Chapter Text
The damned lines of code are as unnerving as they are incomprehensible.
ch 4 1 dc ch 1 1 dc ch 4 4 dc in 1 ch 4 dc last in 1 sk 1 dc dc next dc ch 1 sk 1…
Cassian’s eyes are about to cross. He’s exhausted, disappointed and furious at himself. He won’t be bested by a kriffing repetitive code, except it increasingly looks like he will.
The transmission was intercepted from a Star Destroyer near Onderon three standard days ago. A Star Destroyer that was involved in a skirmish with Rebel pilots uncomfortably close to Hoth last week and thus had been under heavy surveillance ever since, in case the crew realised just how close to discovering the new Rebel headquarters they were. Every free operative on base had been on the code since the second it was received, hoping it contained no sensitive military information.
It could. It was very obviously a cypher. Cyphers are never sent just for shits and giggles. If only they could crack what it meant.
Five brains have been wrecking themselves for three days straight, and every time one of them carefully enquired into the Intel channel how the others were faring, at best, they got silence as a reply.
Most of the time, the replies are long streams of curses, hinting that his fellow agents find themselves just at a loss as he is.
Cassian can’t blame them. He can’t remember the last time a bloody code had him this on the rope for so long. It must be some sort of logistics scheme, but what? Infantry? Light cruisers? What kind of equipment could “ch” even stand for? Chairs? Chronometres? Cheese blocks? Could it mean Christophsis, or some other planet?
Maybe most of the code is just a random repetition to hide the actual meaning that is etched deep into it, making it harder to decipher. Of course, Cassian has considered this possibility before, but it brought him nowhere closer to the actual deciphering part. Same as when he transposed the letters and numbers and switched the code into Old Coruscanti. And High Nabooian. And several other common cyphering languages.
He closes his eyes, furtively hoping that the bloody letters and numbers will miraculously re-order themselves into something sensible if he doesn’t stare at them. He’s so tired. Maybe he should take another shower. Showers always helped him get his bearings about before. Showers, or sex, but Jyn is away with the Pathfinders, and while he can get by on his own, it’s not nearly as effective in de-stressing or as gratifying in general as it is with her participating. So, another shower it will have to be, even though this time they’ve been doing piss all good so far. Maybe it’s the piece of pastry Chirrut guilt-tripped him into eating at some point before, claiming that brains needed sugars to work. Perhaps that damned sugar is clogging his brain instead of fueling it.
He considers asking Lieutenant Ludair, who first intercepted and transcribed the damned transmission, whether he is absolutely sure that his transcript was accurate. However, he is also aware that the other agents have enquired the Lieutenant the same already and that the Lieutenant’s answers morphed from “Yes, Sir, I’m certain” to “Why don’t you go kriff yourself” fairly quickly. Cassian does not feel very optimistic that his higher rank would protect him from the righteous rage of the good Lieutenant.
He does not feel optimistic at all. The code will be the death of the Alliance, he’s sure, and it’s damn impenetrable.
The buzzer at the door to his quarters loudly screams, making Cassian jump in his chair. Two short buzzes follow immediately, which calms him a little because only his Rogues buzz like that, and they all possess the unlocking code. Sure enough, the door swishes open, and Cassian has a few precious moments to try to get his heart rate into resting numbers again before Bodhi peeks his head into the room.
“Hi,” he calls, “just making sure you’re still alive. We haven’t heard from you for ages.”
Cassian makes a mental note to check his Basic dictionary to see if the term’ ages’ can describe an undefined period of one to three days. “Still working,” he replies, trying to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. He doesn’t want Bodhi to worry, as the pilot has enough to worry about on his own.
The failure of this attempt is apparent in the way Bodhi’s forehead creases, and he steps further into the room. He takes in what Cassian is sure is: his rugged face, unfocused eyes with bags underneath the size of a wampa, his stubble overgrown into a full beard, and rumpled clothes that he omitted to change for a day too long. “Sweet good Force, Cass. When was the last time you slept or ate?”
