Chapter Text
***FIVE YEARS AGO***
Draven found Andor sprawled on the deck of his U-wing, surrounded by tools and droid parts, nimble fingers fast at work inside a carboplast-composite cranium.
“Don’t get up, Captain,” he said, before Andor even registered his presence. “I must say, I didn’t believe the rumors. But here you are.” Draven sighed. “What the hell are you doing?”
Glancing up with a quick, grease-streaked grin, Andor returned his focus to his work. “I’m using my down time between assignments to release stress and improve hand-eye coordination, the better to serve the Alliance.”
Draven was unmoved.
“No? Okay. My wise mentor and superior officer always taught me that ‘need to know’ works both ways.” Shifting some of the droid innards, he popped a small hand tool between his teeth and spoke around it, tool dangling like a death stick at his jaw. “Are you certain you need to know? After all, technically speaking, I am equipping myself for future missions in a manner that costs your division absolutely nothing. I am, for all intents and purposes, recycling trash.”
Draven cocked his head, studying the man before him. Perhaps, he thought, this was Andor happy.
“You do know that we have professional, full-time slicers here,” Draven countered. “None of them has ever successfully reformatted an Arakyd Industries KX-series security droid.”
“I know, sir. Some of them tutored me when I was younger.” He reclaimed the tool from between his teeth and shrugged. “And they never managed it, because they never really wanted it to happen. I do.”
“And why is that, exactly?”
Setting aside the K-2 unit’s head, Andor nodded with the air of an actor preparing for his cue. Clearly, he had rehearsed this.
Unfolding a finger for each of his points, he said, “He could prove invaluable on undercover assignments – he can scan and access Imperial communications frequencies, for example, and he knows the specs of more than forty Imperial ships, and his presence would lend instant legitimacy to any operational alias – and he’ll also be a great help in the day-to-day business of other missions: as a co-pilot, as a transport for heavy gear, as a stand-by for emergency extraction, as—”
“Enough!” Draven raised his hands in surrender. “Clearly you’ve given this some thought. But do the benefits outweigh the potential risks?”
“I’ll accept those risks.”
“I’m serious: this isn’t the kind of pet you want turning on you. Before it goes anywhere, you’ll have to satisfy Major Harinar that it won’t revert to type and kill you in your sleep.”
The twinkle in Andor’s eyes belied his solemn expression. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“And seeing an Imperial security droid walking the halls of the base will make a number of personnel uncomfortable. Consider stamping ‘I belong to Master Andor’ on its chest plating in bright paint, so everyone knows exactly who to blame.”
“I won’t let him disrupt anything,” the young man promised. “How often am I on base? I can tell him to lie low those rare times when I am.”
As he tapped a finger on a section of the KX’s exoskeleton, Andor’s voice went soft, almost wistful, as if he were sharing a secret. “And he’s going to call me Cassian. Not Master. Not Captain Andor. Not Joreth Sward or Willix or Aach or any of my other aliases.”
He aimed for another grin, but the effect was more poignant than cheerful. “I need to hear my real name before I forget what it is.
“You understand, don’t you, General?”
Draven treated the question as rhetorical.
“You can chalk it up to morale,” Andor continued, still more serious than moments before. “I want someone to talk to on my missions other than myself. Who better as a partner than a fellow rescue? We can be creatures of the Rebellion together.” Andor gave the shoulder of the KX-unit a friendly pat.
Draven pursed his lips and then said, “Spoken like a romantic, Andor.”
“I don’t know about that, but it gives me hope, imagining a different life for this droid, trying to make it happen. It feels like another blow against the Empire.” Andor rubbed at his nose, spreading grease from his fingers, and then ran his hand through his hair. “And if not – well, it is my time off, sir.”
Who could argue with that? And when had Andor last accepted an offer of a few days' rest? If this was what it took, Draven would abandon his half-hearted resistance.
“Believe it or not, I had cause to seek you out beyond the desire to verify this” – Draven waved his hand at the pieces of the KX unit – “dubious experiment. I have an opening in the Albarrio sector for a new Fulcrum.”
Andor sat straighter, alight with interest.
“Fulcrums are classified, of course, but I know that you know both Ahsoka Tano and Hera Syndulla serve in such a capacity. It just so happens that your name was the one each gave me when I asked for a recommendation. You were my first thought, as well.” It pleased Draven, seeing this news work on the young man. “Your duties wouldn’t be full time, of course; this would be in addition to other assignments.”
“Recruitment? Yes, sir. You know I want this. Thank you.” Draven waved him down before Andor could rise.
“Congratulations, then. If you succeed with your project here, you can consider this” – he jerked a chin at the dismembered droid – “your first recruit to the Alliance.” Draven tried on a brief smile of his own.
