Chapter Text
Yavin 4, command center, sealed consultation room, 03:47 standard time
The room they sat in wasn’t secure. Just the most secure one they had. Thick walls, a one-way mirror, no external line, no outside sound. A holoprojector in the middle of the table replayed the same sequence over and over — an official congratulatory event from Coruscant, a banquet for industrial elites. Orson Krennic. In white. Standing like a man long convinced of his own legend. And at his right, a woman — young, striking, refined to the last detail. The footage identified her as Jyn Krennic.
No one asked why they were watching it again.
They all knew what would be decided in this room.
Mon Mothma unclasped the brooch at her neck. Bail Organa laid down his pen. Draven replayed the projection once more — this time muted, focusing only on the moments Krennic leaned in to whisper something to the woman beside him, and she smiled the way they taught at protocol academies.
“That’s her,” Draven said flatly. “Jyn. Krennic’s ward. Scrubbed from the archives sixteen years ago, currently around twenty-one. Raised under his supervision.”
Mothma leaned in. “Do we know her origin?”
“Not much. Likely an orphan Krennic picked up during recruitment or evacuation drives. The name Jyn Erso shows up in some cross-referenced files, but nothing confirmed. Possibly a technician’s daughter. Possibly more. Officially — no one. He pulled her from the system and built her a golden cage.”
“And now…?” Bail asked.
“Now he wants to marry her off. He’s looking for someone vetted. From analytics, strategic command, or development. Civilian branch, but with clearance. The husband would be her cover, her alibi, and part of the structure. He’d accompany Krennic. Which means: data, records, security access, proximity with no questions. Krennic calls it family. We call it opportunity.”
Mothma nodded, factual. “And who?”
Draven pressed a key. A name appeared on the table. Jonathan Sward. A fabricated identity. Everything prepared.
“Andor,” he said.
Mothma objected instantly. “No. Not in his current state. He’s skipping briefings. Drinking every night. He’s been in the mess four nights in a row. He exploded at Cell Seven’s commander, had to be restrained. Tore the man’s uniform, called him a collaborator. He barely sleeps. Doesn’t read reports. He’s unstable.”
“We know,” Draven replied calmly. “He’s in the space between grief and rage. That’s exactly why he’s useful — he’s not emotionally invested yet. He can play any role without believing it.”
“He’s no diplomat,” Bail added. “And he doesn’t pretend to be. That’s what makes him dangerous.”
“He doesn’t have to be,” Draven continued. “He’s not trained for Senate negotiations. But he’s a spy. He knows how to disappear into a role. He can blend in. He can act like an Imperial. He can lie with his body and his voice. He’s done it before. His covers are clean. He’s never been exposed. That’s exactly what we need.”
Mothma ran her fingers down her cheek. “And what if he starts taking the role seriously? I’ve seen what happens when someone loses the boundary between act and reality.”
“Then it’ll be too late. And that’ll be our problem. But while he’s still at the bottom, there’s a chance he’ll make the right decision. First contact will be in a social setting. The interest will awaken naturally. Krennic will offer her as a reward. He’ll take her. Three months later, they’ll be married.”
Mothma stared at him for a long time. Then, softly:
“If we do this, there will be no going back. For any of us.”
“No need to tell him we voted,” Draven added, standing. He took the file and shut off the projector.
His head ached. Not like from heatstroke, not with dull fatigue, but quietly, beneath the skin — the echo of everything he drank, said, or did last night. He was sweaty, disgustingly disheveled, loathed his own scent — and even more the fact that Melshi handed him a cup of caf with a “get up, they want you,” like he was supposed to save a life instead of endure another nonsense order from upstairs.
Until he saw the photo.
A black-and-white portrait of a girl with smooth hair and empty eyes.
Jyn Krennic. Elegant, polished — like something out of a catalog for official functions. Everything about her screamed decorum. She looked like a doll posed behind glass. Not a woman. A symbol. A prop.
