Chapter Text
It had been three months since Galen Erso was murdered. Or, as the London Police Department would argue, three months since prolific nuclear scientist Doctor Galen Erso was found dead in his flat from an apparent overdose.
Well, in Jyn Erso’s so humble opinion that was fucking bullshit.
It was obvious to her that Empire Industries had a deeper role than the media wanted to admit. Or apparently, only glaringly obvious to her.
When Jyn had started questioning the manner of her fathers death, how a man who hadn’t so much as had a sip of alcohol since her mothers passing fifteen years ago, managed to get access to enough cyanide to take down twenty men, Empire Industries had begun to spin a different narrative. Galen’s estranged daughter coming out of the woodwork in an attempt to wring out as much money as possible from the innocent nuclear energy company.
It didn’t take long for London society to turn on her, especially when people had already made their minds up about Jyn. To them she was trouble. A rebellious, angry woman whose body was littered with ink stirring up trouble. Someone who refused to quiet down or as that bastard Orson Krennic said ‘shut up and be a good girl.’
Jyn had to be physically restrained by Bodhi when she heard the words slither out of the slimeball's mouth which just added fuel to Empire’s fire. Any chance she had at combating the company’s false claims withered with each passing day. The public had already deemed Jyn as a charlatan, effectively sealing any chance of gaining justice for her father.
As the holidays grew nearer and the winter cascaded upon the city, Jyn’s anger gradually gave way to pure unadulterated grief. Depression took hold of her, latching on like a pestilent toddler on a parents pant leg, weighing her down until even simple tasks fared far too troublesome for her.
Had she not had such an amazing support system rallying behind her, Jyn feared what she would have done if left to her own devices. Bodhi had worried about Jyn moving back to her family’s ancestral cottage up north for that exact reason.
But each day in London, knowing that the bastard who had a hand in her fathers death roamed the streets carefree was enough to drive her mad. Ultimately she left her best friend behind with a kiss on the cheek and the promise to call everyday.
Jedha was a quaint town, shrouded by a near constant cloud of rain. Her nearest neighbor was merely a dark speck on the horizon, owned by a tall man with a thick brogue accent and a permanent smirk plastered on his handsome face. He encouraged Jyn to come out of her house with the promise of a free round of drinks at the local pub.
Of course, at the time she didn’t know the cheeky bastard owned the pub, but the gesture was appreciated nonetheless. It was there she met the lovely older couple who had taken pity on Jyn and offered her a job at the coffee shop they owned. She had reluctantly accepted.
Hell, it’s not like the heavily religious town of Jedha would take kindly to her previous profession in London. Jyn didn’t think the locals had much need for a tattoo artist with their conservative sensibilities.
It was Chirrut Imwe who had suggested the idea to her. Jyn had made the trek from her cottage to Jedha on her motorcycle, much to the chagrin of the locals.
Cursing, she hurried into the cafe in a futile attempt to escape the torrential downpour. She entered Jedha’s Java Cafe in a soaking heap, combat boots squelching with every step Jyn took. The fire was already running, indicating that either the owner Baze Malbus or his partner had already begun opening procedures.
Jedha’s Java was a quaint cafe. The dark mahogany walls were lined with some of Chirrut’s paintings. It was remarkable to Jyn how a blind man somehow managed to capture the essence of emotion within simple broad strokes of a brush. Her favorite hung right above the counter overlooking the store with a careful presence.
It was simply titled: Rebel. It was simple really, a cascade of warm hues of sienna and amber swirled atop deep umber strokes. The result was a concoction that resembled a half crescent object that resembled outstretched wings with one large stroke rising from the center.
It reminded Jyn of the legends her mother used to tell her when curled up in bed together. A starbird, is what she called it, rising from the ashes of a fallen star. It brought Jyn a strange sense of comfort whenever she caught sight of the painting, as if she could still feel the remnants of her mothers warm embrace if she stared at it long enough.
She had just finished tying the apron around her waist when she heard the tell tale thump of a cane against hardwood. Jyn called out a greeting.
“Mornin’ Chirrut!”
She glanced up to see her boss emerging from the back room, a pitcher in one hand his trusty white cane in the other. A smug smirk tilted the corners of his lips as he approached the counter.
“A good morning indeed, little sister.” her boss responded, an air of wistfulness in his tone. “How’s the weather?”
Jyn didn’t even bother to look up from the glasses she cleaned. Her reflection stared back at her, wet hair plastered to her thin frame, eyeliner already smudged at the corners.
Despite being completely blind, Chirrut had a disturbing ability to use his other senses to navigate the world around him. However, it didn't take a genius to hear the pounding pattering of rain against the roof nor the distant thunder that occasionally rattled the sky.
