Chapter Text
The gold paint was a bad idea.
Cassian gives another warning glare to the being checking him out. This time he’s pretty sure it’s a Czerialan, given his fluffy white tuft of hair and the forehead freckles. At least the Czerialan can take a hint. He just leers a bit before rejoining his friends. The Zabrak wouldn’t back off until he nearly broke her hand.
It means his disguise is working, such as it is. The Empire is beloved here and this ecumenopolis is full of Imperials. No Imps are in the bar tonight—thank the Force—but that doesn’t change how Cassian’s in the rock-lion’s den, flashing his claws and teeth as if he belongs. He’s supposed to be memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. The soft folds and liquid shine of his dark blue button-down shirt, the snug-fitting burgundy pants, and definitely the gold stripe on each cheekbone, are all a pretty, sparkling force shield hiding the person underneath. Luthen taught him that.
But he’s not enjoying having this many eyes on him. Especially not in a place like this lush, grotesquely opulent bar on the ground floor of a grotesquely opulent hotel on Troithe, full of self-satisfied fascists who either made their money off the suffering of the less fortunate or by ignoring it was happening. Troithe is like Nar Shadda’s rich, Imperialist cousin. Covert ops here aren’t suicide missions—he would never have been sent if they were—but the ludicrous elegance is all veneer: he could’ve slit the Zabrak’s throat with the vibroknife in his boot then walked right out the door. As long as he stacked enough credits on the bar first.
And he was supposed to wear gold so the contact could recognize him. So here he is, sitting with the wall to his back at the end of the bar, on full display with gold paint on his cheeks. In retrospect he wishes he’d just bought a Force-damned gold shirt.
He suppresses a sigh, doesn’t scowl at his wrist chrono, and takes another sip of whisky. It’s his third in as many hours, but the antieth he injected himself with before he left the hangar won’t wear off until morning. Unfortunately, it makes everything taste like bathtub lum, even the expensive Tevraki whisky he’s been drinking, partly to fit in and mostly out of spite.
Jyn and Melshi are on Onderon, likely risking their lives. Likely right this very second. And Cassian’s sitting on his ass in a gussied-up smuggler’s den, listening to syrupy jatz and waiting for some arrogant crime lord with delusions of solidarity to grace him with her presence.
She’s two hours late and probably won’t show, but they need the weapons. They always need weapons. And Draven insisted Major Cassian Andor was the one person in the entire kriffing Alliance with the perfect combination of status, looks—can’t forget the kriffing looks—and charm (ha) to woo the crime lord into selling her stolen Imp arsenal. So he gets pimped out while his partners risk their lives.
He finishes his whisky in a long, sullen gulp and signals for another. Kriff it.
He pulls his comlink—fully encrypted and untraceable, completely controlled; Rule number one—from one of his tight pockets, keeping a light, innocuous smile on his face now that no one’s trying to proposition him. He’s supposed to be enjoying himself, after all, in this height of Imperial excess.
A tiny Pantoran with two interlocking circles on her forehead sees him then does a doubletake as she steps up to the bar. He’s sure it’s because she’s wearing a surprisingly elegant gown the same burgundy color as her hair, which is also the same color as his pants. And his shirt matches her skin. And he’s got the kriffing gold paint, Force help him. She keeps glancing at him while she waits for the blonde bartender to come over, smiling with bemused admiration. The bartender has to bend down so the Pantoran can order without having to shout.
Cassian smiles wanly back, then wiggles his comlink with an apologetic arch of his eyebrows. Have a comm to make. So sorry. He turns the stool so he’s facing the bar, then hunches around the comlink with his elbows on the gleaming wooden bar top. Hopefully the Pantoran will get the message.
He thumbs it on and inputs the code. “Hey. How’s work going?” he says as soon as he hears the line connect, keeping the frustration out of his voice.
“Hey, Dav!” Bodhi sounds happy. Cassian tries not to be envious. “Work’s fine. Just wish it wasn’t the late shift.” Yeah, him and Cassian both. “I’ve been teaching Lucky how to play sabbac. He’s terrible at it.”
“I am not!” Luke Skywalker protests good-naturedly in the background. Everything he does is good-natured. Cassian occasionally finds it exhausting.
Bodhi does not find it exhausting. In fact, Bodhi was thrilled when Draven authorized Luke to come along on this travesty of a mission. Cassian wasn’t quite as thrilled, because much as he likes Luke the kid’s exhausting. But he’s sure Draven noticed how well the two pilots get along. And especially how anxious Bodhi gets when he has to be by himself.
Cassian flicks a smile at the bartender as she slides another whisky over to him. “I look forward to a game when you get off shift,” he says to Bodhi. He means it. Watching Luke try to bluff would be the best thing about this whole trip.
