Fic: Take a Look at the Lawman (Beating Up the Wrong Guy) (Star Wars)
Title: Take a Look at the Lawman (Beating Up the Wrong Guy)
Fandom: Star Wars
Rating: T
Genres: gen
Summary: In the sea of idealists of the Rebellion, pragmatists like Davits Draven stick out like sore thumbs.
A/N: Holy fuck, it's been over a year since I published any fic on here? I honestly need to change that, seriously. I can't believe... really? Over a year?
Anyway, I'm back, with Rogue One fic. Nope, not the fix-it I always want to write when I listen to Rod Stewart's "Faith of the Heart" (or any of my favorites from the offcial Cassian Andor playlist, really) but for some reason an introspective bit on Davits Draven because fandom seems to have it in for the guy (to which they have any right. He certainly isn't one to stir up empathy or even sympathy, and that's more than merrited but maybe it's my age or my professional background but here's the thing: even a "noble" movement needs people who are willing and able to make hard, potentially unsavory choices, and that's what Draven is. Not all of his choices where right or even at least good choices but he made them, and let's all remember that something must have made him join the Rebellion when he could easily have served the Empire, that something made him opt for a life on the run rather than a cushy seat in a nice corner office, and that's what drove me to take a closer look, I guess). So, uh... have fun reading it?
Take a Look at the Lawman (Beating Up the Wrong Guy)
“Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show
Take a look at the Lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man! Wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best-selling show
Is there life on Mars?”
David Bowie, “Life on Mars”
It’s a clusterfuck.
That’s what it all comes down to. Scarif is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and you can’t help thinking that deep down, this is somehow your fault. Having been a strategic analyst and a tactician for the better part of your life, you know it most likely wasn’t, at least not the entire incomprehensible scale of it.
But Andor. Andor is your fault. Erso is, too. You don’t need an in-depth Lessons Learned brief to realize that. It’s a clear and harsh truth, cutting like transpari steel shards pressing into the palms of your hands.
And if you were being honest with yourself, if you looked past the strategic analyst, the tactician, the pragmatist, you’d find no shame in saying that it hurts like that, too. There’s a war on, though. So you don’t have the time to ever look past the strategic analyst, the tactician, the pragmatist, and so the war is a one of a kind blessing for you. Has always been that way, and you know you’re past the age that would have allowed you to change that. Most of the days, it doesn’t bother you.
The days after Scarif turns into a clusterfuck are not most days. Not even for you. More than half a lifetime of subterfuge, grey morals, carnage under your belt but Scarif fucks up even you. But you’ve been in the game of military intelligence for too long to give it more room than you can afford, and you can’t afford any room at all for sentimentalities. There’s a war on.
The transpari steel shards of Andor’s and Erso’s death don’t care about that. They still dig into your palms at every turn, every time you make a fist, every time you put them onto the holo table in the briefing room. You’ve been doing that a lot since Scarif.
There’s been a lot of work for an intelligence officer, after Scarif. Death Star has gone dark, Princess has gone missing, Death Star plans have vanished. How can a battle station the size of a small moon go dark, how can a princess just go missing, how can those plans just vanish, you ask your subordinates over and over again and none of them can provide answers. None of them know the right sources, none of them know where to look, none of them have the guts to think for themselves. None of them are Andor. None of them are Erso.
You tell yourself that’s why losing Andor and Erso cuts so deep. Tactically you couldn’t afford to lose either, let alone both. Their skills, well-honed since early childhood and their grit and determination, that’s what your subordinates here and your operatives out there are sorely lacking, and that’s what’s going to cost you the war. Tactically, losing people like Andor and Erso in a critical moment like now is a catastrophe. You’ve been a spy long enough that you can lie well enough to almost convince yourself with that.
