#canto six

[knoxise]

skyward sword redraw

[hollerite]

Wurthering Heights thoughts for canto 6

In preparation for the canto, I have read Wurthering Heights. Here is some analysis for those who haven't read it.

It's pretty clear that this Canto cannot be set after the end of the story, since by that point Heathcliff has owned the heights for years, and almost all the rest of the cast is dead. However, theres a pretty obvious point to toss us into the story, and thats the period in which Heathcliff returns to the heights after three years of absence, at which point hes a lot richer. However, in this version of the story it seems like hes only pretending to be that rich, hence him wanting the hair coupons and nice clothing. this is also interesting because cathy is still alive, but is about to die, so we'd get some interaction with her. Its also at this point that Heathcliff goes from being more or less a victim in the novel, to being the full on main antagonist, so combined with it being an even-numbered canto I believe we are going to be truly awful.

as for the funeral we saw so long ago, theres one person who it could be. Earnshaw, Heathcliff's adopted father, as his death was the turning point for heathcliffs life, where he went from having status and a good relationship with Cathy into misery and depression, it would make sense that we'd see it.

However, with how much of the story happens after Heathcliff takes over the Heights, I think via either mirror shenanigans or T corp tech we will see that as a possible future, one where Heathcliff fails to move on and instead obsesses over torturing the people of the heights for the rest of his life, and its that universe that we will get his main ID from, similar to how Nclair comes from a different universe and has no equivalent in ours.

Also, while I don't know exactly what that factory in the trailer is, it would not surprise me if its name was Threshcross Grange, or something similar to it, simply because that is the only other named location in the book. It was just another house, but if they're not including that place then it'd make sense to recycle the name, or else have the people who live there own the factory, as they're much richer than the Heights residents.

I'd also like to argue against the idea that this canto will be set after the book, and we'll get the twist that our Heathcliff is actually book Heathcliff son. Linton Heathcliff is extremely different from his father, and would have no motivation to look nice upon his return to the heights, whereas that was an explicit goal of book Heathcliff. In addition, the heights after the events of the book is described as a very nice place to live, which would not fit what we've seen of the location thus far.

[sage-lights]

amanda has genuinely stunned me with how pretty she is in the spud hut video. holy shit. this woman looks like she just stepped out of a magazine or something.

[lumiereandcogsworth]

i know the podcast is gonna be bullshit but i also know i’m gonna eat it up like a five course meal. let’s ride

[savethegrishaverse]

For our next twitter party, we want to celebrate World Poetry Day with Tolya! Let's use hashtag #RabinovCanto to talk about poetry and the Grishaverse! Come prepared with your best tweets, questions, comments, gifs, memes, and more. Let's make some noise! 🗣️

#SaveShadowAndBone and #SixOfCrowsSpinoff TWEETING PARTY 4/21 at 12PM! Come check it out here!

Remember to:

Only use three hashtags.

Enjoy and be engaging with your tweets! Keep sharing! Timezones under read more.

If you cannot attend, you can always schedule tweets ahead of time on desktop in order to help out still!

ALL TIMEZONES: Sunday, Apr 21: 9am PST 10am MST 11am CST 12pm EST 2pm -03 5pm GMT 6pm CET 8pm MSK 9pm +04 10:30pm IST

Monday, Apr 22: 1am CST 2am JST 4am AEST 6am NZST

[cristalbeesnow]

why jordie? it's just a hypothesis obviously but when kaz recites the poem to ravka tolya tells him that he is happy to find someone who loves life and kaz makes a sad face... knowing that jordie read a lot of books (he is mentioned in the saga) I thought that Maybe Jordie read pieces of the poem to Kaz... it's just a hypothesis but there's something sad and melancholy about this... yet another reminder of how Jordie was scammed and lost his life. also jordie is seen as a kind of jesper and we all know how much jesper loves life...

[zoluremion]

cant wait for butler outi at canto six

[zen17hdee]

Crack Theory:

Vergilius is the original bloodfiend

Has red eyes

Is literally The Red Gaze

Bro LOOKS like a vampire

Did not hesitate to put Donqui in her place at the beginning of Canto 3 despite knowing she’s the second Kindred

Maybe Vergilius taking action in canto six and us seeing his ego for the first time was set-up for the big reveal in canto seven

Look at Vergilius when he manifests EGO

Now look at Don’s 2nd kindred form

Edit: Also

If Vergilius was the original bloodfiend

He’s the one who made Don a bloodfiend too

Don wants to be a fixer

For that she’d have to be human

Vergilius tells her he knows how to make her human again but he’ll only do so if she works for Limbus Company

That’s the agreement he mentions when he threatens her in canto 3

[garadinervi]

Robert Rauschenberg, Canto VIII: Circle Five, The Styx, The Wrathful; Circle Six, Dis, Capital of Hell, The Fallen Angels, [from the series Thirty-Four Illustrations for Dante's Inferno], (solvent transfer drawing, pencil, watercolor, gouache, and crayon on paper), 1959-1960 [MoMA, New York, NY. © Robert Rauschenberg Foundation, New York, NY]

[ancientcharm]

Wikipedia article that is only available in Spanish. I translated into English some abstract to share here. I always wanted to write a post about that "Antonine dynasty" fallacy. Luckily I found someone who explains much better

Ulpia-Aelia Dynasty

Ulpia-Aelia Dynasty is the new name proposed by Alicia M. Canto and adopted by a sector of current historiography to refer to the seven emperors of the Roman Empire, from Nerva to Comodo. Specifically includes emperors Trajan, Hadrian, Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius and his co-emperor Lucius Verus.

Doctrinal approaches

Unlike other dynasties such as the Julio-Claudian dynasty, the Flavian dynasty or the Severan dynasty, there is no agreement in Ancient History on how to group and name the emperors of the 2nd century, "the best century in the history of Humanity" according the British historian Edward Gibbon.

