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April 15th, Day Ten: Favorites (episodes, characters) || Humor

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12 DAYS OF ANDOR @andorappreciation day 10: humor a/k/a ANDOR IS A COMEDY

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ANDOR SEASON ONE (2022) (insp)

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Andor Season 1 recapped in 12 x 12 x 100 words (ish)

Thank you so much to everyone at @andorappreciation for hosting this event! 🥰 For this final ‘free day’ I wanted to offer an alternative way to ‘recap’ on Andor season 1 as we brace for Season 2 in just a few days (!!).

I’m really quite proud of my collection of exactly-100-word little internal monologues (’drabbles’). I wrote ‘never more than 12’ of these for each of the 12 episodes of season 1, taking different characters at key moments in that episode. One of these days, I’ll properly illustrate it with stills. But for now, a couple of tasters here from Brasso and Kerri and a link to the rest. Hope you enjoy!

Episode 1, Kassa

Brasso

What’s he done this time? It’s always the question. Always the dread of a repeat of thirteen years ago.

Nothing too bad physically; he’s invariably scuffed. But real desperation in his shadowed eyes.

Not just some debtor. He navigates those; an expert pilot. No escapes to lightspeed but he zooms around them nimbly nonetheless.

It’s something bad. I raise my game with this alibi. It’s a good one. If he sticks to it.

He thanks me, in his way. Emotions held in check, of course, as always.

Protecting himself.

And I will protect him. Because he needs protecting.

The idiot.

Kerri, Cassian’s little sister

Kassa is my brother. And my mummy and daddy. And my friend.

He is always there. He listens when I sing. Sometimes he sings to me.

But sometimes, he wants to be with the big boys and girls. And I get sad then, and play with the toy he went back and found for me. The one I once woke to find him crying over.

Sometimes he’s happy. When we sing together.

He’s excited now, playing hunting with the big girls and boys.

He says he’ll come back soon, so I wait, but I’m sad because I miss him already.

https://archiveofourown.org/series/4194688

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"Yet here we are... wasting time."

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It's "You're My Ideal Reader" day at @andorappreciation, so I wanted to take a minute to appreciate my fellow Keero writers (and everyone who has tirelessly kept our small fandom alive over the past almost-three years. I wasn't even on here for all of them!).

Here are a few of my absolute favorite Syril/Dedra fics, along with accompanying rambles about why I think they're great. I'm focusing on writers who I know are on Tumblr, but there are some great fics in the tag by people whose socials I don't know.

Now, for the fics:

A Zealous Man Burns for One Thing by unknowntelephone @lighttailoring, on here - Rating: Mature. This fic and its sequel, The Body and the Blood, are everything to me. They're technically a historical witchfinder AU (think Salem Witch Trials) with Syril as a priest and Dedra as a witchfinder. There's so much going on here, though, that calling it an AU almost does a disservice to the fic. It's so much more than that. It deals expertly with concepts of love, lust, and "sin" in the face of a harsh and unforgiving god (sounds a bit like the Empire, hm?), and the writing is spectacular. The first part serves as a retelling of the events of Andor's first season translated into a folk horror setting, and the second creates a new storyline for Syril and Dedra's characters.

Favorite excerpt: He tries to explain himself; tries to convey, in his own small, meagre way, how merely being in her presence has filled his life with grace, given it meaning. How she has shown him that, if nothing else, there is a just God. That perhaps the dream of creating His Kingdom here on Earth might be worth clinging to. She says nothing in response. Her upper lip curls into a snarl.