It’s not, at least, a complete lie. If there’s one operative you would have tasked with the impossible assignment of finding a lost princess and recovering the plans the Alliance quite literally needs to survive, it’s Cassian Andor. Andor delivered, always. No matter what you asked of him, he did it. Andor was loyal to a fault, to the Alliance, to you, and even when he went against orders, he still delivered, still did it for the Alliance, did it, maybe, for you, knowing how your first, your only priority was, is and always will be the Alliance. You desperately need someone like that to continue your fight.
Erso, then. Erso would have made a terrible soldier. Erso would have made a terrific leader. You didn’t like her, saw the recklessness in her, the volatility, the disregard for authority. You saw the change in her, too; the recklessness turning into bravery, the volatility becoming passion, the disregard for authority morphing into a talent to inspire, to lead others. She made a mockery of orders given to her, pulling Andor and that lot of other operatives down with her, down to sacrifice and greatness. She had potential. You hate wasting potential.
Losing Andor and Erso puts the entire Alliance in jeopardy. Your entire job is to neutralize any and all factors that pose a risk to the Alliance. You fucked that one up good.
Deep down you know that this is not why losing Andor and Erso feels like transpari steel shards cutting into your hands.
Deep down you know it’s because you trained Andor, formed him, made him into what he became. Because you’re twenty years his senior, because you could have been his father. Fatherly feelings never got in the way of your professional relationship with him because they would have been inappropriate and impractical. Because you’re not the fatherly type. But he was twenty years younger than you, and has been a soldier for almost as long as you have been and gets annihilated at twenty-six for that. That fucks you up, every time you think about it. And you think about it far too often.
Deep down you know it’s because Jyn Erso was twenty-three, and was molded into a soldier around the same time you began building the Rebellion’s military intelligence branch. It’s because at twenty-three, Jyn Erso had been a soldier for nearly half her life, and all she got to show for it was a fast and painless death on a backwater world. You’re a pragmatist, no time for sentimentalities but even you are convinced that it’s not supposed to work like that. Even you get fucked up by it working like that, anyway.
You need to get to work; find the battle station, find the Princess, find the plans. You have no use and no time for dwelling on things you can’t change, you only have time to order your adjutants to put together a Lessons Learned brief, file it away for future reference, make it mandatory reading for all operatives and handlers currently in service. You only have time to carry on and keep the Alliance alive because the Alliance is all you have and all you have to lose.
No family for you, no personal losses, no tragic backstory, only the bone-deep conviction and belief in democracy and rule of law, a democracy, a rule of law that Palpatine took from you when you still had ideals. It’s all you have and all you will lose if you don’t do your job, if you don’t… “Sir?”
You’re kind of grateful for the interruption from one of the comm techs working the listening stations geared towards Imperial space. Because if she hadn’t, you’d have gone down a road you’ve been on too many times to count, a road you can’t afford. You’re not going to tell her that. “What is it, Sergeant?”
She blinks, looking confused, stoking your impatience and your dissatisfaction with your subordinates anew. “I uh… I just received a transmission from an Imperial outpost, sir.”
You wait for her to elaborate but she just looks at you, with wide eyes, uncertain of how to go on. It’s not doing much to alleviate your discontent. “So forward it to the appropriate sector group. Sergeant, if you don’t know how to do your job…”
“It has Captain Andor’s identification code, sir.”
You have a split second to decide what to do with it, or you will lose face, or people will start talking about you again, about the pragmatist among idealists who can’t make up his mind, who can’t even keep his promise of being the one person who does what they all abhor and need him to do, who doesn’t mind getting his hands or that of his subordinates dirty, who isn’t the white knight they all want to be. You don’t have to think about this one. “Forward it to my personal account, then.” She swallows visibly, then nods. “Carry on, Sergeant.”
Well, then. Could be a ruse, could be an ambush, could be nothing.
You tell yourself you’re not excited. You almost believe it as you head to the nearest available secure comm terminal, nearly running Red Squadron’s leader over in the process.
Could be the impossible. Could be Andor.
Could be a way out of the clusterfuck.
You find the terminal, open the message. You almost smile.