“Give K-2 a chance, sir. Maybe he’ll win you over.”
“I won’t hold my breath.” Draven sobered. “Captain, as Fulcrum, you’ll be shepherding people into this movement to do dangerous work. I know you’ve served during difficult times, but darker days are ahead, and we are going to need all of your resourcefulness, and practicality, and” – he glanced at the KX parts despite himself – “hope before we see light. I am once again putting my trust in you.”
Andor gave him a nod like a salute. “I understand. I won’t let you down. Thank you, sir.”
Five years later, that was how Draven would remember Andor: sprawled on the deck of the ship, buried to the wrist in the artificial brains of his soon-to-be friend, a child’s hurts and a soldier’s burdens and a believer’s commitment written plainly on his face.
Thanking Draven for the opportunity to do more.
***PRESENT DAY***
The celebration no doubt continued throughout the base. Draven had set the box with Andor’s personal effects on the desk in his personal quarters and retreated to his standard-issue sofa. He brought with him a companion he rarely invited, for fear that it might make itself too welcome for too long: a bottle of Corellian whiskey. Only tonight, he told himself.
He felt far too much. And Draven was a most practical man: he knew the bottle contained a simple and efficient anesthetic.
Tomorrow he would sort pride from pain and get on with the business at hand. He would do his damnedest to finish what Andor had started.
And to learn what Andor had yet to teach him.
A good intelligence officer never stopped analyzing the data. Draven knew Andor had stolen victory from tragedy, somehow discerning when to lead and when to follow and how to unite five unlike humans and a reprogrammed droid, mostly strangers to each other, into a seamless strike team. He had known which of his fellow Alliance agents was, like he was, in need of redemption more than survival. He had grasped far more than Draven ever had shown him, and now Draven was prepared to be the student of the young man he had known so well – and hardly known at all.
Draven’s door chime sounded.
Not an emergency, not an official communiqué: a personal summons. He couldn’t recall when – no, if – anyone besides himself had ever been in his quarters on Massassi Station. And as for the hour, nighttime was bleeding into early morning.
Still fully uniformed, Draven answered the door.
He blinked, trying to interpret what he saw. The human was slender, slight, in off-duty khakis and a plain shirt. Not one of his agents. A boy?
“Most people see only the white robes, not the Chandrillan woman,” Mon Mothma said. “Put on a pair of trousers and I might as well be in full-body armor and helmet, for all that anyone recognizes me.”
“Ah,” Draven said.
“The hour is obscene, General, but I couldn’t sleep, and it occurred to me… well. Many lives were lost on and above Scarif and in the attack on the Death Star, and we have many brave souls to remember and celebrate. But.”
She bowed her head for a moment, as if she might find more words at her feet.
“But it occurred to me that you lost someone of special import.”
She looked up, and a tentative hand reached out to him and hovered in the air near his upper arm. He stared at her fingers.
“You raised Captain Andor, General. You saw him through everything he gave – and gave up – for the rebel cause. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. I just wanted to check on you. I wanted you to know that… that we honor his heroism and his sacrifice, and we will remember his example. Most importantly, I wanted you to know that you’re not alone in your grief.”
Draven swallowed.
“That’s all. I’ll just say goodnight, shall I? Or good morning, rather. I just…” She began to retreat with the same grace with which she did everything else. “Your family here is thinking about you.”
“Please,” he said. A distress call.
“What?” She took a step forward again. “What can I do for you?”
She did touch him this time, a quick press of cool fingers to his cheek. Her fingertips came back wet, he saw, and that was strange, because Draven never wept. He could not afford the luxury of tears.
But he had resolved to learn what Andor had yet to teach him. The boy who had wanted to be free. Who had wanted them all to be free.
“Senator, you can help me drink a toast to Captain Andor, or two, and then you can take the bottle with you.” Draven stopped, corrected himself. “Cassian. His name was Cassian.
“And I’m Davits. Please, call me Davits.”
Capt. Andor is one of the most capable agents within Rebel Intelligence. He is a valuable fighter on the battlefield, able to handle missions ranging from reconnaissance and infiltration to assassination and sabotage… Capt. Andor has worked with the rebels since he was a child. It is no exaggeration to say that we are his family. He is absolutely loyal to the rebel cause and will do whatever he must to achieve our goals. – Gen. Draven to Commander Mothma, Rogue One: Rebel Dossier
I have never doubted Capt. Andor’s abilities or his dedication to the rebel movement. He is truly one of our best and brightest… I am concerned about him, however. I understand that for our rebel movement to survive, brave men and women must do terrible things that we’d rather not talk about. But what happens to those men and women afterward?... If we succeed and overthrow the Empire, what kind of life will someone like Capt. Andor have? – Mon Mothma to Gen. Draven, Rogue One: Rebel Dossier
THE END