“Yeah, that’d be great. I mean, unless you’re still on your date.” Cassian’s impressed with how well Bodhi’s fielding their fake conversation. There’s even inuendo in his voice, just like casual ribbing among friends. And no trace of his anxious stuttering.
He’s proud of him. Bodhi’s turning into a really good spy. He makes a mental note to tell Bodhi that when he sees him. “Well, she hasn’t shown up yet,” he drawls, as if he isn’t actually seething with frustration. “I think I’ll give her another half hour and then head home.”
Which means he’ll be back at the hangar where Luke and Bodhi are waiting in about an hour, depending on the taxis and traffic. And then he can finally scrub this shit off his face and get the hell off this kriffing planet.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Bodhi says. “You think anything’s happened?”
“I doubt it.” It’s always a possibility, but there’s been no sign of anything going wrong other than the woman not being here. “My friend did say she might be busy,” he reminds Bodhi. As in, Draven suspected she might get cold feet, but sent Cassian anyway. Bastard.
“I haven’t—I mean, everything’s calm down here,” Luke says. “There hasn’t been, um, any alarms or anything.”
Cassian takes a long sip of his whisky, smiling over the rim. Luke’s so earnest, he couldn’t be a worse liar if he tried. “That’s good to know.” He makes his voice warm. Luke’s been training with Chirrut and apparently he’s a “natural” at using the Force, whatever that means. But Cassian doesn’t know how much he’s actually learned yet. It’d be a tremendous asset if Luke could sense trouble before it arrives, but Cassian knows better than to count on it. He takes a breath, steeling himself for the next half hour. “All right. I’ll let you two get back to it.” He fakes a smirk. “Comm me if anything interesting happens.”
“No problem,” Bodhi says easily. “Good luck with your date.” The comlink goes quiet.
Cassian shuts it off and pushes it back into his pocket. He sips his drink, settling back against the wall and facing the room. He checks his chrono then pretends to idly watch the cloying jatz band and tries not to imagine all the many, many ways Melshi’s and Jyn’s mission could fail. And doesn’t sigh audibly when the burgundy-haired Pantoran sits down beside him.
“Hi.” She has a surprisingly deep, smooth voice, as elegant as her dress. Her perfume smells like very expensive flowers. She grins sweetly with her burgundy lips, gesturing at him. “I couldn’t help notice we’re dressed alike. And your paint, of course.” She sweeps two fingers delicately over his left cheekbone. He turns his head just sharply enough she pulls her fingers back. Her smile flickers then returns full force. “It suits you. Tell me, were you taken into a clan?”
“No.” Cassian shakes his head and pulls up a wanly apologetic smile, inwardly cursing Draven and especially his contact. “I’m meeting someone here. They wanted me to wear gold so I’d be recognizable.” It’s more than he would have normally said, but it doesn’t hurt his cover and gives him a reason to end the conversation. “And I’m sure she’s going to be here any moment, so lovely as you are,”—and she is—“I’m afraid I’m taken tonight.” He pointedly pushes his stool around, so his right shoulder’s to the wall and he’s no longer facing her. Hopefully she’ll get the hint because all the tables are full.
“Lucky lady,” the Pantoran says. “I’m Vari. Tell me, sweetheart, what’s your name?”
“Cassian Andor,” he says.
He manages, barely, not to reel. He’s calling himself Davan Jasis. It’s on his chain code. He has never forgotten an alias, let alone given a complete stranger his full name. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong and he needs to get out of here. He makes himself look at Vari, makes himself smile. “Excuse me. I really—”
“Don’t move,” she says.
Cassian goes still.
Completely. He’s still smiling at her, sentence half-formed in his mouth. He can’t finish it, can’t turn his head. He can’t even move his eyes. He can only blink, only breathe in rhythm to the sudden, wild hammering of his heart. He tries to fight it. He can’t.
She cups his face. He can’t flinch. “That’s better. Now, smile properly, darling. You look demented.”
He smiles.
“You have a lovely smile.” She caresses his cheek. “We’re going to have such a good time tonight, Cassian. Lean towards me. Stop.” She’s close enough to speak right into his ear. “Such a good time.” She smacks his cheek hard enough to hurt. “Tell me what a good time we’re going to have.”
“We’re going to have a good time,” he says. He can’t not say it. The sounds of saccharine music and pretentious conversation flow around him. Nobody’s listening. He’s still smiling like she told him to. His chest heaves in anger and panic.
She frowns, then puts the palm of her hand just below his ribs. Kay would do that. He wants to vomit. “Sit up straight.” He sits like a soldier. “Take slow, deep breaths.” He does. “Keep breathing like that, Cassian. Nice and calm.” He does.
