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The droid is propped up in the corner of the only building on the whole block with a roof. Cassian's never been one to put any stock in the Force, or fate, but something about this feels serendipitous regardless.
Cassian drags a large piece of wood that might have once been a table in front of the door, then shucks off his jacket and crouches down beside the droid. It's a KX series, and its head looks intact enough to be salvageable. He's just reaching up to it when the droid's visual sensors light up.
Cassian stumbles back, levels his blaster at it, and feels like a paranoid idiot when the lights flicker, and flicker, and go out. He lets two minutes of further inactivity pass by before taking a cautious step back towards the droid, and then another, and another.
When he's once again close enough to touch it, the droid raises its head and grates out, "Can I help you?"
Cassian only doesn't shoot because his blaster is lying too far away for him to reach.
The droid's visual sensors stutter to life again, the light dimmer than Cassian's come to expect, and it tilts its head to one side as it stares at him. The joint of its neck screeches with the movement. "You are a rebel."
Cassian doesn't say anything.
"You are not shooting me."
There's a large crack running down the droid's torso, exposing wires and leaking some mechanical fluid. There's a hole, the familiar round and charred hole left by blasterfire, in its left shoulder. One of its arms is lying on the floor on the other side of the room.
"You're not a threat," Cassian finds himself saying. He should be leaving, should have got the hell out of there as soon as the droid showed signs of life — if the droid is functional enough for speech it's functional enough to alert its allies — but something is keeping him rooted to the spot.
That feeling, maybe. Trusting his gut hasn't got him killed yet.
"You are a rebel."
"You can't even stand up. I try to avoid kicking people when they're down."
The droid's head tilts a few degrees further. "You are a most confounding individual."
Cassian grins.
"Are all security droids this talkative?" He's relatively sure he spotted the remains of another KX droid on the roof. The 'trooper patrols through this area are infrequent enough that hauling it downstairs shouldn't be too complicated.
"There is a 74% chance my internal circuitry is damaged."
"You want a hand with that?"
Nothing in the droid's expression changes — it doesn't have much capacity for change; beyond the dim light of its visual sensors its face plate is blank — but Cassian feels like he's being given an incredulous look regardless. "I was unaware rebels had any intelligence on the inner workings of Imperial droids."
"Was that an insult?"
"The emotional response you have to a simple statement of fact is none of my concern."
"Oh, I like you." Cassian closes the distance between them again, crouching down beside the droid to get a better look at the damage to its limbs. "And I was thinking more I'd follow your instructions, assuming you have intelligence on the inner workings of Imperial droids?"
The droid whirrs, the mechanical equivalent to an amused snort Cassian is more used to hearing from rebel astromechs than Imperial security droids. "You have no tools."
"This is a market town, it won't take me long to gather supplies."
"Do you not have better ways to occupy your time?"
"Well, my ship left atmo without me on it and my comm's currently about as useful as your arm over there. Seems to me you're my best bet at getting off this planet alive."
The droid gives Cassian another look, this one more mischievous than disbelieving. "If you asked them nicely, I'm sure any member of the Imperial forces would be happy to escort you off-planet."
Cassian can't help but laugh at that. The sound of it surprises him. He can't remember the last time he laughed out of genuine amusement.
Shaking the thought from his head, he sits down beside the droid and says, "There's not enough light left to get anything useful done today, but I can head out first thing tomorrow. What supplies will we need?"
TEN DAYS EARLIER
"It's called PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder," the medic says, and Cassian can't hold in his bitter laugh. He's got a mission tomorrow, Gold Squadron lost three pilots this morning on a milk run, and with every passing day the Empire claims more land, more resources, more lives.
Post-traumatic stress. Ha.
"It's understandably common," the medic continues, "but not untreatable. There are people here you could–"
"No."
The medic frowns. "Captain, you are no good to the Alliance in your current state. You deserve help. Our medics are well-trained and well-experienced, I promise there is nothing you can throw at them they can't handle."
This is a conversation the medic has had before. The Alliance, unsurprisingly, has no shortage of stubborn people too used to struggling on their own to be over-eager about accepting help. It's late afternoon; this might not even be the first time she's had this conversation today.
She's still likely underestimating just how much blood is on Cassian's hands. Sure, she's read his files, but that doesn't give her much of an edge. It's not like most of it makes it into his reports.
He doesn't say anything.
