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When It All Began:
Mother fusses with the collar and sleeves of his dress uniform—a light blue ensemble with a narrow gray tie—brushing an invisible speck from the lapel. She places her hands on his small shoulders, a gesture both protective and proud. Orson doesn’t understand why he must march today; on this planet, there’s always something happening—official visits, important people. Some even come to the Academy to give lectures, and that’s more than enough for him.
"Orson Callan Krennic—this is a great honor. Don’t you dare slouch in formation," his father says, his voice edged with discontent and censure, a tone Orson won’t fully decipher for years. His father always used his full name when he had no intention of explaining himself.
At seven, Orson knows better than to talk back, though he scowls at his mother in wounded protest. She chuckles and tousles his hair, smoothing it back into place with practiced hands.
His father walks him almost to the assembly, handing him over to the teachers with a final, warning squeeze on the shoulder. Orson finds his place in the second row and, remembering the instructions, strains his back as straight as it will go. He’s no taller than his classmates, but he stretches to see the podium and the path cleared for the Vice Chancellor’s motorcade. His peers, clad in varying shades of blue, snap their heels in salute. When it’s Orson’s turn, he stomps so hard he feels the jolt through his heel. The thunder of greetings rolls across the square like a wave, rising and falling until the silence settles.
He lifts his eyes to the giant screen broadcasting the tribune: the Vice Chancellor steps forward, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the assembly with a gaze so heavy and still that even the cameramen's delicate coughs are audible in the hush. Only once the silence deepens does he begin to speak—and Orson, without thinking, parts his lips in awe.
All the way home, he talks without pause, breathless with excitement, until his father, weary of listening, finally cuts him off. Orson falls silent, then declares with the solemnity only the very young can muster:
"When I grow up, I’ll stand on that podium and the crowd will fall silent for me."
"Of course, son," his father says, ruffling his hair. "But first, learn not to slouch."
Orson can only flatten the rebellious curls behind his ear.
(Looking back, he understands: his father had never believed in his potential. Military service was never the family's path. Yet that moment sparked a purpose in young Krennic, a guiding star that never dulled. Every slight thereafter fueled him—not to prove himself, but to spite them all.)
On Temporary Inconveniences:
The "young and promising minds" program was never intended for engineers or architects. It was built for scientists, for rare and singular intellects. Every project Orson submitted was rated just slightly worse than the last, a small but crucial spark that kept him pushing forward.
He knew—thanks to a few sympathetic professors—that he could still change fields. But abandoning three years of relentless study felt like slow death.
Still, he often slipped into lectures outside his discipline, if only to reassure himself he was where he belonged. Professors found increasingly creative reasons to reject his work. Orson refused to yield. A sharp tongue, honed in endless debates, and a tireless insistence on decorum gave him weapons others lacked. Over time, criticism became routine, a necessary obstacle to be overcome.
One afternoon, he camped at the back of a lecture hall, sketching skyscrapers and starports on his tablet while a droning professor expounded on applied physics. The faulty projector hummed, flickering blurred images across the walls, lulling most students into stupor. Orson preferred such lecturers—they made for excellent white noise.
"Erso," the professor barked, his voice cracking sharply above the drone. "Can you answer my question?"
Startled, Orson glanced up, searching for the one student who had somehow provoked a real reaction. Sixth row: a dark-haired boy, absorbed in his tablet. Without lifting his head, he answered, correctly, as the stunned silence around him made clear. Almost like the professor’s question was a nuisance, while the boy was actually solving a completely different problem in the meantime.
Orson was puzzled—and intrigued. A combination that would lead to a meeting fateful beyond all measure.
(The duo of Orson Krennic and Galen Erso would become Academy lore: the scion of an influential family taking under his wing the eccentric prodigy from humble beginnings. Some said Erso was the greatest mind of his generation; others dismissed him as reckless and scandal-prone. Either way, Orson fought more than one bloody, shameful fight over slights to Galen's name—and wore the bruises proudly.)
What Happens in Vegas:
Over dark green waves flecked with white foam, the second moon rose slowly, nudging its smaller sister toward the zenith. The horizon blurred into infinite ocean—or perhaps a sea. On this forgotten world Orson had chosen for a brief summer escape, land barely interrupted the endless waters.
The sun blazed cruelly by day, but dropped behind the horizon in an instant at sunset.
Orson burned his shoulders in the first fifteen minutes on the beach and grumbled bitterly while Galen tanned to a perfect caramel, as if he were some ancient god.
For Galen, it was the first real journey beyond Coruscant’s towering urbanity—an experience both touching and exhilarating. The normally reserved scientist marveled at the warm sand beneath his feet, picked up every shell, studied the shifting braids of surf.
