The Wraith and Replicators, they take what they want. We steal it back for you. Sometimes it takes new people to beat old enemies. We provide... Leverage. â Ronon "the Brains" Dex
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I wonder if there's a plausible way to lay out a Leverage AU so that the Mastermind isn't in charge? So that the person calling the shots and the person laying out intricate clockwork plans aren't the same person?
Iâll be honest here: the idea of one central person laying out the complex plan on their own and everybody else just following it is always a fantasy - complex plans do not work that way! (I do not plan heists but I DO know a lot of project managers.)Â Frankly, even within Leverage itself, episodes often show us a collaborative planning strategy where everybody in the team contributes their own expertise or examples of previous jobs theyâve pulled off on their own and they build into Nateâs overall plan. Everybody on the team plans and executes successful cons, often quite complex ones, often without Nate (The Rashomon Job, The Girlsâ Night Out Job, The Hot Potato Job) - the conceit is that their powers combine, etc etc and Masterminding is Nateâs strongest contribution.Â
Also, in Leverage (as in many other shows, Leverage is not special here) to the extent that this trope is played straight, it is highly linked to the concept of the Asshole Genius White Guy, who people put up with because heâs ~just that great~. Nobody is just that great and nobodyâs asshole behaviour is worth putting up with because of their strokes of genius or intricate clockwork plans or whatever. That trope can get in the sea and stay there.Â
So yeah, I am 300% comfortable with a Leverage fusion where the Mastermind is the team lead/the person who makes the calls, and the person who is responsible for keeping track of all the moving pieces, but doesnât have to lay out every piece of the plan on their own. In fact I find it a much more plausible and interesting way to play it.Â
Another short chapter for The Nakadia Job is now posted. I had bits and pieces of this one sitting around and decided now was a good time to polish this up, and then get on with the Finale.
--
âYou remembered!â Tatham picked up the tea cup and set the edge against her lip. Her lipstick was still a vivid pink that looked a little too shiny for comfort, like she had applied a film of oil over the paint. âThatâs so sweet.â
âSheâs trying too hard,â Cassian said helpfully over the comm. âShe is desperate to get what you know. Sheâs not even bothering to read your body language at all.â
âAmateurs, right?â Jyn added, but Bodhi could tell the teasing was aimed more at Cassian than the receptionist.
âIf you stay too long, she will likely invite you to spend more time with her. Probably in an intimate setting,â Kay warned. âTalk quickly.â
Bodhi resisted the urge to swat at his ear, as if his teamâs voices were small insects buzzing around the hidden earpiece. âRight. I, uh, I hope I got the order right.â
âHard to forget,â Baze grunted. âDisharmonious flavors.â
this is titled âyou donât have to be a ghost here amongst the livingâ because I was going through a F+TM phase when I started writing it. Â
remember like, a year and a half ago when I planned out a librarians-leverage fusion (and also a leverage-librarians fusion?) because I do! Â And I finished the first bit. Â
hereâs 3k of not!fic about how Cassandra Cillian starts down the road to being a legend.Â
       ________________________________________________________
my first concrete though when I started daydreaming about this was âoh my god Cassandra is the hitterâ
no, really
I blame the apple of discord episode. her analysis of force needed to kick ass and take names and initiate a nuclear meltdown makes her perfect. Â utterly ruthless, just hiding under a cutesy facade instead of Eliotâs dumb-hick one
with the tumor in her head ticking down, down, down to zero, her self-preservation is pretty low. Â not necessarily in a death wish way, not yet. Â but when she fights thereâs no holding back, and no fear of what the other person can dole out. Â what could they possibly do to her that she isnât already doing to herself? Â death looks like Cassandra Cillian staring in the mirror.
Iâm willing to negotiate about anything else you find here but this. Â in this house we stan Cassandra as the hitter in the leverage fusion au.
all this begs the question, of course: how does sweet cinnamon roll math geek Cassandra Cillian become a mean lean recently reformed killing machine? Â and this is where our story begins.