The most used definitions from the 18th century until today have been and are "the Antonines", "the Good Emperors" and "the Adoptive Emperors". There were only two Antonine: Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, and both were, above all, two Aelii (from the Aelia family). The adoptions were just a political cosmetic operation, but they did not comply with the ideal principles of adoption described by Galba or Pliny the Younger.

The inappropriateness of these three universal classifications is more evident in the face of the 48 ancient texts that demonstrate that throughout that century there existed an authentic dynasty, of Hispanic origins and roots, whose real link was not the adoptions, but the line of blood and kinship, entrusted to the women of the dynasty, who transmitted the legitimacy to inherit the throne: Pompeia Plotina, Vibia Sabina, Matidia the Younger, and both Annias, the so-called Faustina the Elder and Faustina the Younger, ending in Commodus.

After the elderly Nerva as a necessary introducer, the following six emperors: Trajan, Hadrian, Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius, Lucius Verus and Commodus - externi (foreigners) according to the Roman historian Aurelius Victor - form an authentic lineage.

All this led Maria M. Canto to propose the term "Ulpio-Aelia", "the Ulpii Aelii", to define the true dynasty of Hispanic origin that goes from Trajan to Commodus (98-192 AD). Some ancient authors, such greek historian Herodian, demonstrate that the Romans themselves did see Commodus as a direct descendant of Trajan, katá thêlugonía ("by the maternal line"), that is, through the aforementioned empresses, and as "A fourth generation emperor".

The reason why names such as "the Antonine dynasty" or "the Antonine emperors" have universally triumphed is not found in ancient texts, but in the European historiography of the 17th and 18th centuries, whose arguments in this sense, although they do not find real foundation in the texts, have been so generally accepted until now.

The new proposal has already been accepted by authors such as José María Blázquez,​ the Italian expert Anna Maria Reggiani, among others,​ and the definition can be seen integrated even in some university subject programs. Although, without a doubt, two and a half centuries of historiographic tradition is still very decisive in favor of the other definitions in use.

​Alicia María Canto y de Gregorio (Havana, April 23, 1949 – Madrid, March 4, 2024), known as Alicia M. Canto, was a Spanish archaeologist and epigrapher. In 2011 she was appointed corresponding academic of the Royal Academy of History.

Nerva was chosen just as transitional ruler following the assassination of Emperor Domitian. Except him, the successors of "his dynasty" were related.

I'm really sick of hearing things such "Marcus Aurelius broke tradition by choosing moron Commodus just because he was his son; He made a serious mistake".

None of those emperors were chosen after going through a casting. Trajan's adoptive successor was his nephew, the only male relative he had, plus was married to Trajan's great-niece. Hadrian would have been emperor if Trajan had had a son? Marcus Aurelius and his wife Faustina were descendants of Trajan, he on his father's side and she on his mother's side. Marcus Aurelius did nothing more than continue the true tradition of his family.

Just as Augustus' dynasty is known as the Julio-Claudian, ending with Nero, Trajan's is the Ulpia-Aelia dynasty and ending with Commodus. And in my opinion the term Nerva Antonine dynasty, which I find in all English articles, simply doesn't make sense.

[mosylufanfic]

Rebelcaptain Day Six: Tropes

I was shocked to realize that, with my love of fake dating and arranged marriages, I had somehow never written married in Vegas. (Or Space!Vegas, in this case.) Obviously I had to remedy that.

What Happens in Canto Bight

Yonly Tress worked hospitality crew on the run between Canto Bight and Mordonica. She'd thought it was really exciting when she first got the job on the planet-hopper, but after two years of going out and back twice a day, four days a week, it had pretty much settled into boredom. 

The run out to Canto Bight wasn't so bad. People were usually happy to be going, already in a party mood. Sometimes people had pregamed in various ways, and she'd perfected the art of wiggling out of roaming hands without causing offense. But it was usually okay, because happy people tipped really well.

The run back was usually much quieter. A lot of people found their seats and immediately fell asleep, or passed out, for the two-hour trip. Others sat staring out the viewports or at datapads. Every once in awhile, they got a belligerent drunk, or someone incredibly pissed off that they'd lost huge amounts of money at the Lose All Your Money resort. 

Generally Yonly was relieved when they docked on Mordonica, and not just because it either meant her meal break or that she was done for the day. 

To pass the time between planets, the crew often played a game of guessing what had happened in Canto Bight. "Seat 3-Esk," she said to Klaas as they prepped their refreshment carts.

"Lost his shirt," Klaas said immediately. 

She looked over her shoulder and nodded. Seat 3-Esk had that hollow-eyed, thousand yard stare of somebody who didn't know how he was going to explain why he didn't have a credit to his name anymore. 

"Seat 6-Grek?" She looked a lot happier than 3-Esk, even though she had traces of glittery makeup around her eyes and her hair looked like she'd shoved it under a hat without bothering to wash the product out first. 

"Oh, she won big. You see how she's smiling at her datapad and typing messages? She got herself a sugar daddy. Now what about those two in Row 7? Seats Cherek and Dorn."

She studied the couple - a man with a short beard and dark eyes, and a woman with mid-length brownish hair that was slowly losing its trendy wave. They were both in wrinkled but stylish clothing, as if they'd dressed to hit the town many hours before and caught their flight just in time.

"Ooo, that's a tough one. I'm leaning toward went for business, got drunk, and slept together."

"Mmm. I dunno. You ask me, I think they got married."

