Chapter Text
It wasn’t easy, being anonymous, no matter how easy he might make it seem. Becoming anonymous was one thing, that was a matter of body language, careful observation and getting into the habit of forcibly repressing any sign of an actual personality, but staying anonymous was a different beast entirely. The former was usually a sprint fuelled partly by adrenaline, but the latter was a marathon of discomfort and existential angst. Someone had once told him he was ‘uncommonly gifted’ at the art of blending in, high praise to be sure, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wondered if his prowess was at the cost of his own identity, if his soul had become as dark and grey and formless as the pre-dawn mist that hung ominously around the street below.
That was just it though, he thought as he hunched his shoulders against the cold, to do this work you
had to
be dark and grey and formless; the knife in the dark, the innocent civilian and the ghost all at once. He supposed that he just hadn’t figured out whether he’d packed away that little kernel that was really, truly
Cassian
into an ironclad, airtight box so as not to interfere with that had to be done, or if he’d just sacrificed it to the cause, chipping away at himself one mission at a time until there was nothing left. Sometimes, in his darkest hours, he wondered what Maarva would think of what he'd become, if she'd approve of all his work for the cause, or if she'd be sad at how much of himself he'd ended up sacrificing for it.
His target yawned and drained his mug in the warmth and comfort of the diner across the street, and Cassian readied himself to move, but a minute later the man had another mug and some sort of pastry in front of him. Must be nice , he thought bitterly, wishing he’d found a warmer vantage point than this old abandoned warehouse. The building itself was mostly intact at least, but there were several broken windows here on the first floor, which let in a chill wind that cut right through to his bones. It would be so easy to go down there, just another worker coming in for his morning caf, a brief respite from the chilly commute. He doubted anyone, least of all the target, who now seemed to be completely absorbed in trying to chat up the Twi’lek waitress, would look twice at him… but that wasn’t the point. This was reconnaissance, gathering vital information about the target’s habits and lifestyle so that some other agent could go undercover and get the information they actually wanted. Undercover was playing a part, but this was playing a blank slate, a silent, faceless observer, and while he appreciated the necessity of such operations, Cassian found that it gave him all too much time alone with his thoughts.
The waitress was openly flirting now, leaning over the counter and smiling until someone -her boss, he would assume- yelled at her to get back to work loud enough that even Cassian heard it. The waitress and the target both jumped a foot off the ground and hurriedly returned their focus to their work and their caf respectively.
God, he missed flirting.
True, it had become more of a means to an end in recent years given his line of work, but that didn’t mean he never enjoyed it. A reminder of a simpler time perhaps, or perhaps just a tantalising moment of real human connection, no matter how short-lived. This mission had gone on too long, that was for sure. He knew it was nearly over, but right now ‘nearly’ felt like ‘never’. It was surprisingly draining, being a ghost, and he found himself longing pathetically for someone to talk to him, look at him, to acknowledge his existence so he could stop questioning it himself.
Well, as Clem had once told him when he was a child, ‘be careful what you wish for, Cassian’.
He was just making a note of the waitress - any associations should be noted, no matter how casual- when someone new entered the diner. Short-ish, a bit scruffy looking, a scarf pulled up over their head, which might have looked suspicious if it wasn’t for the biting cold. Probably a just worker on their morning commute or just getting off the graveyard shift. In any case the target didn’t acknowledge them, to his detriment, as it turned out.
What happened next happened quickly. The waitress served the newcomer (some sort of large travel mug, either their usual or something pre-ordered) and went back to flirting with the target, leaning over again and brazenly flaunting her cleavage. The newcomer turned to leave, mug in hand, but instead of heading back out into the frigid morning, they did a neat sidestep that put them directly behind the target, who was being expertly distracted by the waitress and her ample assets. If Cassian hadn’t been watching intently from a clear vantage point with the express purpose of noting anything unusual, he might have missed it entirely, but as it was he watched in surprise as the newcomer swiftly and gracefully pickpocketed what looked like a datapad from the target’s coat. It probably would have worked beautifully too, if it wasn’t for the fact that milliseconds later, the boss yelled again, the waitress gave a start and so did the target, his elbow shooting out and coming into contact with the newcomer just as they began to pull back.
The target whirled around, clearly not expecting anyone to be standing so close behind them, and the sudden movement made the newcomer stumble back a little too, datapad still in their hand and in clear view. There was a moment of pure shocked silence, and then all hell broke loose.