Cassandra Cillian is a teenager whoâs just been told sheâll never see the other side of 35. Â thereâs a tumor sitting in her brain sending her senses haywire, giving her visions that break down every aspect of the world around her to the smallest components. Â math isnât just like breathing, anymore: itâs her heartbeat. Â even though its killing her, she canât help but enjoy it a little. and itâs not just math. Â everything around her is worth noticing, studying, learning. Â the doctors are calling it hyper-vigilance, like her new fascination with her surroundings is just a way to channel all her rage and grief into something she can control; like since she can't cut her death out of her brain sheâs going to make damn sure that nothing else gets to get near her without her consent.
theyâre probably right, but sheâs not going to admit that. all she knows is that the way her senses are linked to each other and her visions, thereâs not a goddamn thing going on around her she doesnât notice and catalogue immediately.
the next step, of course, is her shitty parents. Â when they hear the news itâs like Cassandraâs already dead. Â they take away her trophies, all those shiny pieces of proof that she was worth something, that mom and dad were proud of her sometimes, gone. Â the pair of them loved their dreams for their daughter more than the person she was, and those dreams had just been crushed. Â they pull her out of school, because her visions were âa disruption to the other studentsâ
no one needs the crazy dying chick breaking down in the middle of calculus crying with a nosebleed, apparently.
maybe she could have lived with this. Â maybe, in another life, another world, she could have buried all of her hopes and dreams deep inside herself and forgotten about it, until a man and a woman burst into the hospital looking to save her life (oh, the irony). this is not that world.
instead Cassandra gets furious. Â
how dare they decide her whole life is over just because this tumor is going to cut it short. Â how dare they take away everything they said made her special: her grades, her stem fairs, her college applications. no; no, they donât get to do this.
so she runs away. Â seventeen years old and in the wind. Â fine. Â if they wonât help her live her life, sheâll do it on her own.
she lands in Boston eventually. Â crossing state lines helps confuse jurisdiction over her missing persons case, if her parents even decide to file a police report. Â hiding in a larger city decreases her odds of being found, because cities are big places. easy to get lost in, to find a job in, and everyone seems to have a rule about asking questions.
where in Boston, you might ask, does Cassandra end up staying? where does she work?
well, funny story, actually
She ends up working at John McRoryâs Place
god this is so long I'm sorry
it turns out mob bars donât ask too many questions about why a just-18 young woman with no emergency contact needs a job. Â Cassandra just gives them her bright, fake smile and says she's applying for classes at the local college and means to pay her own way. Â they respect her secrets and her work ethic, and voila! a job busing tables and occasionally manning the bar when the owner has special customers to see to in the back room
her bright red hair and Irish heritage donât hurt, either
itâs not an Ivy League school, nothing like what she imagined her future would be a year ago, but itâs something, which is more than sheâd be getting at home. Â all it took was a request for records from her old high school, some placement exams to confirm her genius level intellect, and the college was giving her a spot in their line of incoming freshmen. Â
even with merit scholarships, tuition is a bitch to pay for. Â it gets worse once she has another attack and needs some of her funds to go to the hospital bills, and the drugs the doctors there prescribe her.
Cassandra expects her boss to kick up a fuss at all that time missed, but he waves her off with a kind smile and says she can take all the time she needs to get back on her feet, because heâs never had someone so smart working for him before (she helps out with the accounts for the bar, sometimes)
one night after she starts back to work, itâs late, and the bar is empty of everyone except the Irish. Â theyâve taken over the pub and the territory surrounding it. Â Cassandra is cleaning up, closing down the unused tables and being as unnoticeable as she can
because letâs face it, she is not stupid. Â by now, she knows exactly whatâs going on here. Â and maybe before it would have bothered her more, maybe her principles and respect for the rules would have had her out the door. Â but she needs this job so she can continue her classes and pay rent on the space above the bar (which sheâs getting at a discounted rate), and pay for her pills and the occasional overnight in the hospital. Â besides, the owner is kind, even if his friends arenât quite so nice, and his little girl is adorable.