~*~
TBC in Let Me Star Again (I Want A Face That's Fair This Time)
Fandom: Star Wars
Rating: T
Genres: gen
Summary: In the sea of idealists of the Rebellion, pragmatists like Davits Draven stick out like sore thumbs.
A/N: Holy fuck, it's been over a year since I published any fic on here? I honestly need to change that, seriously. I can't believe... really? Over a year?
Anyway, I'm back, with Rogue One fic. Nope, not the fix-it I always want to write when I listen to Rod Stewart's "Faith of the Heart" (or any of my favorites from the offcial Cassian Andor playlist, really) but for some reason an introspective bit on Davits Draven because fandom seems to have it in for the guy (to which they have any right. He certainly isn't one to stir up empathy or even sympathy, and that's more than merrited but maybe it's my age or my professional background but here's the thing: even a "noble" movement needs people who are willing and able to make hard, potentially unsavory choices, and that's what Draven is. Not all of his choices where right or even at least good choices but he made them, and let's all remember that something must have made him join the Rebellion when he could easily have served the Empire, that something made him opt for a life on the run rather than a cushy seat in a nice corner office, and that's what drove me to take a closer look, I guess). So, uh... have fun reading it?
Take a Look at the Lawman (Beating Up the Wrong Guy)
“Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go
It’s the freakiest show
Take a look at the Lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man! Wonder if he’ll ever know
He’s in the best-selling show
Is there life on Mars?”
David Bowie, “Life on Mars”
It’s a clusterfuck.
That’s what it all comes down to. Scarif is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and you can’t help thinking that deep down, this is somehow your fault. Having been a strategic analyst and a tactician for the better part of your life, you know it most likely wasn’t, at least not the entire incomprehensible scale of it.
But Andor. Andor is your fault. Erso is, too. You don’t need an in-depth Lessons Learned brief to realize that. It’s a clear and harsh truth, cutting like transpari steel shards pressing into the palms of your hands.
And if you were being honest with yourself, if you looked past the strategic analyst, the tactician, the pragmatist, you’d find no shame in saying that it hurts like that, too. There’s a war on, though. So you don’t have the time to ever look past the strategic analyst, the tactician, the pragmatist, and so the war is a one of a kind blessing for you. Has always been that way, and you know you’re past the age that would have allowed you to change that. Most of the days, it doesn’t bother you.
The days after Scarif turns into a clusterfuck are not most days. Not even for you. More than half a lifetime of subterfuge, grey morals, carnage under your belt but Scarif fucks up even you. But you’ve been in the game of military intelligence for too long to give it more room than you can afford, and you can’t afford any room at all for sentimentalities. There’s a war on.
The transpari steel shards of Andor’s and Erso’s death don’t care about that. They still dig into your palms at every turn, every time you make a fist, every time you put them onto the holo table in the briefing room. You’ve been doing that a lot since Scarif.
There’s been a lot of work for an intelligence officer, after Scarif. Death Star has gone dark, Princess has gone missing, Death Star plans have vanished. How can a battle station the size of a small moon go dark, how can a princess just go missing, how can those plans just vanish, you ask your subordinates over and over again and none of them can provide answers. None of them know the right sources, none of them know where to look, none of them have the guts to think for themselves. None of them are Andor. None of them are Erso.
You tell yourself that’s why losing Andor and Erso cuts so deep. Tactically you couldn’t afford to lose either, let alone both. Their skills, well-honed since early childhood and their grit and determination, that’s what your subordinates here and your operatives out there are sorely lacking, and that’s what’s going to cost you the war. Tactically, losing people like Andor and Erso in a critical moment like now is a catastrophe. You’ve been a spy long enough that you can lie well enough to almost convince yourself with that.
It’s not, at least, a complete lie. If there’s one operative you would have tasked with the impossible assignment of finding a lost princess and recovering the plans the Alliance quite literally needs to survive, it’s Cassian Andor. Andor delivered, always. No matter what you asked of him, he did it. Andor was loyal to a fault, to the Alliance, to you, and even when he went against orders, he still delivered, still did it for the Alliance, did it, maybe, for you, knowing how your first, your only priority was, is and always will be the Alliance. You desperately need someone like that to continue your fight.