My Empirical Heart by limitedpractice @air-mechanical, on here - Rating: Audiences Teen and Up. This is my favorite version of the Broom Closet Scene, and I wrote a version of the Broom Closet Scene. @air-mechanical does it all: she's nailed Dedra's disorientation and fear in the moments following her salvation with expert flair, she's dug into Dedra's head to pull out why she's so fearful of being close to Syril and why it horrifies Dedra to owe someone her life, and she's written a kissing scene that balances perfectly on a thin wire between awkward and steamy. (At different points, it's both.) The writing is lush, and the characterization is impeccable. I know Tony Gilroy has said there was never a take of the Broom Closet Scene where Syril and Dedra kissed, but I think if he read this fic, he would've decided to adapt it in a flashback. @air-mechanical has plenty of other Keero works, too, and some involving Major Partagaz. Check them out!

Favorite excerpt: Dedra kisses him again. She kisses him hard, a closed mouth kiss onto his pliant lips. He has no right to be so unmoved. No right to feel so soft. No right to ignore her. No right to deny her after he’s just demonstrated that he’ll give her anything. Dedra kisses him harder. She pushes into him as if pressure is all it takes to break someone. Syril doesn't buckle. He doesn't whine. He doesn't gasp and pass out and hit his head. He doesn't do any of the things she's told herself that he'd do, that she was looking forward to him doing, that she needs him to do.

He just stands there.

Christmas in Evergreen by SerenaMandrake @calidris-pygmaea, on here - Rating: General Audiences. Last year, around Christmas, a few of us were throwing around the idea of putting Syril and Dedra in a trope-riddled Hallmark-movie scenario with Dedra as a corporate lawyer and Syril as a small-town cop. @calidris-pygmaea actually wrote it, thank goodness, and it's everything I could've hoped for. It's a hilarious, anti-Hallmark Christmas story, with two people who forge a bond based on how much they hate Christmas (and how much they love their jobs). There's genuine warmth in it, even though the two main characters remain cold as ever. (As they should and would be.) This one, too, has a sequel in Fifty-Five Cubits an Hour, which turns up the heat but maintains the humor and creativity of the original. Both of these fics are hot chocolate on a chilly day, to me. @calidris-pygmaea has also written other Keero one-shots and multichapters, so check them out!

Favorite excerpt: Every single radio station is playing the same carols, and Dedra is driving too fast. It's two days before Christmas, and she'd assumed that no-one in this hopeless town would be bothering to give speeding tickets. They're barely bothering to keep anything else functioning — every document she needs has been more difficult to acquire than it should have been, and even locating a cup of coffee at 6am was a challenge. But about the speeding tickets, she was wrong.

Scattered Wavelengths by unknowntelephone @lighttailoring, on here - Rating: Mature. This fic is an excellent example of what Syril and Dedra's relationship could be. Syril brings Dedra to a special place from his past, and it means everything to him to have her there. At the same time, Dedra tries desperately to figure out why this is so important to him, and on what level, if any, she should care about this place or the man who'd brought her there. The writing is descriptive, sharp, and accurate to the show. As a bonus, there's even some Uncle Harlo backstory. It's a sweet moment in the lives of two relatively bitter Imperials. I would also like to recommend several other works of @lighttailoring's, but they are very VERY explicit and I'm not sure that's allowed for Andor Appreciation Week. If you're 18+ and okay with reading smut, they're extremely well done.

Favorite excerpt: She suddenly wants to get closer to him. Her legs carry her, almost unbidden, across the half-metre of concrete and rusted railing between her body and his. She wants to look into his eyes like she does with her suspects; to locate the speck of whatever emotion it is that he’s feeling and lock onto it, isolate it, draw it in and absorb it into herself so she can inoculate herself against it. But he’s too quick for her - he steps behind her swiftly and slides his arms around her, his chin gently brushing against the top of her head.

The absolute fucking audacity. 

In Limbo by weirdopalido @karnpuffs, on here - Rating: Audiences Teen and Up. There is nothing tumblr user karnpuffs can't do. Art? She's got it. Memes? You know it. Hilarious fanvids of Dedra's brain making Windows XP error noises? Absolutely. Bracelets based on Syril's cereal? No problem. But you might not have known that tumblr user karnpuffs also writes, and I absolutely love her version of how Syril and Dedra get away from the Ferrix riot — a question I'm not sure we'll get an answer to in canon, given the time jumps. There's so much deliciousness going on; general awkwardness from awkward people, fake dating for the sake of escape, "there was only one bed" (and who doesn't love "there was only one bed?"). There's humor and a sense of genuineness between two people who, for the first time, are really seeing each other.