“Peachy.” She responded in a dry monotone. “Sun shining, birds chirping. Positively perfect.”
Chirrut responded by throwing a spare clean tea towel at her face.
It was a few hours into her shift when he breached the idea to her.
“I worry about you, little sister.” Chirrut interrupted after the last customers meandered out of the cafe. Jyn’s hackles raised in alarm, freezing her to the spot.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Jyn continued wiping down the table with a tad more vigor than a few moments ago. A gentle hand rested on her shoulder. Jyn couldn’t help the flinch that followed.
“Even the most resilient fauna need their share of sunshine.” Chirrut mused. Jyn hummed in response, unaware of what the make of the man’s cryptic parable. A moment of silence then:
“How would you feel about a little holiday?”
This startled Jyn out of her stupor. Her eyes cut to Chirrut, intrigued.
“This is supposed to be my holiday.” Jyn retorted, drawing out the words slowly as if explaining something to a small child. Chirrut huffed, his spare hand coming up to smack Jyn upside the head.
“I’m disabled, not slow.”
Jyn chuckled under her breath at the accusatory tone. Chirrut’s eyes softened at the sound.
“You know, Baze and I met in California.” He continued. “Los Angeles to be exact. I was hosting my first exhibit in Echo Park. I guess you could say it was love at first sight.”
Jyn snorted at that, unable to resist the low hanging jest. Chirrut smiled in response but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers.
“They call it the city of dreams for a reason. The air is ripe with the aura of hope. You could use a little hope, Jyn.”
The words brought an unexpected wave of emotion to Jyn, a deep visceral ache pulling at her chest. She burrowed the sensation down, grunting to clear her suddenly thick throat.
“Never been,” Jyn answered, abruptly standing from her hovering position above the table. She clutched the fully loaded dishpan tight as she maneuvered her way around Chirrut towards the sink, ignoring the knowing sightless eyes that followed her.
“Well, if you were ever interested in going,” he began, lowering himself to the plush loveseat near the fireplace. “I can arrange for you to spend three weeks in the heart of the city. I have a friend who owes me a favor. Three weeks in Los Angeles, housing already provided. A short holiday to reinvigorate your spirit, what do you say?”
Jyn stood there stunned. Where was this coming from? Had Melshi let it slip that she didn’t venture into town other than to work at the cafe? Did he say that he often had to bring Jyn groceries as she would go days on end without eating? Or had some mystical force that Chirrut seemed to inhabit alert him to the dreary aura Jyn seemed to exude?
Either way, Jyn figured her best plan of action was to do what she always did: deflect.
“You have friends in America?” Jyn deflected, hoping to divert the subject matter away from her.
Chirrut's face broke into a wide smile. “Oh little sister,” he began. “I have friends everywhere.”
Kleya Marki shouldn’t have been surprised when she caught her boyfriend in bed with the girl he had insisted was ‘just a friend’ Though, she thought he’d at least have the common decency not to fuck the girl in Kleya’s bed.
Paul spewed out a barrage of excuses as Kleya gathered his belongings with a methodical precision from the bathroom, face blank. From the bedroom she could hear the blonde stumbling around trying to stealthily don her clothes.
“Baby, please, I thought you’d be working the exhibit all night. I didn’t know you’d be home so early or else-”
Kleya cut him off by showing his toiletries into his bare chest.
“I’ll have the rest of your stuff ready by tomorrow.” She said, voice dangerously cold. She reentered the bedroom to see the woman shimmying into her pantyhose. Kleya vaguely recognized her as the latest model from Paul’s newest collection, wide blue eyes mirroring the cerulean hues that were ebbed into the canvas.
The artist and his muse. It was so cliche. Kleya fought to withhold an exasperated sigh as the girl scrambled out the room and down the staircase. She began to strip the bed as Paul fiddled with nervous energy behind her. Once she finished stripping the linens she threw the soiled sheets into his face.
“Be a dear and put these in the wash?”
With that she turned on a heel, returning to her bathroom to complete her nightly routine. She methodically reached for her makeup remover, soaking a cotton pad before sweeping the damp pad over her face. She was about halfway through cleansing her face when she caught Paul’s reflection in the mirror.
“That’s it?” her ex-boyfriend guffawed, looking like a complete fool standing there with a slack jaw in nothing but his boxers. “We’re not going to talk about this?”
Kleya rolled her eyes. “What is there to say? You just slept with Miss American Pie, ruining any chance you could have had with me. Now put your clothes on, close your mouth, and get the fuck out of my house.”