She nods, smiling, then pinches him through the thin cloth of his shirt, using her burgundy nails. She twists his skin, grins when he inhales in pain. He can’t glare because he’s smiling. She laughs at his effort, keeps twisting until it’s so bad he stops smiling to wince.
Vari finally lets go with a last stab of her nails, then turns her stool so she’s facing the bar. “Leza!” she calls delightedly in her elegant voice.
The bartender comes over. She looks at Cassian, pulling her mane of blonde hair over one shoulder. He can only see her peripherally. He can’t turn his head.
Vari stands, and Leza bends down so they can speak quietly. “He’s beautiful. He’s absolutely beautiful. Leza, you’ve outdone yourself. I can’t thank you enough.”
Leza smiles, smugly pleased. Cassian shakes with rage, with trying to move. His breath is nice and calm. “Well, yeah. Of course I was going to package him for you. I mean, you asked so nicely.”
You asked so nicely. Vari’s had practice at giving orders. How often have they done this? How many men? What happened to them?
Of course I was going to package him for you. Like he’s a toy.
He wants to scream. He wants the knife in his boot. All he can do is breathe.
“I had to. He’s wearing my colors. It’s like the Force made him for me.” Vari shakes her head in beaming disbelief. “I’m doubling your tip for this one, Leza. He’s perfect. Look at him.” She reaches over and grabs a fistful of Cassian’s hair, pulls until his neck bends and he grimaces. “Did you hear his accent? It’s so pretty.”
“Yeah, I liked it.” Leza’s so self-satisfied when she looks at him. “I wonder where he’s from.”
“Ooh, good question.” Vari looks at Cassian, soothing his scalp with her fingers. “Tell us where you’re from, Cassian.”
His breath is nice and calm; his heart is burning. He doesn’t want to tell them. They don’t deserve to know. He can’t not.
“Ferrix,” he grinds out. It feels like ripping off a layer of skin.
Leza’s brow furrows. She crosses her arms on the bar. “That’s in the Free Trade Sector, right? My cousin married a guy from there. Nobody sounds like that.”
“Really?” Vari’s burgundy eyebrows arch, then she frowns. “Why would he say that?” Leza shrugs again. “No, it’s important. He shouldn’t be able to lie.” She looks at him. “Tell me, Cassian, did you just lie to me?” There’s flint in her voice, flint in her yellow eyes. “Breathe normally,” she snaps, because he’s not answering fast enough.
He can’t tell her about Kenari. He’s shaking. His heart is battering his ribs. He can’t tell them. He cannot tell them. He’ll die first.
“I didn’t lie.” She told him not to move. He can’t shake his head. He puts as much sincerity as he can into his eyes. “I’m from Ferrix. I didn’t lie to you.”
“Leza just said you can’t be,” Vari retorts, implacable. “Tell me where you were born, Cassian.”
He’s lightheaded, chest like shrapnel. He can’t talk his way out of this. He can’t lie. Can’t get his knife. Can’t tell her about Kenari. He’s trapped. He’s trapped with the words clawing at his throat, behind his teeth. He clenches his jaw not to let them out.
“My goodness, you’re secretive,” Vari says mildly. Then she slaps him across the face, hard enough to snap his head to the side. “Cassian! Tell me where you were born.”
Cassian. He’s only Cassian to her. She doesn’t know he was anyone else.
It’s a loophole. The way out. He clings to it with every bit of will left to him.
“Fest!” he blurts, desperate. “I was born on Fest.” Because Cassian was, and she thinks he’s just Cassian.
“Fest,” Vari repeats. She glances at Leza, who shrugs again.
“Never heard of it. Nice accents.”
Vari smirks indulgently, appeased. “Maybe I’ll visit,” she purrs. “You can come to my room after your shift, Leza, if you want to hear more of that delicious accent. I’ll have your tip ready, and you can play with him.” She runs her finger along his bottom lip. “I’ll make sure he still has a tongue.”
“Ew.” Leza wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like blood.”
Vari laughs, low and pleasant. “I make no promises.”
Leza rolls her eyes, her expression fond. “Well, as long as most of him is still pretty, I guess I’ll live. See you later, Vari.” She leans over and kisses his cheek. He can’t flinch. “Later, Cassian.” She saunters off, taking the glass of whisky Cassian couldn’t finish. The one he made sure went right from her hands to his, like all the other glasses he drank. Just like he kept his hand and his eyes on all of them. He was careful, the way he always is. He even watched the bartender, just in case. Except once, when he was talking to Bodhi on the comlink. He thought he was safe.
“Look at me,” Vari says. He does. She traces his stinging cheek with the pads of her fingers. He wants to break them, get her hands off his body. “Now get your comlink.” He does. “Turn it on and tell whoever you were talking to before you’ve met someone and are going home with them tonight. Wait,” she says before he can put in Bodhi’s code. “You will use your own words and you will sound natural and happy. And you will close the comm immediately afterwards and keep still. Now do it.”