“Uh…” Come on, Andor, you’re a freaking field operative. It shouldn’t take you this long to come up with a white lie. Admittedly, his brain has been processing nothing else but ch 1 1 dc ch 4 4 for days and it’s stuck in a loop.
Bodhi waves his hand. “Forget it; if you can’t remember at the top of your head, it’s clearly been too long.”
“I had some of Chirrut’s muffins,” Cassian says at last, hoping this would deter Bodhi from launching his nurturing approach.
Instead, Bodhi frowns even more. “Chirrut made muffins yesterday for breakfast. It’s lunchtime today.”
Cassian blinks because the only response that immediately comes to mind is, ‘I can go on without food for much longer than that,’ but he can guess that hearing that would catapult Bodhi into the mother-hen-ultra mode. Quite likely, he would sicc the guardians and the medbay staff on him, too, and no one wants that.
Bodhi shakes his head at him. “Come on, get up. We’re having lunch together.”
Cassian’s shoulders drop against his will. “Bodhi, I can’t.”
The pilot’s expression turns strict, which, combined with his overall affability, seems almost comical. “Yes, you can. And not only you can, but you will. Up you get.”
“I have work to do,” the agent tries, though he’s increasingly aware that he’s fighting a losing battle. His Rogues seem to operate on a shared belief that Cassian, an adult, self-sufficient person, is mostly incapable of keeping himself alive despite having done so for the better part of thirty years. So far, everything he’s done to change their minds only assures them of their joint delusions.
Like just now, with Bodhi even putting his hands on his hips, meaning he’s serious. “I don’t give a loth-rat’s ass, Cassian. Work can wait twenty-five minutes while you eat lunch.”
“I can’t, Bodhi,” he says again, almost wailing, imploring the pilot to believe him. “There’s this bloody Imperial cypher that we need to crack. It could literally kill us if we don’t.”
“What cypher,” Bodhi asks, stepping forward. “Maybe you need food and a nap, and then look at it with fresh eyes.”
“Five agents are working on it,” Cassian says. “I’m not sure if fresh eyes will cut it.”
Still, he tips his datapad for Bodhi to see if there is no other reason than for the abysmal chance that his friend will stop nagging.
Bodhi looks at the device and the code floating just centimetres above it. Then, his expression turns thoughtful, his head lists to the side, and he starts making vague together-and-away motions with his hands while muttering something. It’s unnerving to watch.
After about twenty seconds, Cassian can’t take it anymore. “Bodhi? Did it break you, too?”
Bodhi blinks rapidly and looks at him. His face is doing weird microexpressions that Cassian cannot analyse in his current state. Then he finally asks in a very patient tone, “Um, Cass, what kind of a code do you think this is?”
Now it’s time for the agent to blink, trying to grasp the question’s meaning and the bizarre flip of their roles. His voice comes out much more unsure than he’d like it. “Well… It’s clearly indicating some unit relocations, but we can’t figure out what and where.”
Bodhi nods slowly, staring at the code, giving the air of someone about to patiently explain to a child that the monsters under their bed are not real.
“Why?” Cassian asks in despair.
Bodhi inhales deeply like he’s bracing himself for an outburst. “I could be wrong,” he says slowly. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think this is a military cypher.”
Yeah, and banthas can fly, Hoth is a subtropical paradise, and the Alliance will start offering premium retirement plans next week.
“Why? What else would it be?” Cassian’s heart is doing the rapid tap-dance rhythm again. He’s starting to feel light-headed and a bit nauseous, and he might be this close to screaming at Bodhi.
Again, Bodhi takes a deep breath first. “I think - don’t look at me like that! - I think this isn’t a cypher at all. I think it’s a crochet pattern.”
Cassian can only stare at his friend, momentarily rendered mute as his brain attempts to grasp whether crochet is a Basic word that he can match to an expression in Festian that would help him understand. It could be that he’s so tired, but he’s coming up empty.
“Crochet?” he croaks instead, entirely at a loss.
“Yeah, crochet,” Bodhi says, making those odd movements with his hands again. “You know, creating stuff out of yarn using a hook.”