Keep Reading on AO3

[jovenshires]

smosh girlies week: day six → a smosh murder mystery (alternate universe pt. 1)

ian hecox: businessman, underground criminal, and now, dinner host. or at least that's what the invitation to his ex-wife, amanda lehan-canto, claims. they didn't part on the best of terms - last she checked, she lost everything in their messy divorce. she isn't certain why she'd be his first choice for a dinner companion. but that uncertainty is enough for her to get in her car and drive all the way to jones shrive - all the way to the manor she left nearly five years ago. after all, amanda, a now-retired private eye, would never let a mystery go unsolved. upon her arrival, she meets a colorful cast of characters - a lounge singer with a penchant for gambling, a police officer living far above her means, and a mysterious outsider who doesn't seem to even remotely run in ian's circles. she also meets the nosey, rambunctious reporter, angela giarratana. (she remembers the scathing article she wrote on ian - and the humble retraction the next week. it seems like she's not the only one who doesn't fit the mold of the guest list.) and, of course, the enigmatic, larger-than-life host himself, who doesn't seem to have a good explanation for all this. and before she can ascertain a reason, tragedy strikes. suddenly the house devolves into mystery and madness, and everyone becomes a suspect. amanda is quickly thrust into the spotlight, and to clear her name, she must solve her greatest case yet: the murder of the host himself. ian hecox.

[ifuckingloveryoshu]

CANTO 6 PART 3 SPOILERS

Im beyond pissed, tumblr crashed in the middle of me doing this so this is going to be so much shorter than I want it to be. NON RYOSHU RELATED POST ABOUT THE HEATHCLIFF. DON'T TAKE WHAT I SAY AS FACT I AM NOT QUALIFIED FOR THIS. LOOK AT THE LINKS I CITE FOR MORE INFORMATION! You can click them when their mentioned. Im not citing in the proper format. This was done on 5 hours of sleep, two eggs, and a box of banana milk.

The Erlkonig or Erlking is this figure in German Mythology who kidnapps children. When he touches you, he kills you. This poem made by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe then adapted to this song is what you see. Erlkoning Heathcliff is trying to intice Heathcliff to die by telling him that it's his fault Cathy is dead. All identities refer to the sinner as "child" when you look into their uptie stories. Mili and the singer of the video here use the same technique of changing the tone and pitch of their voice to differntiate two characters.

The Wild Hunt is a part of Norse Mythology where Odin, mounted on his sixed legged horse Sleipnir, goes through the forest. According to norse-mythology.org, anyone who gets caught up in The Wild Hunt, spotted or seen, gets carried away. Your soul will get incorporated into The Wild Hunt. We all know Erlking Heathcliff did, the rising of the bodies. The Wild Hunt is also mostly describe as having hounds, and who was a hound? Hindleys.

From the same website, on the page of Sleipnir reads,

Also, the horse that heath rides on has a weird liney pattern on it's 4 legs that kind of look like that runestone. There's more connection here, I just don't want to type it again.

How did Project Moon mix two diffrent mythological ideas together? (Its not just two, they mixed so many more.) Meet human mistranslation and the progression of oral tradition and story telling throught time. I don't kno where to start. There was mistranslation poem when, according to ancient-origins.net Johann Gottfried Herder wrote a seperate ballad from the one I linked at the start called Erlkönigs Tochter.

The Anglo-Saxons were early German settlers. This is where things get messy because I have several more potential leaders of the Wild Hunt but here are two, King Herla and Herne The Hunter.

Herne The Hunter: Popularized by Shakespeare potentially from a play called The Merry Wives of Windsor. This man called Jacobb Grimm said that Hene The Hunter was related to Odin. Herne the hunter is this ghost. ( https://mythopedia.com/topics/herne-the-hunter ) Im trying to say there are other media that connect the Erlking to the Wild Hunt but its on Wikipedia so it makes it seem fishy. Another Link Here

King Herla: A british king who attended a dwarf wedding. When he left the wedding, the world had changed. Unbeknowst to him, 300 years had passed and he was claimed to be missing. When his men tried to get off their horses, they turned into dust so they were stuck like that. Read it here, its short. Someone better and more credible than me summed the story up better than I did, historian Chrissy Senecal. Read right here. An additional link to cross refrence if you'd like. King Herla and Odin got conflated together when really, their diffrent people

I found this other website article about Wild Hunts which kind of brings me to the next thing, the Harlequinn. They weild clubs, their devils, the image of them is popularly joyful? Maybe goofy and lighthearted? Perhaps associated with cards? Matt, or Heathcliff's portrayal of Matt. Now, I'm looking at Wikipedia and I see this section.

What do we have here? A mention of the Erlkönig, Dante's Inferno, masked, club weilding giant. Heathcliff's not giant but hes pretty tall, at least by my standards but whatever, im very short. DANTE'S INFERNO, Canto 11 and 12. What the fuck Project Moon, are you playing 5d chess?

Back on topic, Hellequin is the fairy king, and this figure pops up in German, French, Italian, and English folklore. I can't do proper research when all my search results are mixed with random junk and I'm becoming nutty. You will not normally be able to access this article without paying but here's the link anyways. Journal Article from this book on a section about horned deities made in 1922 speaks of a group of ghost riding, who are also huntsman.

And also another mention of Dante's Inferno. The name, Herne The Hunter is mentioned again.

All and all, The link between The Erlkonig and The Wild Hunt isn't as wild and unexplainable as I originally thought. It's just so cool to see all these concepts intersect. There still so much to touch upon like the headless horseman refrence and the Dullahans, RYOSHU COMPARING THE WILD HUNT TO THE PARADE OF 100 SPIRTS, something along that line, I forgot the name. I'm just not the right person to yell about this but I will anyways. The writers mixed so many symbols of death into one character. Such a wild and nutty Canto. Thank you so much Project Moon.

[enkephallic]

Limbus Company Theory: Sinner Numbering Order

My current theory is that the Sinners are numbered in order of desirability for the LCB. Yi Sang being first makes sense - their plan would not work without his mirror technology, and Faust comes next with her leading the Sinners and Dante.