After a beat, the medic sighs. "Captain, I'm not exaggerating. If I allow you off base in this condition, you will get yourself killed, and we lose enough people." She meets Cassian's eye, her expression serious. He tenses in anticipation of the blow. "You're grounded until you can prove you're no longer actively suicidal."
"Right." There's a ringing in Cassian's ears. "Is that all?"
"I'll schedule you an appointment for tomorrow. How does 0900 work for you?"
He's supposed to be on a transport ship three sectors over at 0800.
"That's fine." The medic nods and makes a note on her datapad. Cassian stands to leave and she doesn't stop him. As he makes his way back to his room, the ringing in his ears only grows louder.
Cassian manages to the marketplace and back without incident. Anonymity is his job description, and spending prolonged amounts of time in Imperial territory makes his teeth ache. Every second spent within sight of a 'trooper or an Imperial citizen (the paranoia in him sees little point in distinguishing between the two) is another second closer to being discovered, captured, ruined.
Everyone in this town is twitchy, though. If the 'troopers arrested everyone for flinching at unexpected noises or walking past too quickly, the Empire wouldn't have any free citizens left.
The droid looks up when he slips through the door, and its eyes brighten slightly in what Cassian interprets as surprise. "Did you get everything?"
"As much as I could."
"And you didn't die." The droid sounds almost impressed.
"I've traded for riskier things in Imperial markets than a hydrospanner and some scrap circuitry." Cassian drops his spoils beside the droid, then himself. He doesn't quite manage to stifle a wince at the pain that sparks up his leg when he bends it.
"Rebel, are you injured?"
"I have a name, you know."
"Most organics do. If you are injured, there is a medic outpost two clicks north from here–"
"Oh, because Imperial medics will be so eager to help me?" He shifts his weight slightly and wishes he'd thought to grab heavy-duty painkillers as well as bacta patches. "It's nothing. I'm fine."
"If you leave your injury unattended, the chance your attempts to leave this planet will fail increases by 43%, even if I am fully repaired."
"I didn't know you cared."
"The Empire would reprogram me. I would rather they not." The droid pauses, and the air grows thick and heavy in the long moments before it adds, "I would rather not be repaired at all and left here to rust."
Cassian wonders how long the droid has been sat here, to be this far from its original programming. The KX series are clever. Damaged circuitry only explains so much.
"Cassian." He doesn't let himself think about the last time he introduced himself by his real name. "My name is Cassian."
The droid looks at him for a long moment, and Cassian's paranoia is just starting to pipe up about how he knew it, he knew this was all an elaborate trap, when it says, "I am K-2SO."
Cassian nods, then turns to his new toolbox and digs around for a spanner. "We need more spare parts before we can do anything major, but I want an idea of what needs replacing before I waste a day dragging around dead droids. You have those schematics to hand?"
"No, not that spanner, the other spanner."
"They look exactly the same," Cassian gripes, his voice muffled by the screws he's holding between his teeth. "I'm no–"
"Engineer, yes, I am aware. You have certainly informed me frequently enough to render it impossible for me to forget."
Cassian would stick his tongue out if it wouldn't mean dropping the screws. Screws, it turns out, vanish into thin air the moment he's not actively touching them.
They lapse back into silence, punctuated only by the groaning noise of bolts loosening as Cassian works at the joint of K-2SO's hip. The damage isn't extensive enough to necessitate a replacement, but Cassian has half a mind to do it anyway, if only because then everything wouldn't be this damn stiff. He has newfound admiration for the people who do this on a regular basis.
"You have no reason to assist me," K-2SO says, sudden enough Cassian nearly drops the spanner.
"Well, actually–"
"You're not stuck here. There are several less time-intensive methods to leave this planet you could have chosen. Could still choose."
Cassian doesn't say anything. He's almost got the bolt loose.
"Are all organics this idiotic?"
Oh boy, the things Cassian could say to that. Why do you think we kill each other, why else would we have an Empire in the first place, what's smart about leaving perfectly good droids to rust on some unimportant trading planet...
What he does say, however, is, "There's a 100% chance my internal circuits are damaged."
"You don't say," K-2SO deadpans. A week ago, Cassian was pretty sure Imperial droids weren't capable of being deadpan. "...Would you like assistance with that?"
Cassian snorts, even as warmth spreads unbidden through his chest. "The Empire give you a lot of files on therapy?"
"My connector to the various and sundry intranet networks is undamaged. The data would not be difficult to acquire."