Paul’s face reddened with fury. She’s sure he meant to look intimidating with his puffed out chest and clenched fists but to Kleya he just looked like a little boy throwing a tantrum. It was amusing, if not a bit inconvenient.
“You know, my friends warned me about you.” He began, voice trembling with barely contained aggression. “The ice queen art collector who worked for Luthen Rael. I thought they were exaggerating, but it’s true. You are just a cold hearted, nepo baby who can only get her gigs by using her daddy’s name or fucking her clients.”
That caused Kleya to pause. Turning on her heel, she approached Paul with the predatory prowl of a lioness, eyes blazing with fury.
“I don't need my daddy’s name to get gigs.” Kleya smeared, leaning in close to emphasize her words. “And I certainly don’t need to sleep with some half rate, struggling artist who was plucked off the street of west Hollywood who can’t even give mediocre head. Now I’m only going to say this one more time. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
She bookended her words with a sharp smile that was all teeth. Kleya tried not to feel too much satisfaction when Paul paled, Adams apple bobbing before he relented. With the mutter of bitch under his breath, the man turned swiftly gathering up his meager belongings before descending the stairs. His exit was punctuated with a pathetic slam of her front door.
Only then did Kleya relax her stiffened muscles. She pinched the corners of her eyes, fighting off the onset migraine. She made her way towards her kitchen crouching down to access her trusty wine cellar.
Bottle in hand, she rose to pour her a large glass of red wine, overlooking her kitchen island towards the floor to ceiling window that opened to the backyard. Kleya took a long sip as she let her mind wander.
She wouldn’t say she was disappointed, but it was a shame. Kleya knew she’d have to interact with Paul for the next few days before his exhibit concluded. The gallery couldn’t afford to outright cancel his exhibition on such short notice.
Next to her, Kleya’s phone pinged with a new notification. Kleya exhaled a long sigh, before snatching the phone from the marble counter.
10:48 P.M. Cassian: exhibit was great. You killed it as always.
10:49 P.M. Cassian: thank you for being kind to Cali. she has been anxious to see you.
10:55 P.M. Kleya: thank you. Cali was one of the better dates you’ve brought. A vast improvement from your previous conquest.
10:57 P.M. Cassian: high praise, coming from you, hermana .
10:58 P.M. I love you too.
Kleya was just about to write a witty response along the lines of “you say that to every girl’ when a new notification lit up her screen.
11:01 P.M. Luthen: ‘Visions of Jedha by Chirrut Imwe.’ Three weeks. Forty minutes outside London. Need you there by monday. You in?
Attached to the message was a collage of images, all modern art. Kleya swiped through them with mounting interest. The paintings were good, certainly an improvement from the slop she’d had to promote.
Three weeks. In England of all places. Kleya hadn’t been back to her home country since Luthen adopted her as a preteen, nearly twenty years ago.
What was tying her to Los Angeles anyways. Certainly not a partner, that had become extremely obvious after tonight.
Not any friends either. Kleya knew she was a hard woman, icy walls raised up to hugh no one dared to attempt to crest them. Sure, she had acquaintances, people she could go get drinks with after a successful showing but that was all surface level at best. She mostly preferred her own company anyways.
That only left one person.
Kleya didn’t always get along with her adopted brother. As a child she often felt pitted against him in vying for the coveted spot as Luthen’s favorite. However they had grown together, Cassian being a solemn thorn in Kleya’s side, encouraging her to break out of her shell. She found herself growing fond of him as the years went on, and yes , if she had to say it, she loved him dearly.
Leaving Los Angeles meant being apart from Cassian, a feat she hadn’t managed since his divorce six years ago. They’d practically been attached at the hip since his ex wife left him, or rather, as attached as Kleya allowed him to be. They relied on each other, him stopping by to try his new recipes on her while Kleya mocked his celebrity chef status. That didn't stop her from tuning in to the food network every Thursday evening to watch his show.
She knew without a doubt that leaving him would be the biggest obstacle.
But if Luthen was bold enough to trust her with an exhibit, especially one outside of the states, she knew she had to take it.
Part of the reason Paul’s words cut so deeply was that Kleya feared her success was solely tied to her father . She wouldn’t go as far to say she was a daddy’s girl, the expression made her cringe, but was constantly striving for Luthen’s approval. He had gotten her some of her biggest gigs especially when they moved to the competitive L.A. circuit.
Maybe this could be Kleya’s chance to make a name for herself, independent of Luthen Rael’s influence.
Before she could let any self doubt cloud her judgement, she quickly sent a response.
11:09 P.M. Kleya: I’ll begin packing tonight.