Cassian blinks furtively again. “So, like knitting?” he asks, still feeling lost, not just because of his lack of understanding of handicrafts. Overall, he feels like somebody pulled the rug from under his feet and then smothered him with it.
Bodhi shrugs. “Kind of. Different technique, similar results.”
This can’t be real. “Are - are you sure, Bodhi?”
“Pretty sure, look.” The pilot points to the beginning of the code. “This means ‘chain four’ - you make four loops, it looks like a little chain. Then, one double crochet - here, I’d need to know whether it’s written in Alderaanian or Coruscanti dialects; those two differ in nomenclature…”
Cassian shakes his head. “You must be joking right now.”
“No, I’m not,” Bodhi cries, throwing his arms out. “You Intel people always assume that everything is super complicated and mysterious. And yeah, it often is, right, but sometimes… sometimes you overthink and hyper-focus so much you miss the bigger picture. Some things are just mundane, everyday, harmless stuff people enjoy doing.”
Cassian blinks again. “But - but we intercepted this from a Star Destroyer,” he says, like that should render Bodhi’s theory invalid.
The pilot just shrugs again. “Yeah, and? Folks have hobbies even on Star Destroyers. I bet somebody came up with a new pattern during their downtime and wanted to run it by a tester.”
It sounds too wild for Cassian to comprehend. “It’s a crochet pattern,” he whispers in disbelief.
Bodhi side-eyes the pattern again. “This part here means something spiky. It keeps growing in size, and here, again, a spike. I’d have to try it out, but I think it’s a shawl.”
This interaction is getting more and more bizarre by the minute, and Cassian has to shake his head to try to clear it. “It’s a crochet shawl,” he mutters again, staring into the middle distance, like repeating the words enough times will make them sink in. That five of Alliance’s keenest minds have just spent three days trying to crack how to make a bloody shawl.
Bodhi eyes him, concerned. “You do realise that when you rehash everything I say, you do nothing to assure me that you’re okay, right?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “Really, you look like you could use the therapeutic effects of crochet right about now.”
That might be true, but Cassian believes that seeing the technique incorporating the code with his own eyes right now would only ignite his frustration into a full-blown wrath storm. “Maybe sometime later,” he says instead. “I need to let the decyphering team know.”
“Right, and then we’re going to lunch,” Bodhi nods and takes a few steps back. His entire demeanour has changed, and now he looks so happy with himself that he’s almost glowing.
“Alright,” Cassian concurs, because now? Now that the adrenaline and cortisol in his bloodstream have finally faded a little, he’s finally starting to feel hungry.
ALERT double-check needed. Advised code is a handicrafts pattern, he types into the encrypted chat window, and logs off before the other agents can start hurling expletives his way. He can feel those coming and elects to deal with them once he’s had time to rest.
He gets up from his chair and quickly grasps the edge of his desk to keep himself from toppling over. He was sitting for hours without as much as stretching his legs, after all, which he already regrets when the pins and needles of returning circulation attack his feet with a vengeance.
Bodhi looks increasingly more concerned. “Need a hand?”
“No, I’m fine,” Cassian waves him off, and then he chuckles. “You know, Bodhi, maybe you could consider a career in Intel. We could use your keen mind.”
Bodhi frowns at the agent. “Thanks, Cass, but… I can see what that’s doing to you, so no, thanks.”
Such blatant dismissal shouldn’t make Cassian laugh out loud the way it does. He might be more compromised than he anticipated. “You’re right, you’re right. You’re too pure, too good for us, anyway. We’d ruin you, and I won’t allow that.”
Bodhi looks between affronted and genuinely worried as he ushers his friend through the quarter’s door. “Cass, I can’t tell if you’re taking the piss or if you’re actually cracked in the head and need urgent professional help.”
“Neither, I promise,” he says, hooking his arm around Bodhi’s shoulders to pull him into a half-hug. “Just tired and incredibly relieved.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Bodhi deems, his face brightening. His arm sneaks around Cassian’s waist in case he needs help staying upright or if he’d appreciate just a bit of plain human contact. “Because now I know what to get you for your next birthday.”