“You’re serious?” he growled, tilting his head back. “You woke me up over a planned wedding with… an Imperial porcelain doll?”
Draven didn’t flinch.
“She’s not a doll. She’s a key.”
“She has no codes. No clearance. No direct access.”
“But she has Krennic. And Krennic is up to something. Not training, not weapons. Something bigger. Thanks to Luthen, we know he has his own project. Not public. Not even in the central logs.”
“And you think I’ll just get invited to dinner and he’ll drop it over appetizers?”
“We think you’ll be by his side. In his gentlemen’s clubs. On his private decks. In salons where they talk about women, but don’t hear them. In conversations where nothing’s said but everything is understood.”
“Jyn is ideal,” said Mon Mothma calmly, her hands folded in front of her. “She knows protocol. She understands what's expected of a woman in her position. She won’t protest.”
Bail gave a faint smile. “A typical Imperial princess. She’ll care about what to wear to dinner with the governor and how she looks in official holos. What I mean is — you’ll have enough time and space beside her to do what we need. She won’t ask questions. Not right away.”
Cassian gave a slight nod. Not a single muscle moved in his face. But something inside him shifted, uncomfortably.
“This is a mission that could take months. Maybe years,” Bail continued, less diplomatically. “It cost us a lot to set up your cover. This marriage is the result of careful planning, political positioning, documents that had to be forged perfectly. If you choose to walk away… there won’t be a second chance.”
“You’re working with her,” Mon Mothma said again, gently but firmly. “The target is Krennic. What he’s doing. What he’s preparing. She’s the tool we’ll use to get close.”
Cassian exhaled. A long, quiet breath — the kind you make when you know you’ve lost, even if you haven’t seen the cards yet.
“So you want me to marry her.”
“Yes.”
“As in, legally, Imperially, actually marry?”
“We’ll promise annulment. When it’s over,” Draven added.
“Great. Beginner’s Guide to Seduction. Step one — marry the target’s daughter. Step two — wait until she tells you what he’s working on.”
Draven adjusted his cuff.
“It’s tactical infiltration. The enemy opened a door — it’d be a mistake not to walk through it.”
“You can’t be serious,” he spat.
“You really want to use me as… what? A whore? A gift in shiny wrapping, something to stand beside your perfect little doll, look good at parties—then fuck her if the mission calls for it?”
He stood in the middle of the room, forehead gleaming, eyes bloodshot. The hangover was nothing compared to the storm inside — humiliation, rage, the feeling that the last shred of dignity he’d clung to had been casually stripped away. Everything in him screamed that this time, no. This time, he wouldn’t play by their rules.
Draven didn’t move. Just watched him — not with interest, but with calculating distance. Like a man observing a detonation he himself set off.
“What offends you so much, Cassian?” he finally said. His voice was dry, rough, but quiet. Almost tired. “That we’re asking you to flirt, drink, pretend to be a charmed husband and strut through salons?”
He smirked, and there was nothing human in the expression.
“You’ve been doing that for months. So don’t posture like some fairytale prince now.”
Cassian clenched his jaw. He saw where this was going. But didn’t stop it. Not yet.
“And if you want to bring up Bix, save it for your drunken midnight monologues. She left you more than two months ago. In war, that’s ages. You know that. And she did too.”
A beat. A bloodless wound. Still deep.
“You’re not here to be noble. You’re here to survive. And if that’s not enough — to get us what we need. The wedding. The dinners. The casual touches, the glances, and the intel, above all else. We just want you to play it well.”
Then, like a closing order, not a suggestion, he said without drama:
“At worst, Cassian... close your eyes on the wedding night and think of the Rebellion.”
Cassian didn’t even blink.
But deep down, he knew it was already too late.
Because — as always, and precisely when he hated it most —
he was going to say yes.
Because he was good.
Because he knew how to disappear.
And because somewhere, in the darkest corner of his soul...
he wanted to know what lay behind Jyn Krennic’s porcelain smile.