It says a lot about Cassian, that a certified medical professional offered him assistance and instead of accepting he ran away without telling anyone where he was going, but now this Imperial security droid he's got no evidence is trustworthy aside from a gut feeling is the one offering, he's almost tempted to accept.
The bolt drops into his hand.
He clears his throat, and says, "I s'pose you've not got a lot else to do."
K-2SO hums, seeming to know already that's the closest to a straight answer Cassian's going to give. Cassian clears his throat again and moves on to the next bolt, and they lapse back into silence.
By the end of the sixth day, K-2 looks, at first glance, like a perfectly functioning droid. All of his limbs are attached and exactly the length they should be, all damaged plates have been replaced, and none of his joints make any noise at all when moved.
Not that K-2 can move most of them yet.
They'd had a brief argument the first day, when Cassian had brought back a replacement arm and K-2 had dismissed it, stating the connecting circuitry was beyond saving. Cassian had pointed out that every other part was in working condition, and they could get wires and circuit boards from anywhere. Specifically, from the ruins of K-2's original arm.
K-2 had been silent for a long moment, then whirred a droid sigh and told Cassian to grab the wrench.
The circuitry is, of course, the difficult part.
"No, not that wire," K-2 snaps. "If you connect that wire there is an 83% chance I will explode."
Cassian's currently repairing the wiring in K-2's left hand. It's delicate and tiny, but it's not dangerous. K-2 is being dramatic. He has quite the tendency to dramatics, Cassian is learning.
"If you want to take over, you just say the word," Cassian snaps back.
His hands are shaking.
"You are useless, utterly useless," K-2 mutters, lowering the volume of his voice like Cassian couldn't hear a pin drop in the emptiness of this sector. "There's no point wasting good materials on your avoidable mistakes. Put it down, we'll work on the hip joint instead."
"I can do it." Cassian's voice could also be steadier.
"Your inability to admit defeat is what got you stranded on this planet in the first place, and it will have no positive effect on your efforts to leave it."
"Inability to admit defeat is the Rebellion's whole shtick."
"There is a difference between knowing when to pick your battles and allowing your pride to bring about your ruin." K-2 doesn't sound harsh, or angry. He's merely stating a fact. It stings regardless. "You are not so obtuse you don't know the difference."
Cassian wants to shoot something. His hands are always steady when he's holding a blaster.
He doesn't reply, and K-2 makes no further arguments. They stay like that, Cassian holding a soldering iron in his shaking hands and K-2 watching him, for several moments. Cassian's hands don't get any steadier. His chest is tight.
He drops the soldering iron on the floor and snaps, "Fine."
"Hip joint?" K-2 asks, and Cassian can't reply around the sudden lump in his throat. He feels like he's going to shake apart. "It has been several hours since your last meal," K-2 adds, a peace offering. He doesn't say You look like you need a break or Maybe today just isn't a good day or There is a 79% chance of failure if you continue to refuse to acknowledge your growing mental health problems.
Cassian lets out a breath. "I could eat."
Cassian doesn't need to talk.
This is a major point of contention between him and the Alliance medics, who want him to have regular appointments with a therapist, insisting that 'bottling it all up' is doing him far more harm than good.
He doesn't, though. He doesn't need to.
He's done so, so many things that haunt his dreams, stain his hands, follow him wherever he goes. Telling someone about them in sordid detail won't undo them. No matter what he does after, what he's done before will always be something he did. For the Alliance, for the greater good, for the ruination of the Empire, yes.
His choice, his hands, his to carry, yes.
"You are aware I am neither a trained medical professional nor whatever kind of authority figure you require the respect of to absolve your guilt?"
Cassian barks out a rough, surprised laugh. K-2 has no concept of propriety, and seems to be developing a tendency to voice any thought he has. It's... refreshing. "I could still just leave you here, you know."
"Nonsense. We're bonding."
"That's not what this is."
"I thought emotionally charged conversations and assistance with problems was how organics expressed affection?"
"Well, you're not wrong," Cassian says, conversationally, as he weaves yet another length of wire through the web already present in K-2's chest. Robotics is turning out to resemble jigsaw puzzles more than Cassian would ever have expected. "But you're overlooking the fact that I hate you."
"Do all organics put this much time and effort into assisting those they hate?"
Cassian doesn't reply. Connecting this wire requires his full concentration.
After a moment, K-2 harrumphs and says, "I have done things far worse than you, anyway. And your attitude is remarkably unhealthy. You are not built to carry such weight."
"Thought you said you weren't a medical professional."