He inputs Bodhi’s code. “Hey, it’s Cassian,” he says before Bodhi can call him Dav again. He’s smiling, smile in his voice, screaming deep down but he can’t reach it. “Hey, my date never showed up, but a beautiful Pantoran did. I’m going home with her.”
Bodhi’s smart, perceptive when he trusts himself. The contact was human. And he just heard Draven’s best operative use his own name.
“Oh, yeah?” Bodhi sounds relaxed, easy. “I thought you were giving her another fifteen minutes.”
It’s only been fifteen minutes? It’s okay. He knows. He knows. Cassian is so proud of him. “Yeah. But you know how it is.” He chuckles, happy like Vari told him to be. “Why wait for a maybe when there’s a sure thing?”
He doesn’t talk like that. He hates assholes who talk like that. Vari doesn’t know how he talks. She doesn’t know who Cassian is. That’s the loophole. The only weapon he has.
“Well, if that’s what you want to do.” Bodhi sounds like he’s shrugging. “Where do they live? Maybe I can pick you up on my way home.”
Smart, perceptive Bodhi. “Man, I’d love that. But I’m not sure where we’re going. She wants to be safe, you know? Keep it a surprise.” He’s grinning like this is fun, laughs some more. His cheek stings. She hit him hard enough to bruise. “Maybe if I’m lucky she’ll blindfold me.” She’s going to cut him apart.
Bodhi’s answering smirk is off, but Cassian’s sure Vari won’t notice. “Sounds great. Well, you have fun with your new friend. Call me later if you still want that ride, okay? And I-I’ll let Keef know not to wait up for you.”
Bodhi knows. He’s going to try to help. “Thanks, buddy. I’m grateful.” His hijacked voice can’t convey the depth of it. He hopes Bodhi heard it anyway.
“See you soon,” Bodhi says, like a promise.
Cassian shuts off the comm. He can’t move anymore. “I’m going to kill you,” he says. It’s a fight to get the words out, but Vari told him to keep still. He can keep still and talk.
Vari’s eyes go comically huge with shock, and then her face darkens like a gathering storm. Her small hands clench into fists. “Don’t speak. You don’t say one word unless I tell you to. Put your comm on the bar.” He puts it on the bar. “Now get on your knees.”
He slides off the barstool onto his knees.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
He does.
He looks around because he can’t stand but he doesn’t have to keep still anymore. Most of the bar patrons are ignoring this. A few are watching, some avidly. A couple of them are laughing. She could slit his throat and walk right out the door.
“Look at me. Don’t move,” she says. This time she backhands him.
One of Vari’s rings rips a groove along his cheek. He tips over, can’t move to stop himself. He cracks the left side of his head against the lip of the bar, kind of rebounds and falls diagonally to the floor. It’s not a far distance, but the floor is polished stone. He hits with his right temple first, then just lies there for a moment, too dazed to register the awkward position and the pain. And then he feels both, but he can’t move to push himself upright.
“Leza, I need more of the stuff,” Vari says. “Cassian, get back to your knees, then replace your hands behind your back and don’t move.”
Cassian pushes himself to his knees. He puts his hands behind his back and goes still.
“Thanks,” Vari says. She must be talking to Leza. “How much did you give him? He’s defiant. I don’t like it.”
“One dose.” He imagines Leza shrugging. “I mean, he’s smaller than the last couple guys. I didn’t want to give him too much, you know? Not much of a treat if he’s dead.”
“You should’ve given him two. He’s small, but he’s feisty. I’m going to take this, just in case.”
Cassian can’t see what she’s doing, can’t hear it over the music and talking and people laughing at a man on his knees. His cheeks are sore. The blood itches. The bruised sides of his head hurt. He can’t move. He is so very afraid.
“Tilt your head back and open your mouth,” she says to him. He does.
She’s holding a tiny square of what looks like flexible red flimsiplast between her finger and thumb. “Lift up your tongue.”
He does.
Vari puts the square on the floor of his mouth. “Put your tongue back, then let that dissolve and swallow all of it.”
It tastes like nothing. He can barely feel it melt. He swallows all of it.
She waits until his throat stops moving. “Stand up.” He does. “Put your arm around me.” She’s short. He puts his arm across her shoulders, breathes in her floral perfume. “Smile, darling. We’re going to have a wonderful time tonight. Now walk with me. We’re going to the penthouse elevator.”
His head hurts. His face is bleeding. He’s shaking with adrenaline. He can’t speak. Vari’s friend was laughing about her cutting him apart. Nobody here is going to help him.