anyway. Â the Irish are here, letting off steam and worried, because their âaccountantâ just got put in jail. Â everyone in the Family is prepared to play patsy, but losing an enforcer is nothing compared to losing the guy who keeps track of their money, their lifeblood. Â those people aren't a dime a dozen, and pretty soon the Irish wonât have two nickels to rub together if they don't find someone new fast.
and cassandra just. Â pauses. Â just for a moment. Â glances up to meet old McRoryâs eyes behind the bar, just for a minute. Â because.... she could do that. Â Cassandra started balancing her fatherâs accounts for him when she was twelve, and they were hardly middle class: the Cillianâs had money in savings, but also tied up in investments and stock, and assets, too. Â but that was nothing to her mind. Â she could do it in her sleep near the end. hell, sheâs been helping John with the barâs funds for two months now, and not all of their revenue was clean , but she kept her mouth shut then and made the numbers work.
John wasnât exactly a member of the Family, but he was a, a Friend of the Family. Â so when she nods at him, I can do it, I need the money, just give me a chance, he casually picks up a glass to clean and mentions that sheâs got a head for numbers, if theyâre really that desperate
they are.
they take her to Callaghan, and he might be a little charmed by her bubbly smile and her red hair, but what really gets him is the way it takes her thirty minutes to decipher the codes the old accountant used for the ledgers, balance them out, shift funds between businesses and make sure to account for the statistical probability of amounts of cash-paying customers they can make up for car washes, bars, laundry mats, mattress firms, and movie theaters. Â
thatâs how she becomes the numbers guy for the Irish mob. Â
Cassandra was never going to be Eliot, running away to the military with god in her heart and a flag on her shoulder and becoming disillusioned with doing dirty work for her country. Â she needed to get slowly pulled into the criminal underworld. Â I figured Irish mob was a good way as any to start, and what better way to pull her into that then math?
she spends some time doing that. Â becoming more and more involved. Â and sheâs cute, like a little puppy, so the others like her. Â enough to maybe give her a few self-defense lessons, because this is a dangerous life sheâs leading now.
they go...okay?? Â taking care of her body is one of the first things the doctors recommended to her when she started getting sick, so sheâs already in pretty good shape. Â Itâs just the basics at first; keep your thumb outside your fist, always go for the throat firstâCassandra calculates that three fingers-width above the hollow in a personâs throat would be the best place to strike, because then their voice box gets damaged, too. Â
None of the lessons ever go much further than that, because these are brawlers who prefer to use a gun to send a message. Â Sometimes the way they move when they show her something tickles the back of her brain, like thereâs more to uncover there, but she canât figure it out until the first time a brawl breaks out in the bar
Two of their patrons start throwing punches right in front of her and suddenly their movements are all angles: she catalogues their weight and height and how drunk they are and how much force theyâre putting behind their swings and justâŠneatly steps out of the way, perfectly avoiding getting elbowed in the face. ThisâŠthis has never happened before.  But, like everyone always says: thereâs math in everything.  Even fightingâespecially fighting.
When it looks like the two men are going to start breaking chairs, she hesitates for a moment, butâŠthe knee is a hinge joint.  Thirty pounds of pressure pushing it the wrong way will snap it; twenty-five will seriously damage the attached ligament.  She blinks. Steps up to the closest one.
Heâs on the floor before John can make the corner of the bar, screaming his head off, and the other guy is backing away with wide eyes, shocked sober by fear. Â Cassandra pulls back, letting her right foot settle behind her and point away from them, and balances on the balls of her feet for a moment.
John gives her a startled look, because sheâs never done something like that before. Someone calls the guyâs friends to pull him up off the floor and drive him to the hospital
She grabs a rag to wipe up the mess they made of the counter and thinks.  Because that feltâŠgood.  Really good. Using her hallucinations to dosomething, to affect the real world, gave her a rush of adrenaline and satisfaction.  Not just theory, like in her classes, but real application of the way she sees the world.