Favorite excerpt: It was over. No escape, no way out. Like a reflex, she reached under her jacket for her blaster, but only held it firmly in her hand. A single shot would have jeopardized their cover, but she needed the sense of protection that holding the blaster gave her. Her throat was dry from the smoky air, she felt dizzy and had no choice but to cling to Syril for support. She gripped his arm even tighter, digging her fingers deep into his flesh through the layers of his clothing. Somehow she found comfort in the fact that she could make him feel her pain and anger.

Aren't You a Little Short for a Stormtrooper? by Sarcasmismydefaultmode @sarcasmismydefaultmode, on here - Rating: Audiences Teen and Up. Listen. This fic is fun. Back in the days when Season 2 seemed like a distant hope, the Syril/Dedra fandom saw a grainy filming photo of what looked like Dedra wearing armor and ran with it... and this fic was the result. With time an enemy of the Empire, she goes to rescue Syril before the Rebels can hunt him down and neutralize him. As bad luck would have it, she has to wear a Stormtrooper suit to do accomplish her mission. Despite the funny premise, these two are kept in character, and there are several nods to iconic moments from A New Hope in the writing. Plus, Attendant Heert is here!

Favorite excerpt: Dedra’s eyes searched his, feeling like they’d been warped back to that moment outside the ISB when he first accosted her, his eyes intense and focussed solely on her, his hand daring to reach out and cling to her arm. Just as then, there was equal parts desperation and adoration in his gaze now, only slightly tempered by the annoyance he felt towards her ambivalence for him. It fed her own irritation that he had not moved past that, had not moved past the distraction of his worship of her with the chances she had given him since Ferrix, but it also called to something in her, to her own sense of power, power that she still held over him, that he was still hers to command if she was wise.

I also want to give a shout-out to @hegodamask, who is not a writer but is an incredibly talented gifmaker and poster of meta and headcanons. She deserves so much credit for not only being a founding member of the fandom, but also for keeping us going when all we had were release date delays and trailers that looked like they were filmed underwater. You're awesome, Ellen! 💕

Another shout-out to @chipthekeeper, who both writes Velcinta fic and, as I'm sure everyone knows, has been an essential part of the Andor fandom for a very long time over at @andorshitdaily. Thank you not only for your writing (and creating the Velcinta AO3 tag!), but also for keeping our spirits up and making so many people laugh over this endless hiatus, Chip.

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Home Late, Up Early

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: M (but could probably be T!) Relationships: Syril Karn/Dedra Meero Characters: Syril Karn, Dedra Meero, Eedy Karn Additional Tags: Implied Sexual Content, Eedy Being Eedy, Syril hates living at home for obvious reasons, poor guy really needs to move out, it's hard to sneak around in a new relationship when your mother is Eedy Karn

He’s never been in this situation. Never in his life found himself in the position of having to justify a wrongdoing such as this to his mother, although of course that’s moronic because he’s thirty-six years old. He's a grown adult with a real, Imperial job, and sleeping with the woman he loves can hardly be considered wrong. Yet, from the tone of his mother’s voice, it couldn’t be more apparent that in her mind, he’s transgressed.

After spending a night with Dedra, Syril makes the galaxy's most ill-fated attempt to sneak back to his room.

Written for @andorappreciation Day Six: That's Just Love...Nothing You Can Do About That.

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@andorappreciation - Alternate Prompts: Penultimate Moments || Death

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may need some light tailoring...

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Fashioning Ferrix

@andorappreciation 14th April: Costumes and sets design

I’m a massive fan of Ferrix. I want to visit. I want to walk in its streets, meet its people, taste its food. The production design isn’t just insanely detailed, it also tells the story of a community.