He smiles. He walks with her to the elevator. Inside he’s screaming and screaming and screaming.
In the elevator she lets him stop smiling, but he has to stand still with his back to the wall facing the doors. He still can’t speak. He tries. He can think the words—I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill both of you—but he can’t form them. His hair is wet, his clothes damp with sweat from how hard he’s fighting. It doesn’t make any difference.
The elevator stops at what must be the very top floor. It opens to an open-plan apartment larger than anything he’s seen outside of Coruscant. The floor is the same white, polished stone as the bar. Large, ornately framed and inoffensive paintings line the walls. To the right are huge, transparisteel doors that lead to a balcony. The middle of the room has plush couches and chairs in unobtrusive colors. The endless lights of the city shine on everything like stars in the dark.
There are two large, sumptuous beds at the far end of the room. Both beds are neatly made, one with white covers and the other in red, like blood. Most humanlike beings in the galaxy bleed that color.
“Nice, isn’t it?” She smiles sweetly at him. “I love it here. I can only come every few months, unfortunately. But I guess that makes it more of a treat. Like you.” She presses her thumb up under his chin, nearly at the hinge of his jaw. She keeps pressing upwards. He can’t lift his head. It hurts like hell. “It’s been a long time since Leza found me a man as pretty as you, Cassian.” He’s groaning through his teeth. She won’t stop. “I’m going to enjoy hurting you so much.” She pulls her thumb away all at once. He grunts at the shock of it. “Now, go and stand with your back to the red bed and then don’t move.”
She didn’t say “walk.” “Go” is more ambiguous. He clings to it. If he walks in there she’ll make him lie on that blood-colored bed and he’s going to die in agony. He won’t do it.
He’s shaking, panting with effort, sweat running into his eyes. His foot slides forward but he catches it, stops. He doesn’t move.
Vari punches him in the stomach.
It’s well-aimed, right into his diaphragm. He drops to his knees, wheezing with pain and the sudden lack of air. He’s still falling, manages to land on his side, not his face. He tries to relax the way he was taught so he can breathe. He’s already helpless; if he passes out who knows what she’ll do to him.
She waits with her arms crossed, watching him struggle. Her delicate little foot taps the floor. As soon as he manages a breath she says, “Get back up to your knees then keep still.”
He does.
She slaps him again. She uses her left hand, hits the cut she made on his right cheek. Does it again and then again, all her strength behind it. She smiles at his blood on her palm, wipes it on his shoulder. “Don’t move, Cassian,” he can’t. She pulls a flat, metal container from a disguised pocket in her dress, then opens it and takes out another red square. “Tilt your head back, open your mouth and lift up your tongue.” He does. She puts the square in his mouth, then tells him to put his tongue down and swallow like she did in the bar. He does.
“If that doesn’t work, nothing will. Look at me.” He does. She repockets the container then waits again, tapping her foot. She watches his eyes the whole time. “Ah, there we are. You have such soulful brown eyes, Cassian. Maybe I’ll keep one. Now…” She holds her chin. “You do like your secrets, don’t you? What would you really hate to tell me?” She hums, considering.
Her eyes widen. She gives him a big, bright smile. “This will work. Cassian, tell me how old you were when you lost your virginity.”
She doesn’t deserve to know. He answers immediately. “Thirteen.”
Vari looks impressed. His chest is incandescent with rage. “That’s young for your species, isn’t it? Tell me how.”
He feels sick. The words claw out of his mouth. “I was too small to stop them.”
“Oh, you poor baby.” Vari could almost mean it. She runs her fingers through his wet hair. “Well, I promise I won’t do anything like that to you. I never use my special treats for that. And I’ll tell Leza to be gentle.” She yanks his hair painfully hard, then wipes her hand on her dress. “Don’t speak again unless I tell you to. Get up. Then go and stand with your back to the red bed, and then don’t move.”
He stands up. The elevator tilts on him. He sways, catches himself on the wall because she didn’t say he couldn’t. He blinks hard, trying to reorient himself. He suddenly feels like the missions when he hasn’t slept in days: Like moving is hauling weight and his mind is grey static.
Vari gave him too much. He can’t tell her. She probably wouldn’t care.
He goes and stands with his back to the blood-colored bed and stops moving.
She follows him in. “Take off your shirt and leave it on the bed. Then put your hands behind your back and keep still. Don’t speak.”
He’s shaking. His fingers are clumsy, hauling weight. He fumbles at the buttons, bad enough Vari comes to help.
“Poor baby. Look at you trembling. You’re so scared.” She’s enjoying it. She makes him hold out his arms for the sleeve cuffs, keeps him perfectly still with the plackets, then peels the shirt off him and drops it on the bed. The air is chill on his wet skin, making the shivering worse. He puts his hands behind his back the way she said, keeping still. His pulse hammers in his ears.