Erso, then. Erso would have made a terrible soldier. Erso would have made a terrific leader. You didn’t like her, saw the recklessness in her, the volatility, the disregard for authority. You saw the change in her, too; the recklessness turning into bravery, the volatility becoming passion, the disregard for authority morphing into a talent to inspire, to lead others. She made a mockery of orders given to her, pulling Andor and that lot of other operatives down with her, down to sacrifice and greatness. She had potential. You hate wasting potential.
Losing Andor and Erso puts the entire Alliance in jeopardy. Your entire job is to neutralize any and all factors that pose a risk to the Alliance. You fucked that one up good.
Deep down you know that this is not why losing Andor and Erso feels like transpari steel shards cutting into your hands.
Deep down you know it’s because you trained Andor, formed him, made him into what he became. Because you’re twenty years his senior, because you could have been his father. Fatherly feelings never got in the way of your professional relationship with him because they would have been inappropriate and impractical. Because you’re not the fatherly type. But he was twenty years younger than you, and has been a soldier for almost as long as you have been and gets annihilated at twenty-six for that. That fucks you up, every time you think about it. And you think about it far too often.
Deep down you know it’s because Jyn Erso was twenty-three, and was molded into a soldier around the same time you began building the Rebellion’s military intelligence branch. It’s because at twenty-three, Jyn Erso had been a soldier for nearly half her life, and all she got to show for it was a fast and painless death on a backwater world. You’re a pragmatist, no time for sentimentalities but even you are convinced that it’s not supposed to work like that. Even you get fucked up by it working like that, anyway.
You need to get to work; find the battle station, find the Princess, find the plans. You have no use and no time for dwelling on things you can’t change, you only have time to order your adjutants to put together a Lessons Learned brief, file it away for future reference, make it mandatory reading for all operatives and handlers currently in service. You only have time to carry on and keep the Alliance alive because the Alliance is all you have and all you have to lose.
No family for you, no personal losses, no tragic backstory, only the bone-deep conviction and belief in democracy and rule of law, a democracy, a rule of law that Palpatine took from you when you still had ideals. It’s all you have and all you will lose if you don’t do your job, if you don’t… “Sir?”
You’re kind of grateful for the interruption from one of the comm techs working the listening stations geared towards Imperial space. Because if she hadn’t, you’d have gone down a road you’ve been on too many times to count, a road you can’t afford. You’re not going to tell her that. “What is it, Sergeant?”
She blinks, looking confused, stoking your impatience and your dissatisfaction with your subordinates anew. “I uh… I just received a transmission from an Imperial outpost, sir.”
You wait for her to elaborate but she just looks at you, with wide eyes, uncertain of how to go on. It’s not doing much to alleviate your discontent. “So forward it to the appropriate sector group. Sergeant, if you don’t know how to do your job…”
“It has Captain Andor’s identification code, sir.”
You have a split second to decide what to do with it, or you will lose face, or people will start talking about you again, about the pragmatist among idealists who can’t make up his mind, who can’t even keep his promise of being the one person who does what they all abhor and need him to do, who doesn’t mind getting his hands or that of his subordinates dirty, who isn’t the white knight they all want to be. You don’t have to think about this one. “Forward it to my personal account, then.” She swallows visibly, then nods. “Carry on, Sergeant.”
Well, then. Could be a ruse, could be an ambush, could be nothing.
You tell yourself you’re not excited. You almost believe it as you head to the nearest available secure comm terminal, nearly running Red Squadron’s leader over in the process.
Could be the impossible. Could be Andor.
Could be a way out of the clusterfuck.
You find the terminal, open the message. You almost smile.
~*~
TBC in Let Me Star Again (I Want A Face That's Fair This Time)