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In the years since the fall of the Galactic Republic, the Empire had had a lot of practice at blaming anything that inconvenienced its subjects on 'the Jedi' or 'the Rebellion'. No corrupt Imperial administrators here, no sir; it's all their fault. But as far as Alec Hardison could tell, the only 'Jedi' left were a scattering of kids with little or no training, and the Alliance to Restore the Republic was less an actual alliance and more a constellation of stellar egos – with attendant satellite personalities – that just so happened to form a pattern when looked at from certain angles.
Though that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Between the high-minded types sitting on the Council who still thought they could talk it all out, and the extremist cells getting their hands dirty sabotaging stormtroopers on their own homeworlds, there was enough space for smaller groups with grey-neutral morality and a different scale of operating to earn a little of that blame straight up. Like, for example, the mismatched crew of a smuggling ship called Lucille.
There were a lot of Moffs out there living high off the misery of their subjects; a lot of Empire-made orphans facing terrible choices in the name of survival; a lot of wealth and art being funneled back to Coruscant for display far from the exploited peoples it was stolen from; a lot of folks shutting their eyes to the pitiless machinery they'd been made a part of until the consequences blasted them in the face. So a team of former Imperials and criminals who'd originally come together for a con had found no shortage of clients and targets since pivoting to reinvent themselves as loosely affiliated Rebels.
Not that the likes of Mon Mothma and Bail Organa knew them by name; mostly, Lucille liaised with a few of the covert groups under Rebel Intelligence, feeding back some of the funds and data they picked up in exchange for the occasional hint or nudge on their own missions. But that was fine by Alec, too. None of them would've been on the invite list for any fancy Senatorial parties even back when their records were clear unless they conned their way there, except maybe their original captain. And besides, down there in the weeds they got all the fun challenges.
"Sorry, man," Alec said, shaking his head as he handed the data jack back to the hulking droid. "I think that's the best I can do. They hardcoded the restraining algorithms into the base layer programming for the KX series; the way your logic circuits are built, that don't just mean keeping you from growing a personality or deciding to hell with the Empire, it means all flavors of thought restrictions. They're either on or off, no real in-between."
"That does seem typical of the Empire's aesthetic scheme," K-2SO said, a remarkably long-suffering tone in his mechanical voice. "Blunt programming for blunt instruments, I suppose."
"Yeah. So unless you want me to flip all that back on or replace your software entirely, undercover's pretty much out." He waved up and down the lanky, dark-plated form. "I weighted your logic trees a little more heavily in favor of keeping your vocoder off unless you've got something you definitely want to say, but when you do, you're still not gonna have much of a filter."
"Hm. Tough choice," K-2 said, turning his optics toward his human partner. "Imperial service, ego-death, or remaining as I am. My existence was much simpler before Cassian reprogrammed me. But the Empire has plenty of other droids; Cassian's odds of survival would be negatively impacted by my removal, even if I am not always able to join him on his missions. And they are low enough as it is."
Coming from a security droid, that was practically a declaration of love. Alec grinned over at his own one-man security force – the gruff-voiced ex-ISB agent currently sharing a low-voiced conversation with Captain Andor – and raised his fist toward K-2's for a bump. "Word."
K-2 didn't have much restraint in his gestures either; Alec's knuckles stung at the impact. But the expression on Eliot's and Cassian's faces made it more than worth it.
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Every time Cassian Andor crossed paths with Eliot Spencer, it was like looking into a cracked mirror: one whose sharp edges cut as much as reflected his own experience. The distant darkness in the other man's gaze was all too familiar to a Rebel Intelligence agent who'd lost as much at his own hands as those of others over the years ... but the gruff familiarity and protective behavior around his own crew spoke of a being who'd finally drawn a line in the sand and refused to take one more step over it.
Cassian couldn't remember the last time he'd had that luxury. The closest thing he had to a friend was the hulking security droid who'd nearly killed him before Cassian had stripped his programming; his boss and fellow agents would sacrifice him as readily as he'd sacrifice them, if the mission required it; his family was long gone; and the hope that the things he did would actually one day make a difference was all that kept him going more days than not.
Lucille had made their own hope, forging a team of disillusioned former Imperials and thieves into a crew stronger than the sum of its parts, who worked as much for each other as for any cause. Sometimes their efforts to provide a little relief for the disenfranchised trod under some other being's heel stung the Alliance as much as the Empire or the Hutts; he'd had an earful from Saw Gerrera's people the last time the smuggling ship had crossed the militant group's path. But they believed in each other. Really had each other's backs. And they did more for individual beings in need than most Rebel agents could ever afford to, drawing and diverting attention as well as any long-lost Jedi.
General Draven had been the one to put Cassian in their path the first time, contracting the crew for a small job no existing Rebel team was in position to handle. As a lead-in to recruitment, it had failed; neither Draven nor the captain of the Lucille had trusted each other enough for that. But they'd exchanged comm codes, and every so often one or the other reached out. For intel, or funds, or cover for a displaced agent or crewmember; to repatriate some Moff's treasure to benefit a victim or ally ... or to solicit another slicer's help for an opinionated droid.