It's likely that Ryoshu was bought for her connections to the fingers, Meursault for his widespread capabilities + something we don't know, Hong Lu's wealth and eye. Conversely, the likes of Sinclair, Outis and Gregor seem to have either stumbled into the LCB by chance or as an "oh well, maybe they'll end up being a good fit".

I definitely feel that the first six are irreplaceable, as opposed to the likes of Ishmael and Rodya who have LCCB IDs. Those IDs indicate the possibility of them being known by the LCB, but not chosen to be a Sinner. (I think that's lowkey horrible for Rodya who wants to be special so bad, lol)

From here, Murder on the WARP express spoilers:

Don Quixote being a vampire-creature makes a hell of a lot of sense. "How could she possibly be more desirable than Ryoshu, the one who straight up had a panic button for Dante?"

Faust disintegrated when Don Quixote's boots fell off. It's a top secret that cannot be leaked to the Sinners, and not even Dante until the time was right. But who knew? Vergilius, and the higherups of the LCB. They hired her because they knew - whether they thought she was useful or they just really didn't want their Sinners to face that.

From Don Quixote biting into raw chicken to chomping on enemies with her Lantern ID, it looks like we'll see more of cannibalism in the coming cantos.

[cruel-heathcliff]

thinking about the black silence heathcliff post canto six again . he has no memories of his wife or why he needs to kill angela . none

[amywritesthings]

about you. (cassian x you)

Pairing: Cassian Andor x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.6K

Summary: You are a rebel spy working as an escort at Canto Bight's cliffside casino. When Luthen cannot meet you for an intel exchange on New Year's Eve, he sends his best asset. Never in your wildest dreams did you think that meant you'd reunite with your former childhood best friend, Cassian Andor.

Warnings: New Year's Eve, Spy Thriller, Escort Service, Romantic Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Reunions, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mentions of Sex Work, Wall Pinning, New Year's Eve Kiss

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I had a fun holiday one shot idea and wanted to try my hand at writing Cassian Andor. I am wishing you all a happy & healthy new year, and I can't wait to continue writing in 2023.

( Read on AO3 )

Canto Bight is always bustling at New Year’s Eve.

It’s why Luthen Rael has shown up on your doorstep for the first time in months. In his not-so subtle way, the man requests (see: demands) that you float back to your old haunt, the one within the glittering halls of their monument cliffside casino, and do what you do you best: entertain as a partner experience escort for the rich and powerful. 

The partner experience operation has been your designation from the very beginning of this rebellious calling. Your contribution to the rebellion, as he claims, is valuable — because the whispers in the night by decorated Imperials that feel safe in your company are priceless.

Whispers bring intel, and not even gold is as priceless as Imperial intel.

Luthen claims he knew of your potential the moment he laid eyes on you in a seedy dive bar on an Outer Rim moon. The little lamb far from her home planet Ferrix, looking fearful yet enraged all the same; starved, but most importantly willing to do anything to take down the Empire one domino at a time.

It was the type of spunk the older man needed in a claustrophobic world.

So you struck a deal: under trained supervision, you would run the casino circuits and red districts — never quite getting close enough to sleeping with the enemy (who knew the Empire thrived on humiliation and edging?) but enough to drug them, learn from them, then report back to him for the next move.

Rinse and repeat for six successful years.

And right now, you were supposed to be done. Find a small shack in the middle of nowhere knowing you did your part in the small but mighty agenda. Perhaps, eventually, you would find a way to make peace with your past and your present.

Then Luthen fucking Rael shows up at the stoop of said shack only six months later with a new opportunity.

A new strategy on the chess board.

(The rebellion, as he so candidly puts it, is never final.)

“Did you hear about what’s going on with Life Day this year on Canto Bight?” Luthen grunts, opting to stand by the doorway rather than a seat at your makeshift kitchen table.

You drop down unceremoniously with your arms at your sides. You know — and you know he knows — there is a blaster taped on the belly of the steel table should this be an unpleasant visit.

“You mean the Wookie holiday?”

“Hmm,” Luthen sounds, caught between a yes and a no. “Supposed to be the Wookie holiday, but it seems the Empire has allowed the casino a profitable chance to participate until the new year.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” you muse in return, surveying him. “When you say profitable, you mean—”

“Everyone who is anyone will be visiting.” Luthen never makes any sudden movements; always trapped sounding bored with this life he leads. It’s also a tactic not to play his cards too far from his chest. “They’ll be running the gambit for paid time off.”

Smile bland, you nod once. “Which is code for… you need someone on the inside.”

“For the season,” he agrees, shifting his weight. “A gift to the faces who may have missed you.”

“Missed me?”

“I hear about the Diamond quite a lot.”

Their precious Diamond.

Maker, that nickname always made your skin crawl.

You huff, rubbing your nose with the back of your thumb. “Flattery gets you nowhere with me, Luthen, you know that.”

He takes a pause, small eyes observing everything that you do. Updating a mental database logging your quirks and your discomfort to cipher for a later date — that’s all he’s ever done, study and download people, and he’s done so without error yet.

(It’s why he’s never been caught.)

“It isn’t flattery,” he finally says. “It’s an opportunity.”

To do everything we couldn’t the first time, is what he really implies.

It’s feeding an addiction no amount of dead fascists will be able to quench.

“And how do I tell them why I want the job back after I quit?”

“Your mother was very ill. You needed to help with her expenses,” Luthen fabricates from thin air. “It was easiest to part ways without the low note on your record. But the credits have dried up, and their clientele will be thankful of the casino’s decision to allow you back on the floor.”

It’s your turn to pause — to study. He gives away nothing. You lean forward to rest your elbows on the tops of your thighs.

“You think that’ll work?”

