commandor | (no subject)

Sometimes, in the flight from a planet or a mission, it's handy to have a real pilot around.

Cassian is competent. But not much more than that -- a quick hand at navigation, but honestly never quite managed the fluidity in commanding a ship that really good pilots took for granted.

So, no complaints from him as he crosses the tarmac, steps up the ramp of the tiny ship that he doesn't even know the name of, and slides his bag off his shoulder. A glance confirms that Dameron is already there, running through preflight, and Cassian joins him, after stowing the mission materials.

Dameron. Not who Cassian would have picked to be his partner on an assassination. But easily the best pilot in the Resistance, and that's some reassurance when they're going to be picking their way out through a thick double-ring around the planet, crawling with First Order sensors. The way in will be clear, obviously; the way out will have to be disguised, and that's where the rings come in.

Cassian is curt and quiet during the ride in. They get a landing site in a paved field, crowded. There's a local festival going on, one that requires the planetary governor to make an appearance. The governor is a First Order loyalist, handing his planet over gladly to the hands of stormtroopers.

"Stay here," orders Cassian, once they're down. He shrugs on a parka, since the wind outside is bitter and cold, and snow has started to fall. "I'll be back in four hours, no more. If I tell you, or if you don't hear from me for more than that, you take off. You go." No need to get them both killed if Cassian bungles this. "When I say, you get the ship ready to go."

Dameron doesn't even know what Cassian is here to do. Operational security.

He slips out and into the crowd.

In fact, it's three hours later (after he's moved through the crowd, dodged the additional security, overwhelmed with the influx; after he found his vantage point and fired a handful of shots, left behind the evidence to frame one of the planetary factions) that he returns. The spirit of the place has turned quickly from beehive to hornet's nest, and Cassian is breathless from the run when he ducks back inside.

"Go," he snaps, "now, go." He slams the ramp control, and shucks off the parka. Chaos scares people; there are already a handful of ships fleeing, and they haven't gotten the port shut down yet. They might not be able to, given the huge additional numbers of ships that are there for the occasion.

Threaded | Flat

Stay here, Andor says, and if Poe hadn't felt the undercurrents of pre-battle tension in the cramped confines of the cockpit, he might have laughed. Sure as hell not about to go sight-seeing with that bounty on my head he doesn't say, and instead tosses off an ironic salute. He feels something in his gut twist when Andor continues -- feels that mild smile slip off his face at the implications -- but he's not the one in command of this mission. General Organa had made that abundantly clear, and maybe that's the source of some of his discomfort, too.

"I'll be waiting on standby," Poe says, quiet as he sets his chrono. Only echoes of his usual good-humor in his voice, and that's proof enough of assent. He turns his attention out the viewport, where small flakes of snow touch the transparisteel and melt on contact. He doesn't watch Andor leave, no matter how great his curiosity. "May the Force be with you," Poe adds, almost as an afterthought.

The techs had only just recalibrated the Heartline's major systems, which left Poe with precious little to do in the meantime. No BB-8 to trade base gossip with (though he was curious about what his droid might have to say on behalf of Andor), and he scans local channels out of boredom as much as duty, one eye still on the flow of both pedestrian traffic and sleek groundspeeders.

For a few hours it's all painfully, blessedly normal. The longer Poe waits, though, the more often he finds himself checking his chrono, waiting for some sign of Andor. Intel has always loved the quiet game, but Poe's never been good at patience combined with uncertainty. When the buzzing but orderly nature of the crowds shift, however, he knows in his gut it's the sign he's been looking for, and he finds himself vaguely disquieted by his own budding sense of relief. It mixes with a sharper pang of irritation -- not so much as a single click of acknowledgement over the com to offer some hint to Andor's status, and Poe isn't nearly selfish enough to try.

Instead, he listens as reports of banal announcements and double-edged speeches are replaced with calls of chaos, frenzied and conflicting reports of assassinations, hostile political takeovers, security forces firing on crowds. The capitol is panicking, and the source is as uncertain as it is violent, though Poe knows his companion is at the heart of it. Poe watches people and airspeeders flee. Soon, ships are fleeing, too. The Heartline and its pilot wait for a man who may or may not even still be alive--

And then Andor's back, his footsteps rattling heavily up the ramp, and Poe's already engaging the repulsorlifts before he has the chance to repeat himself. Like I need the encouragement, Poe thinks, but channels that lingering irritation into the smooth transfer of repulsors to thrust as the ship pivots and points its nose toward the sky. They may be fleeing like runyips before a swarm of piranha beetles, but they don't have to feel like it -- and it's not like Poe is devoid of his own pride as General Organa's favored agent, no matter how much he tries not to think about that.

They're halfway to the edge of atmosphere before Poe speaks, casting a quick backwards glance at Andor between scanning the sensor board and the overlay map of First Order assets, marked in different shades as confirmed and likely. "The hell did you do?"