"And I thought protocol droids were mouthy," Spencer snorted, watching his team's slicer interact with K-2SO. Even if the kid wasn't as good as he said he was, he didn't treat K-2 like dangerous furniture; that was already a step up over a lot of Rebel techs. "Had to work with one a time or two when Sophie was playing up the Moff's widow. I bet your Kaytoo scandalizes 'em."
"He has his uses," Cassian replied, with a wry half-smile. "Though I'm sure he'd say the same of me. There's a job or two I wouldn't have made it through without him."
Spencer returned the knowing, amused look. "What you go out there and do every day – it wears on a person. I might know it more from the other side of the cog, but trust me, I know it. You turn down good when it finds you, you don't last long in this business."
"As long as I last long enough," Cassian snorted. "But we appreciate the help."
"No problem, man." Spencer clapped him on the shoulder. "We've heard things are heating up on Jedha; we'll be in the sector a while if y'all get sent there and need backup. The Imperial mining effort's too big for us to interfere with directly, but there's plenty of folks around the edges in need of leverage."
"We'll keep that in mind," Cassian said, nodding. It would be risky for him to go to Jedha directly; Gerrera's people were stirring things up there. But he had a contact who'd been pressing to meet. They'd see.
A blonde head abruptly popped out of the vents overhead, startling Cassian; but it was just Parker, the current captain of the Lucille. "Eliot? It's Sophie." Her gaze darted to Cassian, then back to Spencer, and she waggled her eyebrows. "There's news."
Cassian took that – and the eyebrow-raising fist-bump between K-2 and Hardison – as his cue. Moments later, he and K-2 were back in the hanger, watching Lucille lift for her next mission.
"I wonder if we'll see them again," K-2 mused. "Or if they'll see us. The two are not necessarily synonymous, depending on our status at the time."
"Cheerful thought," Cassian replied. Same old K-2; though at least he'd stopped there. Maybe Hardison had helped a little. "Maybe we'll all see each other. Or no one will see any of us," he shrugged. Things were definitely heating up; but they'd see about that too.
In the meantime, all they could do was keep doing what they did, one day at a time.
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Until someone else worth taking a chance on crossed Cassian's path. And then three more, their world literally crumbling out from underneath them. Luckily, Lucille was where they said they'd be, and Hardison was as good a slicer as he claimed.
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"Madam Deveraux. Do you have it?" Jyn Erso's voice came over the comms, tense and urgent.
Parker got it; even if Eliot's friend Cassian hadn't asked for their help, Jyn was exactly the kind of person who needed the leverage Lucille's crew flew around the galaxy providing. Made a fugitive as a kid, then abandoned by the people who were supposed to take care of her, while her father was imprisoned by the Empire for years. They'd barely got Galen Erso off Eadu ahead of an arriving Imperial shuttle, and the story he'd had to tell about the planet-killer they'd had him working on had been terrifying. Unfortunately, he hadn't had time to grab proof on the way out, and Cassian's boss wasn't willing to believe him without it. So this was the most important heist they'd ever pulled, not just for Jyn and Cassian but for the whole galaxy.
"Yes, we've got it," Sophie replied, slightly breathless as they strode down the hall in their confining disguises. "Kaytoo was perfect; he injected Hardison's code into the system and found the Stardust file with no trouble. The access codes worked perfectly; there'll be no record we were ever there. But Krennic just arrived, and Parker and I had to use the Inquisitorius cover on the way out to keep him from recognizing me. So we'd better be gone before someone thinks to ask inconvenient questions."
"Inquisitors? But aren't they all...?" Cassian asked.
"So far as we know," Eliot answered, gruffly. "But if even the Director of Advanced Weapons Research don't dare question the Emperor's Hands, we'll be able to use the cover for a while yet. Parker might not have much training, but she's got just enough Force nonsense to make people believe it."
Parker had more training than she claimed; but as it was all tangled up with terrible things she never wanted to remember or admit to, she was content to let everyone believe otherwise. Even her family. Even the Guardians. She'd scared herself for years with dreams of wearing the costume for real, until after she met Alec and Eliot, and she'd rather not tempt them to return.
"And fortunately, it sounds like he'll have bigger problems once we're gone; Tarkin's involved now," Sophie added. "If I know Tarkin, he's already headed here with the project in question, looking for an excuse. We'll need to get the plans analyzed as swiftly as possible, so you can pass the flaw along to the Rebel fleet. You're not likely to get more than one chance."
"Are you not coming with us?" K-2 objected. "Your presence has had a demonstrably positive effect on the odds of our survival thus far."
"Not if your Council's still holding Galen. We promised Jyn we'd extract her dad, and that includes from Rebel Intelligence," Alec commented. "Besides, this is our specialty; space battles, not so much. So if y'all don't want to be in one – Bodhi and I are warming up Lucille. Get your asses out here."
"On our way," Parker said brightly, then wrapped their little group in as much obscuring Force presence as she could manage, grabbed Sophie's hand, and ran toward a brighter future.
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