It’s almost funny: she thinks he’s just terrified. He is. He’s going to die in agony on the bed behind him. But he’s clumsy because of the overdose. The weighted, grey static is getting worse. He has to get out of here or he’ll die. He might die even if he does.
“Oh, yes. That’s beautiful,” Vari’s eyes sparkle as they roam over him. Her cheeks are blushing indigo. “I knew you were special, Cassian. The moment I saw you there, in my colors with gold on your cheeks. Like you wanted me to have you.” She rubs her knuckles up and down his sternum, pressing hard. He hisses. She laughs. “Oh, I’m going to hurt you so badly, my sweet treat. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t move. She leaves his line of sight.
He has to get out of this.
She calls me Cassian. That’s my way out. My weapon. Why is it his weapon? He can’t think past the static. He has to. He has to. Because she doesn’t know who I am. But, she does, doesn’t she? Isn’t he Cassian? That’s what he calls himself. What everyone calls him.
There’s sweat on his lips. He can’t move to lick them. Mind grey and fizzing. His body’s so heavy. Come on, Cassian. Figure it out. You found the loophole already. What is it? What do you know? The voice sounds like Luthen. He can do this. He has to, otherwise he’ll die.
He knows…he knows she doesn’t know who he is. She doesn’t know he was anyone else. She thinks he’s Cassian, and he is. His is Cassian. But…he’s also not.
You can call yourself whatever you want, but it will never be your name. He told that to Melshi years ago. He thinks he did. It doesn’t matter; it’s true. He’s called Cassian. He calls himself Cassian. But his second gift is Kassa. Cassian will never be his name.
That’s the loophole. The weapon. The way out. She thinks he’s Cassian. She expects Cassian to do what she says. But he’s not really Cassian. He’s Kassa. He’s always been Kassa.
Kassa doesn’t have to listen.
Except. Except. You are Cassian! Be Cassian!
“I’m Cassian,” he whispers silently. His mother smiles. It’s going to kill him.
He tries to move. Something small, his fingers. He can’t. I’m Kassa he thinks. I’m Kassa. I’m Kassa. I’m Kassa. It’s not working. He’s Cassian now. It’s burned into his soul.
Figure it out. Or he’ll die. He’s allowed to blink. He closes his eyes. Grey static, he’s so heavy. He sways, catches himself. He wants to sleep. He can’t. He stands straight, takes a deep breath, lets it out. I’m Kassa.
He imagines the wet, spongy earth of the forest, the give of it beneath the shoes he stuffed with rags so they’d fit. The itchy pain of the blisters they rubbed onto the sides of his feet.
Remembers the air-warm metal of the blowgun tight in his hand as he steps carefully through the trees, following Vezzu and the others. Feels how his breath pulls in the thick, damp air. The lush, weighted scent of vegetation.
Feels the sunlight dappling his neck and arms through the canopy, dancing on the ground as the leaves stir in the wind. Hears his friends laughing, riling each other up before the hunt. They painted themselves. He’s too young, not allowed yet. But soon, Vezzu said.
Kerri’s sweet, happy voice as she calls to him, wishing him luck. She reminds him to show respect to the Erduek in case he sees them.
He’s sure he won’t—no one has since the gailkkossok arrived—but he promises he’ll leave them tribute anyway. He’s sure he’ll have enough.
He’s a very good hunter.
He opens his eyes and he doesn’t have to listen anymore.
Vari’s bare feet slap on the floor as she comes back. Her burgundy shirt and pants are thick and soft. They look comfortable and like they’d hide blood. She’s carrying a tray with a small, neat collection of scalpels, and the little metal box of drugs. Her smile reminds him of knives. Her yellow eyes are like the Erduek, but there’s no kindness in them.
She puts the tray on the white bed, then comes and stands in front of him, hands clasped over her chest. Eager. “Take off your clothes and boots, Cassian.”
Vari thinks he has to listen. He moves to sit on the red-colored bed behind him, but he’s sick. Clumsy. He misses, drops to the floor. She steps back, annoyed. His breath stutters in fear. No, that’s good. It’s good. He can use it. He crosses his legs, hides his right boot. Fumbles it loose enough to get his vibroblade, pokes his tongue out because he knows that’s cute; she’ll look at his face. Tucks the knife against his wrist so she can’t see.
Vari has all her scalpels, but she’s not holding them. And she thinks he’s listening.
He looks at her, pushes his left foot out a little bit, makes his eyes big and pleading because Cassian can’t speak.
She smirks, rolls her eyes in fond irritation. “All right. Keep still.”
He does, except he carefully changes his grip on the knife. Hides the blade against his thigh.