Orson mostly stayed in the shade, sketching on his tablet, sipping chilled white wine.
"I know you could do this forever," Orson teased, squinting into the sun, "but maybe... a short break for dinner?"
"At this hour," Galen said dryly, "it’s practically breakfast somewhere."
"Whatever you say. At least it’s food—and I’ll be spared the pleasure of your marveling at seashells," Orson said flatly, pulling his thin shirt closed against the fading heat.
They dined on the beach, plucking dishes from a woven basket ferried by a robot valet. Galen lounged on a thick towel, sipping wine; Orson, having devoured his steak, drank heavily, heedless of the flavor.
Day three in paradise—or its nearest approximation—and Orson’s restraint was crumbling. It wasn’t easy: Galen tousled and half-dressed each morning, sipping coffee on the balcony; or now, dozing, heat-dazed and vulnerable.
Galen sat there with eyes closed, enjoying the breeze kissing his skin; Orson didn’t think—he acted.
The kiss didn’t quite come together—Orson only managed to press his mouth wetly and clumsily against Galen’s, but he felt the response, the unmistakable shift of a warm, willing body.
There was no romance between them, no feeling beyond the obvious heat and hunger, but Orson still forced the words out, catching himself at the last moment—remembering that, for Galen, all of this is still something new.
"Fuck me," Orson whispered, desperate.
(Galen flinched at unexpected touches but then dragged Orson into his lap without pause. Their first time was frantic and imperfect—Orson clinging to Galen’s shoulders, leaving bruises, gasping for air. It would not be the last. Sex was the simplest equation between them. Life beyond it—that was the true challenge, one Orson would only recognize too late.)
There’s Only One Way Forward:
By his seventh year in the program, Orson had already understood: the surest path to a great future was through a military contracts.
He had the right luck, the right connections—he hadn’t spent all those nights at elite clubs for nothing, doing things no proper young man from a good family was supposed to even consider. People looked at him with a mixture of condescension and sideways interest, judging only the surface of the man called Orson Krennic.
From the outside, he was everything he needed to be: a top student, one of the select few whose projects were already being realized under state contracts while still at the Academy. A relentless partygoer, dancing until dawn, screwing boys and girls in bathroom stalls, downing enough alcohol and drugs that it was a miracle he showed up to morning lectures fresh as a newly opened flower.
He was—whether anyone dared say it aloud or not—the other half of Galen Erso.
It was a compelling package. So when his department head called him in for a conversation, Orson knew exactly what kind of discussion to expect:
"Let’s not beat around the bush, Orson. You need to think about your future seriously. Word is, your latest work impressed the right people. So if you happen to get an offer from... well, let’s just say, not a civilian agency—don’t be a fool. Take it."
Of course he would. Orson had never intended to walk any other road. You could even say his entire academic career had been built with that goal in mind: to work for the Empire, one way or another. His projects—even the ones labeled as civilian—were barely concealed adaptations of former military designs, crafted to showcase a particular mindset. The contacts he entertained were carefully chosen from officers and their offsprings.
So when the invitation finally came, official and undeniable, Orson signed without hesitation.
(Relationships—people themselves—were just another form of architecture. They followed patterns, built according to plans. Orson had seen the parallels early, and with time he mastered the patience required to manipulate them. It fascinated him. It served him. Often he wondered why others didn’t notice these invisible frameworks.
And yet, when it came to Galen, Orson never dared ask himself just how much of their meeting had been orchestrated—or why, out of everyone he had ever known, Galen Erso alone refused to fit into any design.)
Good Wine Is Nothing Like a Woman:
Against all expectations, Lyra Erso turned out to be a statuesque dark-haired woman, looking far more like a true field researcher than a simpering Coruscanti debutante. Of course, Orson hadn’t truly expected anything else—he knew Galen too well to believe anyone less could have captured him.
Orson hadn’t been at the wedding, but upon his return to the planet, the Erso family insisted on a dinner together.
"Excellent wine, Orson," Lyra said brightly, savoring the drink with such transparent pleasure it immediately gave away her lack of experience.
"He knows his vintages," Galen laughed, clapping Orson on the shoulder. Orson gave a terse nod, willing himself not to flinch from the warm, familiar touch.
"Then I must return the compliment to the host," Orson said, keeping the conversation safely within the empty rituals of polite dining. He played his part: the loyal friend, genuinely happy for the Ersos’ personal happiness, avoiding any dangerous topics. Anything he could realistically discuss with Galen, after all, had no place in front of Galen’s wife—and the old rule still held: no talk of politics, religion, or money.
The uneasy lull was broken by the sharp chime of a kitchen timer. Without the luxury of a household droid, Galen hurried off to the stove.
