as she pulls Bodhi upright beside her. The monks are close behind and there’s no time to shout orders, no time to think anything other than run, so he keeps running towards the shadow of a U-Wing and hopes beyond hope that it’s the one that will get them off of this planet in time.

The landing gear’s down, and he’s so happy he just might cry, but he’d rather wait til they’ve hit atmo for that. So instead he plants himself at it’s entrance, ground unsteady, and ushers his new crew up into it’s belly with arms thrashing wildly so as to make it out through the sand cloud enveloping them.

He’s tumbling towards the cockpit when the ramp slams closed and he sees the frantic citizens below, like tiny pin-pricks, hurtling towards anything with wings and a hyperdrive that might just grant them a second sunrise.

Kaytoo’s babbling nonsense about unfinished calculations before Cassian finds himself yelling “Come on!” at the controls, both in anger and frustration that while the mission was successful he’d still failed, they were too late, the planet killer was real …

He pulls the lever calmly, and they scream into hyperspace.

The viewport is dark and behind him is quiet, grief. Mourning, perhaps … but there isn’t time, not for that, not for him. He scrubs a hand down his face and steadies his breath — they’re in Imperial territory, he can’t comm Draven just yet, so he stands from the cockpit and makes his way to the cargo hold … and hears the tail-end of a conversation.

He’s always listening, observing in silence, and yet his heart betrays him now, pounding wildly at the words pulled straight from a dream. Like hope, from her.

“—- there’s a way to defeat it.”