She comes over, feet sounding slap, slap, slap on the stone floor. “Don’t move.” She goes down on one knee, reaching for his boot.
Kassa heaves himself forward, grabs her shirt and stabs.
But he’s shaking, sick. Misses her throat, slices her neck at her shoulder. Not a kill.
She screams, wrenches herself backwards, tears out of his grip. “Stop!”
He’s not Cassian. He doesn’t have to listen. He throws himself to his knees, reaches for her. The room tilts. He sways with it, drops to all fours with the knife in his fist. She flips over, scrambles to her feet, runs to her tray of knives.
He gathers his legs, lurches up, stumbles. Sprints to her just as she whirls, slashes at him. He twists away. The room tilts again. He falls, snags her shirt, yanks her with him. Lands hard on his side. She lands on her knees. His body’s all wrong, like weights. She’s faster, stabs him in the chest. Low, where the kidneys are. He cries out in pain. She yanks at the scalpel. It’s stuck, wedged in the bone. She tries to scramble away again. He still has her shirt.
“Cassian! Stop!”
He’s not Cassian.
He’s heavy, shaking. Sick and full of static. His rib is agony. But she’s very close.
He stabs up, hits something important. She screams. Good. Heaves his arm back. Wash of red like the sheets. He stabs her again, heaves out the knife. Blood hits his arm, his face. She gurgles, clawing at her chest. He waits, trembling.
Her hands slip to the floor. She goes still.
She’s deadweight. Kassa drops the knife, holds her up. He shoves her away and she flops to the side, knees still bent. He falls to his back, sucking air like when he almost drowned. Everything hurts. His chest is blazing with pain. He’s looking up at a white slab. There should be trees and sunlight. He can’t hear the river. Nothing makes sense.
No. It does. It does. This is Troithe. He’s on Troithe. The white is a ceiling.
Warm wetness at his left arm. He turns his head to see. Red. Blood, her blood. He’s a warrior now (he’s never been a warrior). Vezzu would be proud of him (she’s dead). He can’t stay here. This is a building full of bad people and they mustn’t catch him.
The knife is still stuck in his chest, low on the right side. Kassa wraps his shaking hands around the hilt, jerks up. His hands slip off and he screams. Black dapples the white above him. He’s used to pain. (He’s not; he’s nine years old. No, he’s nearly 32 and he is.) He breathes and stays still and it fades. He wipes his damp palms on his pants, clenches his teeth. Tries again. This time he wrenches the knife out, throws it away from him.
Vari’s corpse is staring at him. He rolls onto his side away from her and the blood. Curls up with his hands pressed to the wound. He throws up. It’s all liquid. The fermented smell makes him retch again. He wipes his mouth with his hand, cleans his hand on his leg. Pushes himself up. He’s dizzy. The shapes outside are meaningless, terrifying. Light like the whole world’s on fire.
They’re buildings. Lights and buildings. He knows where he is. He has to get out of here.
Kassa staggers to his feet. He lurches sideways and crashes back to the floor.
He wants to stay there, close his eyes. He can’t. He’s a warrior (he’s not). He can stand. He pushes himself to his knees, forearms on the cold floor. His left arm is covered with Vari’s blood. He gags. His chest aches.
He heaves himself to his feet. He stumbles but doesn’t fall.
He has to clean off the blood so he can leave. That room is a fresher. It has a shower, maybe bandages. He’s wobbly as Kerri when she was learning to walk. Everything hurts. Breathing is awful. Blood running down his face, over his hip, soaking into his pants. Vari’s blood is all over him. He leaves smears of it on the wall.
He’s at the fresher when he hears a sound like a far-off storm. It’s behind him. He spins to face it then grabs the doorframe when his legs give out. He lands on his knees, screams in pain. He pants, clutches the wound. He has to get up. His feet keep sliding.
The noise comes from a stick of blue light (lightsaber. It’s a lightsaber). A man with a yellow jacket is holding it, cutting a circle around the lock on the door. He kicks the door and it swings open, letting him in. That’s Luke. Bodhi’s right behind him. He’s carrying a gailkkossok weapon (It’s a blaster. The Rebellion uses them) but they’re friends. It’s all right.
Luke sees him first. “Cassian!” He looks around for threats, sees the dead woman and his wide eyes go even wider. He shuts the lightsaber off.
Bodhi runs right to Kassa. “Cassian!”
He’s too close, too loud. Cassian has to listen. Kassa kicks himself backwards, hits the far side of the fresher doorway. His chest explodes with pain. He screams.
“Whoa!” Bodhi stops dead with his knees bent mid-kneel, then puts his hands out with his palms up. “Cassian?”
“I’m Kassa!” he snarls, panting, clutching the wound. “I’m Kassa! My second gift is Kassa!”