Like any good academic, she does her research (in her mind, this is ostensibly still for self-defenseâjust in case something like that bar fight happens again. Â She ignores the giddy little voice in her head talking about how much fun this will be). Â Her upper-body strength isnât great, so something that uses joints and core muscles would be best. Â Her size is a disadvantage, too: she canât afford to go to the ground grappling with someone twice her height and weight. Â Sheâs not looking to compete in a tournament, and she canât afford to buy any equipment. Â The best technique for her will probably be Krav Maga. Â (For now, the excited voice in her head whispers)
Her search turns up a little studio on the west side of town that teaches Krav Maga to women for self-defense. Â Perfect. The instructor, Miriam Epstein, was a course instructor for the IDF for twenty years before she immigrated to America and got certification from the KMAA.
Cassandra goes to observe a class before she signs up, and the moment she steps through the door her brain is set alight: Â everything she sees goes a deep, brilliant hue of scarlet, finding the angles of their feet and arms and their centers of mass based on weight and height; herfoot is seven centimeters too far to the right and that strike would give hermore leverage if she moved three centimeters up from the elbow. Â She has to stop for a moment to breathe and process all the information her brain displays in front of her.
That becomes the hardest part: not the constant exhaustion, or the bruises everywhere, or her aching muscles, but the overwhelming flow of information about body movements and the correct place to strike.
She is tired, though; working at the bar takes time, if not mental energy, and her classes take both. Add in balancing the ledgers for Callaghan and now these lessons twice a week, and the exercise she does on her own to keep up, and her schedule is completely full.
The Irish start letting Cassandra layer their funds, obscuring where the extra profits in their businesses came from. Â Turns out sheâs pretty good at that, too, though itâs not like itâs hard given they own a bank in Boston. Â Loans are a great way to integrate funds, and their interest rates are always better than the next three competitors. Â She tries not to think about the other differences, how the people sheâs working for go to collect that debt. Â
Construction is another great way to hide their funds, and from what Cassandra can tell from watching the stock market (which is considerably more than most people) real estate is on the rise. Â When she carefully suggests that Callaghan try investing more money in that area, he actually listens to her. Â Puts her theories and calculations into practice because he trusts her to be right. Â
It feels almost as good as tearing that manâs quadriceps tendon. Â Practical applications, she muses. Â Sometimes she lets herself wonder how it would feel to take her theories all the way down the rabbit hole
Meanwhile, it only takes her four months to move to P2 in Krav Maga. Â The average time spent practicing moves for each level is six months; sheâs learning 33% faster than that. Â Her muscles are adjusting better than she expected, and her skin stops bruising as easily, but she suspects sheâll always tire quicker than everyone else.
Miriam pulls her aside after class one day and asks why she hesitates so much when they practice moves on each other. Â Nothing but the lightest sparring, of course, and nothing dangerous. Â But Cassandra canât turn her brain off, and now that sheâs starting to learn the more painful moves, she canât help but see them every time she stands across from someone. Â (thirteen pounds of pressure at 125 degrees from her back to hyperextend her arm; plant your foot six inches from her spine and pull to dislocate her shoulder; 3,300 newtons of pressure delivered at 1.5 seconds would have a 25% chance of cracking her rib and sending a fragment into her lungs. Â All this would take less than thirty seconds)
None of this makes it past her lips, but she thinks maybe Miriam can see it in her eyes. Â Weâre moving on to fighting armed opponents next week, she says, maybe youâll feel more comfortable with that than basic strikes and take-downs. Â She taps the side of her head in farewell and Cassandra tastes copper and sees the spot on her temple where the cranial bone is weakest; a quick jab with the second knuckle of her index finger extended could put her on the ground. Â Shaking her head, she dislodges the scarlet diagram and shoves down the curious voice of, but you could do it, you could actually do it.