"Dessert will be ready in a moment," he called back, leaving Orson and Lyra alone.
"I never had the chance to properly thank you," Lyra began, though the expression on her face looked more suspicious than grateful, "for the apartment. And for Galen’s position. He told me, and..."
"That’s what friends are for," Orson said, forcing the words out.
Of course Galen would have realized—he wasn’t a fool—that the generous apartment provided through Cerpen Industries hadn’t been pure luck but part of his employment package, carefully negotiated behind the scenes. But to speak of it so openly to his wife—?
Orson found it impossible to warm to Lyra, mainly because he constantly sensed her underlying hostility, that uniquely feminine jealousy and suspicion that clung to her, even though she existed, for Orson, only at the farthest edge of his vision. It would have been idiotic, he knew, to see her as anything more than that.
They parted on civil terms, after dinner and several more bottles of wine. At the door, Galen embraced him tightly and whispered moist words of thanks into his ear.
Orson later vomited in the alley behind their house—but, of course, it was only the wine.
(When Galen had first sent the breathless message about his upcoming marriage, Orson had genuinely thought he was delirious. Not because he had believed Galen to be his, exclusively, but because he had a clear image in his mind: how their life together would unfold. How, over time, they would gradually become an official couple, facing discreet but not hostile disapproval from the Krennic family. They would move into a government apartment, and then—after a few years, before Orson’s next long assignment—Galen would ask, carefully, awkwardly, in his quiet way, whether Orson might want to formalize things.
And Orson, of course, would have said yes.)
The Main Secret of Chess:
Upon receiving his Lieutenant Commander’s commission, Orson forced himself not to react to the sidelong looks from his fellow engineers, still not entirely used to military ranks and traditions in his own mind.
Dressed in the white uniform that so sharply set him apart—not only from the engineering corps but marked him unmistakably as part of military intelligence—Orson allowed himself a straighter spine, a colder gaze that passed without focus over the gathered junior officers.
He now rated a personal escort of six troopers, a private secretary, and a ship of his own for official travel.
When people looked at Orson Krennic, they mostly saw the rank—and the cultivated reputation he had carefully crafted over years of tireless work. It was irritating, to a degree, because behind him stood not only "one of the boys who partied with the right people" but a record of serious projects, real achievements.
Yes, sometimes he had played the victim to gain sympathy; sometimes he had smiled, begged, or demanded favors. But the only thing that mattered was the outcome.
And where were his critics now?
Exactly—most of them reported to him.
That knowledge warmed whatever part of his soul remained unclaimed by the role he now played.
Congratulations flooded in from all sides, though few outside the ranks knew what had truly prompted his promotion. Fewer still knew anything about the intelligence work that had underpinned it.
Orson accepted his father’s call with polite reserve—"so proud, but isn’t it just a fancy title for a construction manager?"—and thought grimly to himself: if strategic facilities could simply be built by anyone, sure, why not call it that.
The last call of the day came from Erso.
Orson, sprawled across the couch, his uniform half undone and pooled on the floor, a glass of wine dangling from his hand, wasn’t expecting anything significant. But the perfect, static-free image that flickered to life on his comm screen hit something deep, something he hadn’t fortified properly.
Galen noticed.
He hid it better than most, but Orson could hear the slight shift in his voice, could feel it even through the sterile transmission.
In the middle of the customary congratulations, Galen’s words slipped, veering unexpectedly toward the past:
"Now you’ll finally be able to build whatever you dreamed of. Remember our project?"
If Orson hadn’t learned long ago how to control every flicker of his expression, he would have given himself away.
Or maybe he simply would have slapped Galen—if this weren’t a call across half a system.
After a beat too long, Orson found the safest answer he could:
"Working with you was always a pleasure."
It wasn’t the answer to the question. But Galen let it go.
(Of course, in a perfect world, they would never have parted at all. Orson knew that. Their minds aligned too precisely, their rhythms matched too well. Whenever Galen sank deep into thought, Orson knew instinctively when to pass him a sheet of paper, when to keep the conversation going along, when to quietly slip away and leave shared space.
Every project at the Academy—every success—they had built together, often deliberately intertwined as a private joke for anyone observant enough to catch it. Few ever did.
Orson didn’t mourn the loss of their partnership, not exactly. He understood too well: science was one thing, and ideology another. Galen’s view of the world was too naive to survive within Imperial parameters.
Or rather—Orson’s ambitions, his hunger for power, would always outweigh the simpler dream of personal happiness.)
Whatever You Do:
And still, Orson ends up here—standing in a forgotten field, surrounded by endless green and rain—facing Galen, who no longer looks anything like the man Orson once knew.
(Because Orson knows how to draft the perfect plan—and then become its inevitable casualty.)