“You’ll sell it,” is all he gives back like you’ve already said yes.

You’re supposed to be out.

(Do you want to be out?)

.

.

.

.

.

No.

No, you don’t.

.

.

.

.

.

Getting the job back at the casino as a specialized escort is easy. The difficulty lies in remembering how to fall into old, subtle habits when all you want to do is cause chaos. Staying engaged while chatting up Imperial scum as they spittle in their expensive liquors and moan about the woes of their occupations and agenda can only go on for so long.

Yet you laugh with the rest of them once they’re kissing your feet and your hands, because everyone in this rebellion has a part to play.

(Our loveliest of diamonds, back to see us once again.)

Luthen, of course, never leaves you to your own devices for long. Gifting a hefty sum of credits and a bag of dissolvable sedatives every time he passes through Canto Bight as his alter ego is about as noble as the illusive man gets.

You fill small briefcases with voice memos and holovideos of nightly conversations, drunken manifestos and slippery plans.

It works.

By some miracle, you have never been caught.

New Year’s Eve is filled to the brim with Imperial guards enjoying time off from their grueling schedules. Some of the higher commanding officers already have their arms draped over people inviting them to a great time. Others chase after the debauchery promised by scantily clad creatures inviting them into the halls and out of their money.

You? Have a booking in advance: a high-ranking officer, but not within the Inner Circle.

According to Luther, he’s a valuable asset double-crossing their superiors.

A plant.

You are to deliver the intel to him under Luthen’s command and trust.

(Ironic. You always believed Luthen trusted no one.)

At the final half hour of the year’s end, you round the corner from the main entertainment room and down the hallway towards the private event spaces. A multitude of sounds are muffled by the doors — some good, some not so. Your focus is set on the twelfth door where your officer awaits, and suddenly you feel nervous all over again.

Meeting one of Luthen’s other operatives feels all too daunting.

After a moment, you place your code into the code box by the door and wait for the durasteel to slide, revealing the plush crimson meeting space. It's staged with a convenient king-sized bed and a vanity for refreshment, inviting comfort and suggesting the obvious.

What greets you as the door opens — a silhouette at the edge of the bed, dressed in Imperial formals — is not what you envisioned.

The man’s hair is what you notice first: disheveled brown locks are combed back neatly, smoothed by gel to keep the unruliness at bay. The jacket’s shoulders are a little too pointed, as if he’s not grown into his uniform quite yet — or like he’d stolen it on his way into the venue. The lines on his faces aren’t new, but aren’t old. He’s tired — so fucking tired, but he sits taller the second the door opens.

The blank expression on his face is purposeful, almost doe-eyed, with a feigned, smug-like innocence only an Imperial officer would wear.

Then his gaze travels from your open-toed shoes, up your bodysuit dress of sequins, and locks onto your face.

Just like that, the façade is broken.

What once was blank now hardens, wholly confused, before the lines on his prominent brow smooth with recognition.

Cassian.

Of all the idiots in all the galaxy, Cassian Andor is dressed as an Imp in your meeting space on the eve of the new year.

And you thought, with this rebellion, that you’d seen everything.

While the officer in disguise is much older than what your memory recalls, you could never forget that face even if the Empire tried. The feeling of dirt under your fingernails, the scent of rubber burning, the spark of an electric charge from a stolen piece of property — it all floods back in a tidal wave, almost knocking you a step back into the hallway.

On Ferrix, Cassian Andor always ran around with different people — sometimes it was Bix when she wasn’t punished for entertaining teen scoundrels; sometimes it was other boys in scrappy brawls and mended machinery; most of the time, however, it was you.

Hand and hand, causing mayhem in the bright suns and the full moons. He'd shown you what it meant to stand up for yourself. To want what you want and not apologize for it. To be bold, even at the expense of disruption.

And then he’d pummel whatever wayward eye looked at you the wrong way.

Trouble. 

Cassian Andor was so much trouble, and you were mad for it.

Your last memory of him is as vivid as the neon lights lining the ceiling: you're both sixteen years old and shoulder-to-shoulder on an inclined metal slab, staring up at the stars. He's wearing that jacket from his father and hasn't combed his hair in days. You're lost in telling him about your dreams of a better tomorrow, of one day leaving Ferrix for good and making a difference in the vastness of the galaxy despite how small you feel. He laughs, a hum more than anything else, and takes your hand in his.

You're too afraid to squeeze back.

Having Cassian poke fun of the idea of doing much of anything in the galaxy never felt like he mocked you for wanting to try. More than anything, his laugh was one of envy: he couldn’t afford dreams, so you dreamt for the both of you. He couldn’t handle intimacy, so you were satisfied with resting your hand in his the entire night.

Nothing was said. Nothing had changed.

He gave what he could, and you understood.

Childhood friendship has a funny way of feeling that simple.

Cassian, however, never truly chose to change with you. He never truly chose anyone, not really, not when he had so much to give — to his mother, to his scrapyard confidantes, to Bix.

You fit somewhere in the chapters of his life, but Cassian Andor could never tell you which ones. He could not, and would not, promise someone tomorrow.

An unfinished book.

You never did tell him where you were going after hitching a ride on that stock transport to get the hell out of Ferrix for good. Not a single holocard or a note.

Just… gone, into the galaxy, to dream.

Now he sits in front of you at the edge of your meeting space bed, threatening to ruin your calculated cover in one-fell swoop.

Before Cassian can implode your operation, you turn on the mask: with a bright smile and squared shoulders, you gesture to the plush furniture of the room. “Is it to your liking, Mr. —?”

You trail off on your question to give him a chance to speak.

Cassian blinks a few times, only to remember himself.

“Raoul,” he blurts without dismissing his accent, eyes widening with an unspoken question: what are you doing here? “Sargeant Murl Raoul.”