Luke trots up. His eyes are still very big. “What’s he saying? Force, did she stab him?”
“Pretty sure she did,” Bodhi says. He’s made his voice gentle and quiet. He finishes lowering himself to his knees, still showing his palms. He sits, crossing his legs. He clasps his hands in his lap. “My second gift is Bokan. I call myself Bodhi and I’m your friend,” he says in Kenar, in that same calm voice. “So, you’re Kassa?”
Kassa nods. He tries to answer in Basic, but he can’t. He doesn’t know it.
“Okay.” Bodhi nods quickly, licks his lips. “That’s fine. We can call you Kassa. Um. Do you know who we are?”
Kassa nods again. “Yes, I know you. You’re my friends.”
Luke looks between Kassa and Bodhi. “What’s he saying? What did she do to him?”
“I can’t answer either of those questions, Luke,” Bodhi says, still gentle. “Can you see if there’s any first-aid stuff in the fresher?”
“Oh! Yeah, sure.” Luke nods and steps carefully over Bodhi into the room.
“Well, uh. Hi, Kassa. I’m glad you remember us,” Bodhi says. “We’re going to help you, okay? I’ll try to ask you yes-or-no questions, since that’ll be easier, all right?”
Kassa nods.
“Great.” Bodhi’s smile is anxious, but it’s kind.
Luke is banging around in the fresher. “This is crazy, it’s like she has an entire hospital in here.” He comes back with a big, clear box in his arms. “Here.” He hands it to Bodhi. “Why isn’t he speaking Basic?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter right now,” Bodhi says. “Can you take a quick look to see if there’s anything he can wear that’s not covered in blood?”
“Uh, sure.” Luke looks at the dead woman like he can’t help himself. Swallows. “I, Uh, I’ll look for clothes.” He steps over Bodhi again and disappears into the apartment.
Bodhi gets on his knees. He digs through the box with quick, darting movements, like he’s scared. He pulls out a flat package and opens it with his teeth. “I’m going to clean your wound, then put bacta and a bandage on it. Okay?”
Kassa’s never used bacta. Cassian has. It heals things, doesn’t hurt. Kassa nods.
“Could you, ah, move your hands?”
Kassa blinks down at them. He’s still covering the wound, red leaking through his fingers. He lets them drop to his lap. The room is tilting again, slow loop like sap flies. “I don’t feel well.”
“Yeah, that does look pretty bad,” Bodhi murmurs. He shuffles closer, sees Kassa’s eyes, frowns. He leans in, peering at them. And then his own eyes go wide as Luke’s. “Shit. You’re higher than orbit. What did she give you?”
“I don’t know.” Kassa heaves his arm up enough to point at the white bed. “She made—” He grunts in pain as Bodhi starts cleaning the wound. “Cassian,” he pants. “He…he…” Bodhi presses down and he screams.
“I’m sorry!” Bodhi keeps pressing. It hurts, it hurts. “Almost done, I promise… There!” Bodhi tosses the cloth away, snatches up another pouch while Kassa shudders, sobs for breath. Bodhi opens it and pulls out a big, bluish square (bacta. It’s safe. He’s safe). “I promise this won’t hurt.” He peels the skin off one side, then presses it carefully to the wound, smoothing it down around the edges.
The bacta doesn’t hurt, but the wound hurts very badly. There are tears in his eyes. He’s making breathy whines that remind him of Kerri.
“I know. It hurts like kriff, doesn’t it?” Bodhi’s cleaning his face; Kassa hadn’t noticed. “I got badly burned at Scarif. It’s okay if you don’t know what I’m talking about right now. But, I got burned, down my neck and my arm.” He drops that cloth, picks up a thin rectangle and peels it. “And I swear, having it cleaned hurt about a thousand times worse than anything else.” He smooths the bandage over the cut on Kassa’s cheek. “All done.”
Kassa nods tiredly. Everything hurts. He wants to sleep. His head is grey static. Black dots dapple the room everywhere and he needs to tell Bodhi but he’s so heavy and he can’t think and Bodhi wouldn’t understand anyway.
He only realizes he’s tipping over when Bodhi squeaks in alarm and grabs him. It hurts, sends the black dots dancing like sap flies. “Kriff! Luke! Luke, I need help!”
Luke crashes to his knees next to Bodhi. “What do I do?”
“Help me sit him up. That woman drugged the kriff out of him. You can’t even see his irises. I don’t know if this is shock or an overdose.”
They sit him up, moving his body because he can’t. The black is everywhere. He’s falling into it like deep water. He’s going to drown.
“No, no, no. Don’t do this,” Luke says. “Stay with us. You gotta stay awake, okay? Stay awake.”
He’s not Cassian. He doesn’t have to listen. But he tries—