Here’s an open-air barber’s shop. You can see it in use behind Cassian when he visits Xanwan Freight.

Then there’s the costumes of the people that live there. Did you spot the sunglasses ? I love that Bix was originally codenamed “Becky”. Maarva: “Maggie” 😀

Did you notice that Maarva has a lot of houseplants? Flowers and plants are clearly part of the Ferrix funeral tradition as well – here they are on the body as it’s removed.

Christian Matzke specialises in identifying background Aurebesh and Bazeese. Bazeese - the Ferrix writing script - is named for Barry Gingell, the graphic designer who is responsible for so much of what we see on screen. His nickname is Baz. They were going to give it a proper name, but he just kept on using it until everybody accepted it. (He also cameos as Anto Kreegyr in the holoimage seen in episode 11)

Enjoy the rest of these posts from Christian. My favourite is the one about the Time Grappler’s tower. In episode 3, when one of their own is under threat, the people of Ferrix do exactly this. 

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"An Unexpected Opportunity"

Here's my piece for the @forcefatalezine celebrating the women of Star Wars!

Losing a collection of intel handed directly to her by her boss was not the way Dedra Meero had planned to start her day.

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Andor Appreciation April 14th- Pockets Piping and some light.. Tailoring.. to which I present to you one of my two SWCJ cosplays.

(i had made trousers but trousers are a pain in the ass to make and they just didn't look right so I had to resort to my jeans)

8 days go?! how unreal (I'm posting this ahead of time as I'm in Tokyo for celebration)

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them 😍

random silly screenshots of interviews with Kyle and Denise from over the years - their energy is unmatched, watching them is so much fun and a feast for the eyes, and I love them both with all my heart ❤

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STAR WARS: ANDOR

Opression

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@andorappreciation April 11th, Day Six: Doomed by the Narrative || Echoes

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my fav relationship, my fav idiots ❤

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Past The Rust

I thought long and hard about what to do for today’s “That’s just love” relationships theme for @andorappreciation … there are so many complex and beautiful relationships in Andor. This is one that we see so little of but care so much about because we can see exactly what Clem meant to Cassian. Using his name at the heist, acknowledging his Jyn-like naivety that the Empire is not a problem if you just ignore their flag, the horror of the memory of what happened that cold day 13 years ago… and finally the simple and happy father-son-making-a-mess memory that allows Cassian to grieve properly, perhaps for the first time.

Clem, like Nemik, knows it’s important to look past the rust. To see the value in something that had been discarded as worthless and not fit for use. That’s Cassian. He cleans up nicely.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this internal monologue.

…

I’m sorry that I never did call you “Dad” while you were alive.

Perhaps if your name had started with the same letters it would have been easier for me. Perhaps you were a little jealous when, while I was learning your language, I said “Ma” and you and she had realised about the coincidence for the first time. She had laughed and looked delighted, and I had smiled. So had you, but a little sadly, I thought.

But I used your name with the exact same love. And in time you became to me the figure I thought I had lost forever: my father. My Dad.

I’m sorry, too, that I haven’t thought about you often enough in the way that I would have preferred to. What I mean is - I thought about you a lot. Every day. But always with the association of what happened to you. And to me. Your memory had always brought me pain, because even when I remembered you alive I also saw you dead. Cold, stiff and dusted with frost. The rope, creaking. And I always tasted the acid bile of my grief and my horror and my pain, retched into my mouth, burning me so badly that I would always swallow it back down so it could churn and boil below, contained as much as I could contain it.

See? Even now, though I’m not much good usually with fancy language, the horror is apparently more vivid to me than the joy of remembering you. When I let it overpower me again.

But I’m changing that. I’ve already started, I think.

You see, a few months ago I was asked to do something brave. I was going to be paid for it, but the danger was clear to me from the scale of the job. It turned out to be even worse. But before I knew that … I chose to be you. I chose your name. I thought I could make you live again, a little, through me.