Maker, you haven’t heard that voice in so long.

It’s deeper now. Rusty. Scratched.

“Sargeant,” you correct pleasantly, taking a step into the bedroom to toe the perimeter. Cassian pulls the geometric gray hat clear from his head, balling it in his fist, but you raise a palm at the hip when his mouth opens: don’t.

He listens, pressing his lips together with purpose.

“I asked if this room was to your liking," you repeat.

Cassian struggles with an answer, studying you with concern. You hate it. You hated it back on Ferrix when he tried to play protector, and a decade and a half apart doesn’t dilute the emotion.

Your brows rise, and he clears his throat. “I— yes, I am quite comfortable.”

“Good,” you conclude with a small nod. “Now before I join you and get more comfortable, do you have any questions for me?”

“More comfortable?” he asks a little too fast, so you recover with a glide of your hand along your sparkling thigh.

“Can’t do much when I’m in this old thing,” you coo, that stage performer voice now sounding so phony to your ears with a known audience. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Cassian runs the tip of his tongue along the seam off his lips, shifting his seat on the mattress. “I suppose I could ask how… uh, how long have you been doing… this?”

You don’t know if he’s asking about the escort arrangement or the Informant position, which further complicates the game. The odds of Cassian showing up on Canto Bight should be slim. Cassian wearing an Imperial outfit on his own ought to be slim to none. 

But appearing in your private meeting space, fake alias and all?

Your blood runs cold with truth between the lines.

(Luthen never does anything by accident.)

This meeting — reuniting Cassian and yourself — is his test, a judgment call, but you refuse to let Luthen win the game with this surprise hand.

“Years,” you answer honestly, to both.

You continue to face him as you skirt around the left side of the sparkling vanity, not taking any chances with your former friend. Your manicured fingers glide along the mirror’s back, searching for the planted Imperial wire.

(Not only are they cruel, but perverted in their efforts to catch spies.)

“So then you are... experienced?” The question comes out rougher than you believe he intends. Gruff, like he’s embarrassed to even ask.

(The question almost — almost — makes your face burn.)

“If you’re worried that you won’t have a good time, Sergeant, then I promise they sent you to me for a reason. I’m going to take great care of you.”

Cassian’s expression darkens at this as he rises to his feet with purpose.

You rip the microphone from the back of the mirror, holding the device between your index and middle finger for show. 

This stops him from moving ahead, eyes locked on the microphone before flickering back to you. You shake your head.

I said don’t.

He nods once, and you take the microphone between your hands. With two clicks, the wire cover pops open, displaying a multitude of tiny wires. You fidget between two, pulling, until the red eye at the center of the device dissolves into black.

The room is blanketed with silence.

Now it’s just you and a ghost here.

“We’re clear,” you tell him after another beat, dropping the seductive aloofness in your tone.

Cassian’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “That was fast.”

Your brow picks up that fraction, raising high. “You have to dismantle them fast."

“Let me take a look at it,” Cassian replies, tossing the hat twisted in his hands to the mattress. "Are you certain it's off?"

“Positive,” you say, sheltering the item closer to your chest. “You don't need to look at it. Easy to disable and reassemble at a moment’s notice, so I’ll turn it back on when you depart.”

“What about lost footage?”

“Chalk it up as faulty equipment they’re too stubborn to replace in a shithole like this.”

Cassian mulls over your answer, taking a cautious few steps forward to observe the small device in your hand. “Imperial-grade wires are tough to work with. A five-second warning doesn’t give many people time to disable the alarm,” he informs in a whispered afterthought. “Where did you learn to do that?”

In your bones, you know it’s a trick question.

Fifteen-something years of reuniting in a moment like this comes with immense drawbacks. When he asks, it is not out of curiosity — it is out of the desire to see if you are truly you.

(Because he remembers your face, too.)

“On Ferrix,” you reply.

He gives no reaction, continuing to deadpan. “Where on Ferrix?”

“You want me to remember from that long ago?” you laugh, placing the microphone on the vanity’s surface and following up with a thick blue cloth to drape over top of it.

“Humor me,” he reasons, flexing his leather-clad fingers at his sides. Now that he doesn’t have a distraction, Cassian doesn’t stop looking at your face.

(The same intensity as the boy without dreams.)

“The old Slavyard. There was that one incredibly rainy month when those prim and proper freaks—”

“—installed the spyware on the back door in the middle of the night,” he interrupts, finishing the story with a misplaced awe under his breath. “You played lookout while I disabled the devices.”

You don’t answer, not really, as you offer a half-hearted smile. “Say what you want about that place, but you learn a lot of things when you watch restless boys who never know when to stop getting in trouble.”

The return smile is small and fleeting, but the corner of Cassian’s lip upticks. His brows knit together, contemplating before a huff of a laugh exits. “Not a very good lookout, then, if you were so busy watching me.”

“You never got caught, though, did you?” you joke.

You swear he almost laughs.

The silence settles at your ankles and rises with each passing second, encompassing you both in a shroud of possibilities: pleasantries are nice, but the popping of bottles and shouts of celebration passing by your room brings you both back to a reality where you’re playing pretend.

Cassian huffs once more, running a hand down his face and around his neck before dropping it in a gesture towards you. “He cannot be serious.”

He.

You catch that pronoun with intrigue and tilt your chin.

“Serious about what? Who’s ‘he’?”

His voice softens, shrinking in size, as he nears half a step closer and into your bubble. “Don’t tell me it’s you.” You maintain eye contact — maintain dominance of this situation — and stay in place. “When he said to wait…”

“...for the Informer, you didn’t think you’d run into a ghost?” you finish, and he’s polite enough not to nod. “He only told me the person he was sending in his stead was one of his best assets. This reunion isn’t my doing.”

