N - the colour green, for the ficlet asks
Cassian's report - per usual painstakingly compiled, well-structured, detailed, assorted images clearly labelled, checked for spelling mistakes - does something it has not done in eight years. It returns to his inbox after approximately 40 standard minutes, flagged with "review" and, with Draven's habitual transparency, tagged as "green".
Cassian waits several minutes for an elaboration he knows deep down will not come. Alliance Intelligence does not use colour classification. "Green" is not a codeword, nor an alias he is aware of. He briefly considers that the General may have a private filing system corresponding to colour, and sent it back to him by accident. But Draven helped develop this system, and, unlike most of the higher-ups, is not known to mysteriously delete large swathes of messages without meaning to, or accidentally sending highly classified replies as "reply all". A mistake on his part doesn't seem likely.
Eventually, he runs a word search on his report.
The colour green is mentioned, once. His alias was offered the choice between two hotel rooms of identical size, on the same floor facing the same side of the building. There was nothing unusual about this - local customs say it is impolite to force any decision on a respected guest, and that at least one option must be offered at all times. This room or that. The local hot beverage or caf. Meeting at 9:00 standard time or at 9:30. It was exhausting to Cassian, whose mind was plenty busy with observing the machinations of the construction company he was infiltrating, posing as Housing and Development attaché Aach Tevro, remembering his more than rusty Chandrilan, which served as lingua franca for the deal, breathing around his back pain, and trying not to think of the Pathfinder mission Jyn was leaving on while he was trapped in a conference room on the mid-rim, pushing papers. He would have preferred not having to make fifty-eight meaningless decisions on top of that every standard day, but it was just that - meaningless. He'd picked an option and moved on, as custom demanded of him - picked caf over the local specialty (because Aach is an imperial, a stickler, and an incurious asshole), picked an early meeting, picked the room with the green walls over the ochre.
He frowns at the message for longer than he should, knowing full well his irritation is mostly not aimed at Draven but at a Pathfinder shuttle that should have arrived five standard hours ago. Then he does something petty, and sends a message to his superior that reads only "green?". Jyn Erso is a terrible influence on him, as Kay-Two would no doubt tell him if he were here.
There is no answer for a suspiciously long time - too long to merely blame it on Draven being irritated that Cassian dares to be contrarian, and turn his own communication back on him. Then, a new message appears. Attached are two of his case reports from earlier in the year, now also flagged "green" . The message reads: "Three is a pattern. Contain bleed."
Cassian frowns at the case numbers. Green. Oh, yes, he bought a little green rock at a tourist trap on Corellia to blend in with the crowd. He had to buy something, and the rock was easy to carry. And - Joreth Sward bet on green, at the casino. He won, too. It's a twenty-five percent chance no matter the colour.
Bleed. Cassian scoffs, feeling... honestly, a little insulted. He may have a limp, but he is still one of the best operatives the Alliance has. If Draven wants to let out his frustration on someone, he can pick someone who -
Another message. This one only has an image attached, screengrabs of several logs, cobbled together to make a point. Pathfinder missions, with date and duration.
"Do I need to elaborate?"
Cassian is one of the best operatives the Alliance has. Unfortunately, this is in no small part due to the man sending him passive-aggressive attachments. Jyn was gone on every mission that Draven flagged. He does not need to check Draven's work to verify that.
And the shade of green, he has to admit, may have been quite specific.
"No, sir. Understood," he types with gritted teeth.
He has not finished considering if he should just walk out into the snowy wasteland in shame when another message pings.
"Pathfinder shuttle inbound, hangar 5. Expecting draft for 3725D9 by tomorrow, 1800 regardless."
Cassian stares at the message, baffled - half because Draven is volunteering information that does not pertain to Cassian (as far as the chain of command is concerned, anyway), half because the man appears to have found a way to format the message text, just to rub it in.
Upon reflection, his petty streak might not be just Jyn's bad influence.
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