The target made a grab for the newcomer, throwing them off balance again, but this time they rallied, using their momentum to almost pirouette and swinging their (surprisingly tiny) fist into Target’s face. Target yelled, clutching his nose and Newcomer immediately turned and bolted.
(Waitress looked shocked, Cassian noted. Unclear whether because she was surprised about theft or just surprised it went wrong.)
Cassian was on his feet in a blink. He watched as Newcomer sped out of the diner and disappeared down an alleyway while Target blustered and bellowed, probably calling for the police, and on this planet that meant Stormtroopers. He had to get out of here, and fast, get back to the safehouse without anyone seeing so as to make sure that there was absolutely no way he could get caught up in this mess. He didn’t have much with him here, just a datapad to make notes, a hi-tech set of binoculars that hung around his neck anyway and the usual mess of a person sitting in one place for hours and hours at a time, so he just pocketed the datapad and left the rest, keeping to the front wall so he could watch the windows and stay as invisible as possible.
He waited for a few minutes at the top of the stairs, listening intently for the clomp of white plasteel boots or the whine of sirens. He’d learned the hard way that walking calmly, blending in and actually being innocent were no guarantees when the Empire was out for blood. He knew from bitter experience that if he timed this wrong he could walk right into a squadron of trigger-happy stormtroopers, looking like an easy collar that would mean minimal paperwork and minimal time out in the freezing cold. Nothing but the usual sounds of the city waking up though. He checked his watch and- yes, the local garrison would be changing shifts about now, that should give him plenty of time as long as he was quick about it.
He checked the window one last time, and was about to make his escape when he saw something in his peripheral vision. Movement below. A barely noticeable shift in the shadows between the warehouse and another alley, it almost could have some vermin crawling around or even a stray trash bag caught in the wind, but a blinking neon sign nearby illuminated the area for a moment, and a moment was all he needed to recognise the newcomer, that threadbare, greenish scarf still pulled over their head.
Were they insane ? What on earth were they still doing hanging around here with the law on the way? It was possible they, like Cassian, knew about the guards’ shift change and knew they had more time than usual, but even so, why they would stick around so close to the scene of the crime was a mystery to him. Checking up on the waitress? Perhaps she was an accomplice after all. Or perhaps the newcomer simply had some sort of hideout around here they were confident would be overlooked.
He watched, though it was more difficult than he had expected to keep track of them. The newcomer obviously knew a thing or two about blending in themselves, and the low light and thick mist were very much working in their favour here. Should he just make a break for it? He didn’t want to be anywhere near the actual culprit if the guards showed up, but at this point it might genuinely be less risky than just sitting here and waiting to be caught.
This was going to mess up the potential undercover mission for sure. It depended what exactly was on the datapad that the newcomer had pickpocketed, but it was probable that the target would be far cagier than before. The Rebellion leadership might scrap the whole thing, but the very least of it would be another separate reconnaissance mission a few weeks down the line, and that meant that everything he had got here was almost useless. Shit.
Wait.
Where did they go?
The very second he realised he’d lost sight of the newcomer, he heard the telltale creak of the floorboards below. Quiet though, careful. Almost silent footsteps making their way towards- kriff . Were they coming up here ? Oh, this was going to go sideways in record time, wasn’t it?
He inched back, flattening himself against the wall as best he could, though there was almost nothing in way of actual cover in this big, empty room, so he’d just have to make do with the element of surprise and hope for the best that it was a quiet surprise.
The person that emerged at the top of the staircase wasn’t what he expected. The newcomer had pulled their scarf down off their face, and now he could see it was a small human woman, younger than he’d have thought and slightly built under that bulky coat, Cassian might almost say dainty if he hadn’t just seen her break a man’s nose with disturbing ease. Dark hair, almost imperceptible limp, some sort of club hanging from her belt, but there was far too much weapon-concealing space in that coat for him to believe that was all. She could have a flamethrower under there for all he knew.
She turned her back to him, and for one optimistic moment Cassian thought he might be able to simply sneak down the stairs without anyone being the wiser, but the instant he shifted his weight she spun around, blaster raised. Thankfully he’d had his own blaster out from the moment he’d realised she was in the building, and so he was faced with a standoff rather than a pointless death.
“Who are you?” she demanded. Coruscanti accent? Here ?
“Who are you ?” he retorted.
“The queen of Corellia.”
“Of course. Stupid of me not to recognise you.”
“What are you doing here?” she snapped, clearly unimpressed by his sarcasm, even though she had started it.