“No,” Cassian agrees, low and certain. “It isn’t.”

Because Luthen knows.

Luthen knows, and that’s dangerous in and of itself: his little lamb on Ferrix knew his most trusted asset long before the mastermind was in the picture, and this sabotage is meant to figure you out.

(To figure you both out for his own gain: to make sure you were both up for the task, history aside.)

Your jaw clenches as you nod with assertion, mindful of the train of your body-tight dress when you shift around Cassian to create some space. He turns his torso, following.

“Did he force you to do this?” When you pause in your steps to quirk a brow, he struggles with verbalizing what this means. “Entertaining these low lives while they piss their credits away.”

“Very strong words for someone dressed as an Imp.”

He completely ignores you, hyper in his budding rage. “Because if anyone has touched you—”

“No one’s forcing me to do anything, Cass,” you reply, hateful that the former nickname leaves your lips so fluidly; as if no time has passed. “We’re all cogs working for the same machine.”

“That doesn’t mean he should be having you do this on your own,” the man argues. “He’s not even on the planet, for fuck’s sake. This is dangerous work.”

“You keep saying this or that, but you’re not really asking the real question.” Your nose scrunches, maliciously playful. “I don’t fuck them. It’s pretend, Cassian. My honor is intact.”

Cassian squints with a scoff. “That isn’t what I meant—”

“It isn’t?” you challenge.

“No,” he responds just as fast and just as intense. A smirk plays on your lips, slow and growing. “Fuck whoever you’d like to fuck. One or a dozen, I don’t care, but not them. They don’t deserve you.”

“And who does?”

“I don’t know, but not Luthen or the pieces of shit out there or anyone on this planet.”

“Not even you, right?”

He stares down at you, hard. You snort in disbelief.

“I never thought I’d see the day where Cassian Andor is jealous of a body count, but I guess stranger things have happened for both of us.”

Cassian’s jaw sets, nostrils flaring with an anger he refuses to bury completely. He searches your face, lost on a response, before sharply inhaling through his nose.

“I need information on your regulars.”

Ah.

No more games. 

You roll your eyes, absently waving him off as you turn to walk towards the crate-like nightstand. “I have the files on a drive.”

No more games, or so you thought — Cassian follows close behind. “Drives are easily corruptible or lost or stolen. You could just tell me.”

Your hand hovers on the drawer when you turn your chin to look at him. “Yeah, sure, let me just… tell you about a mission I’ve spent years finessing so you can get the details wrong when you relay with Luthen.”

“Do you think so little of my memory skills?” he says and it’s a joke, but it teeters on the edge of an argument.

Just like old times.

You don’t need this type of deja vu before the new year.

“Whisper down the lane only goes so far,” you answer, turning back to the drawer in front of you. Your hand lifts the edge of the bottom plate, removing a small box from the center of the hidden compartment.

You only pause when you feel his presence right behind you as soft puffs of air tickle the back of your exposed neck.

He says nothing, not at first, in this proximity. Then a syllable sounds:

“Why?”

The question is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it whisper. His voice flutters along your skin, causing a shiver down your spine. Deep down you know he’s not asking about the drive or your distaste for his preferred method of relay. Why — the one word you hoped to never face.

If you concentrate hard enough, you can smell the scent of his cologne.

It smells nothing like Cassian.

You stay focused on a miniscule dot on the wall, too afraid to turn around.

“We can’t do this here,” you murmur, barely audible in return.

“I paid for the hour,” he replies. “If I were to leave ten minutes into your company, then there would be questions.”

(He’s right. As much as you hate it, your former friend is right.)

You raise your chin to the ceiling, closing your eyes. Contemplating. Seeking anything, everything, to say to avoid what’s to come.

You open your mouth to speak, but Cassian gets there first.

“I looked for you.” A vulnerable statement from an impenetrable man. His chin leans forward, the warmth of him spreading to your aura. “In dozens of quadrants—”

“Cassian.”

“—and about a hundred planets—”

“Stop.”

“—but you left nothing.” The final word emphasizes with raw emotion, causing your throat to swell. His gloved hand rests on your tricep, but you turn to finally face him. The closeness of him is a surprise — piercing brown eyes meet yours with mere centimeters between noses. “No note, no goodbye, no telling where you might have headed. Nothing.”

Frowning, you don’t realize that you’re shaking your head. The lines on his face are too distracting. He is distracting.

“You were never supposed to see me again.”

“And I never understood why.” He steps forward. You step back. When you think he won’t advance, he continues to step once, twice, until the third lands your back to the corner of the room. “So I am asking — now — while I can still have you: why?”

While I can still have you. You know the implication isn’t there, not truly, but your heart aches for it. The tension makes you feel so small, as if you’re eighteen and flying all over again.

You’re supposed to be over this; over him.

“I had to start new,” you answer after a considerable pause, forcing yourself to look him in the eye in what little space is held between you. “I was always going to leave Ferrix.”

“I knew that,” he argues softly. “I was never going to deter you from—”

“No. No, you were never going to,” you agree, nodding. “But you were always off and on the planet, doing what you had to for everyone else. If I didn’t cut Ferrix out of my life, then I wonder if I would have had the same fate as my parents or my friends: getting stuck there. And not just getting stuck, but waiting.”

“Waiting?” Cassian asks with confusion, brows knit.

You relax against the wall with a humorless laugh. “How did you not see it? The way I always waited for you.” Anxious, you turn your cheek to check the main door as you mull over your next few words. “I would have waited my whole life for you.”

The air in the room shifts.

Although he remains in your peripheral vision, the man stays staring at you without a discernible expression. The gravity of what you’re admitting drags lower, lower, until he says something that forces you to look at him head-on:

“I thought you were indifferent to me.”

Your eyes widen. “Indifferent?”