"I'm not. I'd wager I'm more qualified." A beat passes as K-2 thinks over what he says next. The significance of him choosing his words carefully is not lost on Cassian. "Guilt is not something I have much familiarity with, however. I have no use for it. Even now, I see no benefit to languishing over things out of my control."
"They weren't out of my control," Cassian mutters. K-2 makes a noise that suggests if he had full use of his arms, he'd hit Cassian round the back of the head.
"We are all living in the Empire's galaxy. They force all of our hands. Any more of a say you felt you had is an illusion." K-2's tone reminds Cassian of Mon Mothma, the authoritative determination present in all her pre-battle speeches. "There is no moral way to win a war."
The words are not, in the grand scheme of things, anything Cassian hasn't heard before. They left us with no choice is practically the Alliance's motto. But still, they loosen something in his chest.
There is no moral way to win a war.
It's not enough, of course — nothing will ever be enough, no matter how he kids himself, he was raised by war and he will never escape it — but it's something. It's more than he had.
Something whirrs in K-2's chest as the wire connects. Something else lets out a hiss. His vents need replacing, so much of him still needs work, but they're getting there.
They're getting there.
After one week and three days, Cassian has nearly gotten K-2 back use of his limbs. He's not got anything left to trade for, so if he fucks up anything internal now he's back to trawling through abandoned buildings, looking for any droid wreckage not already stripped clean of anything useful. He's gotten into two fights, one with a trader and one after a 'trooper saw him giving food to a begging child. It still hurts to put weight on his leg, mostly because he ran out of bacta after the fourth day.
K-2 has forbidden him from going outside again unaccompanied.
"You don't have food to spare," he says, giving Cassian a look.
"I can go hungrier for longer."
"You're injured."
"They were a child."
K-2 pulls back slightly, seeming to realise he's hit a nerve. "Ah. Are you familiar with that feeling, then?"
"Which one?" Cassian says, bitterly. "Hunger? Abandonment? The inescapable surety that no one but you cares whether you live through the night?"
"You cannot make yourself responsible for every orphan in the Empire."
Someone has to, Cassian doesn't say. If I don't, then who will?
"I can't stand by and do nothing."
K-2 lets out a long whirring sigh. "No, I'm beginning to see that."
In the silence that follows, K-2's arm thrums to life. He jerks in surprise, like he hadn't noticed how close Cassian had gotten to fixing it.
K-2 raises his hand slowly, curls and uncurls his fingers.
Cassian is struck still by the sudden realisation K-2 could hit him, now. K-2 could pick him up and throw him through the wall, smash his skull in, tear his arm out–
"Cassian. Cassian."
Distantly, Cassian notes that's the first time K-2's used his name.
"Cassian, you are having some kind of anxiety attack. Cassian, you need to breathe."
His chest does feel tight.
"Breathe in," K-2's tone is authoritative, and some subconscious instinct of Cassian responds without need of conscious thought. "Hold, two, three. Breathe out. Breathe in, hold, two, three. Breathe out."
Eventually, Cassian's vision returns. His hands are shaking like he's spent two straight weeks overdosing on stims, he's on the floor against the wall, his knees pressed tight against his chest. K-2's hand is resting lightly on his shoulder.
K-2 says, tone a forced kind of lightness, "I'm surprised that took this long."
"What, do most people get the panic attacks out of the way at the start?"
"Well, yes. Generally the mere sight of me is enough."
And that– Force, right, that's the panic desperately making an attempt at a resurgence. K-2 is an Imperial security droid, Cassian's panic is warranted, very warranted–
K-2 talked Cassian down.
K-2 looked up what to do when someone is having a panic attack for him. K-2 helped him even out his breathing. K-2 isn't touching him now, is keeping a careful distance, has never once threatened him.
K-2 has never once threatened him.
K-2 is an Imperial security droid. K-2 makes jokes about his sleeping habits. K-2 wants to be his friend. K-2 wants him to be safe.
Cassian can't remember the last person who wanted him to be safe. Not the Alliance, not the mission, not the intelligence, but him. Him.
"Cassian?"
"I'm fine, I'm– I'm fine, K-2. Thank you."
"If you're sure,” K-2 says, like he knows Cassian is far from fine but he’s done all he can for the moment and there are more pressing matters, “I would quite like use of all four limbs. It’s great, really, that you’ve got one working, very commendable, but I still can’t stand, so...”
Cassian huffs a laugh and gets back to work.