“Having a picnic.” He said dryly. Banter, no matter how tense, was quieter and safer than a blaster fight or a scuffle after all. “You?”
“Seriously, get out. Now.” She growled, nudging her blaster point towards the stairs, “This is my place.”
“Is it.”
He held eye contact for longer than was comfortable, and to his surprise she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. He should have just gone when she’d said really, shut his mouth and run. It would have been the simplest way, even if it did run the risk of her identifying him if she was caught, but in the midst of their stalemate the first siren rang out, and he knew that if he had gone then he’d probably have walked right into the stormtroopers’ hands.
“Get. Out.” She repeated, and he couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.
“Now? Are you joking?”
“I don’t joke.”
“Is that so, Your Majesty?”
“Shut up. Go.”
“No.”
He didn’t move. Neither did she.
“I will shoot you.” She murmured, still not breaking eye contact.
It probably should have unnerved him, especially given the circumstances, but after so long without even the smallest, most casual human contact, Cassian found it strangely comforting to be watched so closely, even if he was one sentence away from a gut shot. Psychotic, really, especially since being closely observed was the exact opposite of his mission objective, and usually had disastrous consequences.
The sirens were getting closer.
“I still think I’m safer up here, even if you do shoot me.” He said honestly.
Her gaze flicked to the window and back again, and he could see a thousand calculations happening behind her eyes, but as they stared each other down the sirens were still getting closer. They were running out of time and they both knew it.
“Look,” he said, throwing caution to the wind and raising his free hand, slowly lowering his blaster, “You have somewhere to hide, right? Why else would you come up here?” It was the wrong thing to say, he could tell from the way she tensed and narrowed her eyes, but he could hardly backpedal at this point and she hadn't shot him yet, so he forged ahead towards the longest of long shots. “You don’t want me ratting you out, and there’s no way I can hide well enough in time now to not get picked up, so really it’s in both of our best interest to hide together.”
“Or maybe I just shoot you.” She said coldly.
“And let everyone on the block know where you are? Anyway, once they find a body they’ll tear this place apart looking for you, no matter how good your little hidey-hole is, and when they do find you they’ll shoot first.”
“I’m pretty good at hiding.” She said, jaw set in determination, but he could tell she was wavering.
“We’re running out of time,” he said, giving her his best wide-eyed imploring look for good measure. The look was probably a lot less convincing than the sound of a speeder pulling up and the muted, crackly voices of the stormtroopers filtering up to them from the street.
A few more seconds of staring at each other, and then he saw the moment her resolve broke.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Hurry up.”
He nodded, making a show of stowing his blaster as she turned on her heel and scurried into the shadowy depths of the warehouse. Whatever this hiding place was, he was sure it would be ideal territory for killing him quietly, if that was her goal, but he’d rather that than another Imperial cell, or even the stark certainty of the Lullaby Pill.
She led him to a shaft, something like an industrial dumbwaiter, long since out of order. It wasn’t vertical, but it was steep enough that he almost did a double take when she began to scramble up, her small frame seeming to defy gravity.
“Are you coming?” came her voice from the blackness above, “Or shall I shoot you from here? It’s pretty dark but I think I can just about make a headshot-”
“’ I don’t joke ’ , she says…” He muttered, climbing gingerly onto the bottom shelf and staring bleakly up at the steep and alarmingly smooth ramp he was apparently meant to climb in such a manner that he didn’t fall, make an ass of himself and alert the stormtroopers to their presence all in one fell swoop.
“I joke sometimes.” She said, and before he could retort, a thick rope tumbled down, making the climb a great deal less daunting all of a sudden.
He made it up without incident, and she shut a heavy hatch over the shaft once he was clear, plunging them into almost complete darkness. He half expected a knife in his chest, but after a few seconds of soft, fumbling noises that felt oddly intimate (he really needed to get back into society- any society, because this was getting pathetic…) the room was bathed in warm yellow light from a tarnished and rusted mining lamp connected haphazardly to some sort of portable generator.
The room was bigger than he might have expected, clearly a kind of storage space, but with a few crates scattered around, a desk with a twisted mess of metal that used to be a computer and a threadbare, clearly disused mattress in one corner, all covered in a layer of dust. There was a full size door in one wall that looked a lot newer than the walls and the shaft he’d just climbed up, which made him think it might have been repurposed as office space at some point.
“Is there another entrance?” he asked, frowning, and-
-and there was the knife.