Cassian nods, short and quick. “You had all these big plans. I listened for hours. Not one of them involved me.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d want to be a part of those plans.”

“Maybe I didn’t think I couldn’t make a difference, not in a… rebellion, though the irony is not lost on me now,” he admits with a huff of a laugh, “but I wanted to be a part of you. I didn’t care what it was, so long as I still had you.”

You stare at him as he stares back at you, totally dumbfounded with this brand new information. Cassian swallows thickly, shifting his weight yet again from one leg to another. The loud party continues outside of your room, drowning these confessions in the excitement for a nearing midnight.

You had all these big plans.

Memories warp at a second’s notice as your brain tries to understand what he’s laid at your altar.

Not one of them involved me.

He shouldn’t be saying this.

He shouldn’t be saying any of this.

Closing your eyes to find a pause in your racing thoughts, you try — try to find where perhaps this is fabricated, designed to see if you’re easily swayed by the past that you so desperately let die in this rebellion.

Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. Cassian is watching with something close to concern.

(Something, maybe, closer to fear.)

You gently shake your head. “This is a test.” 

“I know.” 

“Luthen did this—” 

“Fuck Luthen,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to stare at your lips, and your heartbeat quickens. 

His brows meet in the middle, concentrated yet lost — as if he’s back on Ferrix, scrawny and scrappy and calculating the gravity of the risk should he decide to steal or trespass —

Or do something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Cassian.” 

Your voice is gentle with a warning. His eyes do not raise, but he does answer.

“What?”

“You have that look on your face.” 

“I have a look?”

“When you’re contemplating doing something stupid? Yes.”

He snorts, amused. “You remember what that looks like after fifteen years?”

“It's very hard to forget it.” 

He mulls the moment over, flickering his attention back up to your eyes and nodding.

“You’re right. I am thinking of doing something stupid.”

“How stupid?”

“Incredibly.”

A beat passes.

Finally he blinks up to your eyes, searching for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet. You wait, just as you’ve always waited, to hear his voice.

“It’s almost midnight,” he says, flexing the leather gloved hand at his side. “I should go.”

Everything sinks.

The crowd outside grows louder as people depart from their private rooms to celebrate in the middle of the casino. Everyone begins the unison countdown of the final minute until the new year rings out.

The device in your hand grows heavy — a reminder of why he’s here in the first place, what Luthen will be looking for, yet your arm cannot rise to give it over.

(A few more minutes and he’ll be gone.)

To find a reason to keep him here with you would be selfish.

Instead of protesting, you nod. 

“Yeah. You should go.”

He nods, too, and his throat bobs with a swallow.

Outside your door, their laughter and shouts reach a collective ten, nine, eight, seven…

Yet he doesn’t move. 

Neither do you.

Six, five, four, three…

“Cass?”

Two.

Cassian speaks with broken finality, rushed and wanting. “I can't go without—”

You beat him to it.

Canto Bight’s cliffside casino roars with excitement of the new year while you grab the lapel of his Imperial uniform, dragging him in as he simultaneously launches his lips to yours.

The force of him smacks your head into the wall, but the stars behind your eyes aren’t from impact. It’s from the way he presses his mouth to yours, desperate to pour years of frustration and wonder into a long-awaited kiss. You whimper into it, eager to dissolve any space between you.

Cassian Andor cages your head into the palms of his gloved hands, holding you with a tenderness and strength only he can have. He groans into your mouth when he tastes you, tongue dragging along your lower lip — the neediness of it is enough to make your knees give out.

Except he drops his hands to your shoulders and spins you, pressing your chest into the wall. Using your hands to balance yourself, Cassian wastes not a second more to place his hands over yours, pinning you in place.

“We should have — opened with a fight,” he murmurs breathlessly into your ear, kissing your earlobe before bringing it into his mouth. 

You bite back a moan, dropping your forehead to the wall. “If I'd known you wanted to kiss me after all this time, Cass, then I would have — gone straight past a fight and went for it.”

He chuckles behind you, letting go of your earlobe to travel kisses down the side of your neck.

“There is a lot I wanted to do back then, but I was too chickenshit to try it.”

The imagery of a lot burns into the back of your skull.

“And now?” you ask, but it’s wavered.

Cassian slows down, but his lips remain against the crook of your neck. You mourn the loss of speed, pushing your hips back to connect with his.

A hand shoots down to still your waist as his thumb runs soothing strokes into the skintight dress.

“Not here,” he decides, but it isn’t regretful. It’s determined. “When I see you again—”

“When?” you interrupt.

“When,” he enforces, squeezing your waist, “I see you again, I’ll do what I’ve been too chickenshit to do and it won’t be under a watchful eye.”

When I see you again.

You smile small, delirious in the haze of him.

“Is that a promise?”

“As good as I can make one,” he responds in earnest, turning to leave a small kiss on your cheek. “You’re not losing me so easily this time.”

And you believe him.

Misunderstandings, miscommunications — all of that hardship to end up here, of all places.

You have so much to learn.

(He has so much to hear.)

Even if this was Luthen’s doing, even if this was a test of faith, you cannot find a reason to care. Not when your lips still tingle with the kiss you’d only dreamt about your entire life.

Reaching for his arm, you gently bring his free hand to yours and place the small drive in the middle of his palm. Cassian’s chin drops to observe the tiny metal, jaw setting to its unreadable clench.

Because at the end of the night, you both still have jobs to do.

A new year.

(A new horizon.)

“Until next time,” you say, removing your hand from his.

Cassian curls his fingers over the drive, shoving the small device in his coat pocket. He flexes and raises his hand to bring it up to your cheek, cradling your face once more as he leans in for one final kiss. This time it’s softer. Timid.

The closest Cassian Andor can ever get to a promise.

He pulls away, nose to nose, and mirrors in reply.

“Until next time.”