I know you told me, before you died, that it was “not our fight”. I love and respect you enough to tell you that you were wrong. I knew it then, deep down, and I know it even more now. Then, I fought in the only way I knew how to. With just my rage and sense of justice - and a stupid stick. And I paid the price for all that so bitterly that I went on to convince myself that you had been right, and that the fight wasn't ours and was something to avoid.

But you can’t avoid this. You just can’t ignore it. Because if you ignore it, it doesn’t go away. It just gets worse. We have let it get worse and worse and it’s almost too late to do anything about it. Almost, but not quite.

I learned this lesson for myself. I can’t ignore what is happening, not anymore.

When I first used your name - borrowed you - I was like you: a man who didn’t want to fight, but one who grew to love and respect his new family members. So I ended up wanting to fight for them.

And just as you had welcomed me into your life and your heart despite your early misgivings, so too I learned to love, and to care for others outside of my own circle. I didn’t want to give up on them. I grew to care.

So you might not have approved, at first, of what I chose to do but I think that in the end you would have been proud of what I did. And what you did too, living on in your name, as part of me.

I was so proud to have you with me.

And I had you with me again, earlier tonight. I came here for Ma's funeral. Though I can’t mourn her yet. There's too much raw pain - I can hardly stand to think about it all, can hardly stand to think about her. All I can think about is how I left her. How I had only just missed her. So I went straight to you, for comfort, perhaps in the knowledge that I can now properly mourn you. And this time, the memory came bright and pure and hopeful. I didn’t see your body and I didn’t think of the pain. I thought of you, whole. A simple happy memory from simple happy times. It made me sad, of course, but I smiled anyway. You had lived again for me, and this time through a loving memory. But also one with a lesson. It’s like you were trying to speak to me, having me remember that particular moment. I am pretty good, I am discovering, at learning. You would be proud of me, I think, if you could see how adaptable I am becoming. Practically, but also in terms of understanding and acting on … I suppose I should call them: deeper messages.

I cleaned up nicely, I think. People didn’t look past my rust. But there is still a lot of good in me. Iron. Pure Ferrix iron. I am dissolving away my rust in new resolve. You see, I need to be put to use again. I have salvaged myself from the yard, been repurposed as a weapon. I have been welded together with my need for freedom and justice. I have been oiled with new resolve. And I have been fuelled with love.

I don’t know how effective I will be though, as this weapon, against such a huge and solid fortress of hate and oppression. Just like Nemik describes - I’m alone, unsure and I feel dwarfed. I have lived and loved and lost so much.

Bix. Tomorrow, I am going to die, probably, trying to save her - even though maybe there's nothing left to save except her honour and her memory. I will fight for her because I love her, and I owe her so much that I could never hope to pay off my debt - except like this. I don’t think I valued love enough until I accepted once again how hard it is to lose it. But also because if I don’t try, I will have failed in this fight before I have even properly started.

If I live, if I succeed, I think I will go on fighting. I think I have found the man I really am. Either way, I don’t want to go back to who I was in these years since I lost you. I like the new me better. Because I respect him. Because he reminds me of you, at your best. I will keep my eyes open. I will look for possibilities everywhere.

I think I have a choice, now. If I hide or run again, none of this will go away. And nothing that I have done will matter. I have to fight. I have to save those I love. Those I have left. Those who are still alive, but also the the memory of those I have lost. You. Ma. Kerri. My first parents. Nemik. Kino. All the others. But I also simply have to try to stop allowing others, who I don’t even know, to be forced to feel the same pain that I have - of this injustice, this tyranny, this hate. I have to help bring the Empire down or die trying. That’s something I know beyond doubt that I can do: I can try.

I will try.

I know you always loved me. Maybe now you can be proud of me too. As I can be proud of you.

I love you, Dad. And I’m so proud to be your son.