In another four months sheâs at P3, and Callahan is actively seeking out her opinion about investments because sheâs been right every time. Â
Another four months and sheâs almost 20 years old. Â Sheâs almost gotten her degree in mathematics, somehow, even though she canât qualify as a full-time student. Â Part of it is the half-ton of college credit built up during high school, part of it is testing out of a third of their program when they wanted to place her, and the rest is just her ruthless pursuit of academia. Â
Her attacks donât become less frequent, or less powerful, but Cassandra still feels better. Â Maybe itâs because sheâs actually living her life on her own, even if it isnât what she thought it would be; even if what sheâs doing is wrong. Â Because not only is she learning more, but sheâs usingit. Â Sheâs using her brain to dothings and affecting the world around her instead of just living in it. No matter what happens, no matter how much she changes in the years to come, sheâll treasure that.
Enter Lamia, stage right
See, Dulaque is Damian Moroe; boogeyman and semi-god of the criminal underworld. Â You canât spend more than six months involved with dirty money without hearing about the man who bankrolls terrorists and buys countries to launder his money through. Heâs a legend, untouchable.
Almost as infamous is his right-hand woman, Lamia.  A trained killer with no hint of a past before she showed up as Dulaqueâs chiefâŠwell, heâs too classy for the word enforcer, and so is she.  But if they were anyone else, thatâs what sheâd be. As it is, just a whisper of her name will send some grown men running to give up whatever she wants in exchange for safe passage.
And see, Dulaque has caught wind of the irish mobâs sudden financial success and wants to know how itâs happening. Â Take advantage of it if itâs luck, invest in it if itâs skill, and perhaps recruit whatever or whoever is responsible into his own enterprise.
Lamia doesnât always like to trade on her name, though, so she comes to Boston quietly, and investigates how the Irish are doing so wellânot just in the American markets anymore
(Callahan called his friends in the old country and told them about the redheaded accountant with a genius-level intellect who could analyze the stock markets to a T; suddenly Cassandra had a whole lot more to balance than a few local business and investments. Suddenly, sheâs the lodestone to an entire financial criminal empire thatâs only growing. Â And that little voice in the back of her head sighs in contentment as her reach extends, her area of effect getting bigger and bigger. Whenever the air in front of her lights up blue and smells like oranges, she smiles a little and hums, because this feels right. Â Follow the money and see where it leads, all the way down)
It doesnât take long before she finds John McRoryâs place, where a petite little redhead still waits tables and occasionally mans the bar; locks up more often than not, now, because her place is right upstairs.
There are a couple ways she can do this.  She can go from the top down, approach Callahan and demand to speak with the girl. She can have her brought directly to Dulaque, where he can make an intimidatingly persuasive offer the girl wonât be able to refuse.  OrâŠ
Her eyes are rather striking, in the warm light of the bar. Â
After Lamia finds Cassandra Cillian, she spends another week watching her, and the girl is interesting. Â Balancing all that money, layering and incorporating it in three different countries and seven different cities, would be too much for any one person. Â And yet she seems to slot all that work neatly into her afternoon, after her classes at the local college and before her shift starts at the bar. Â What really draws her attention, though, is that little studio she visits twice a week for âdefense lessons.â Â
Krav Maga is brutal and straightforward, a beautiful Frankenstein of a martial art that takes the easiest parts of a handful of the others and sharpens them into something dangerous.
Lamia sits in on one of the sessions.  The instructor she immediately pegs as former military, thatâs a very distinctive stance, but the way the girl holds herselfâŠnow that, thatâs something to watch out for.
P3 after less than a year of training is impressive, but not unusual enough to matter. Â What matters is the way the girl locks her eyes onto the instructor while she demonstrates a move, all cold and calculating; the way her gaze flickers over her sparing partnerâs feet, hands, arms, shoulders, hips, like sheâs finding every angle and weak spot there is to be found. Â
Finally, Lamia smiles as she hesitates just before moving into action. Â Oh, that look. Â Not fear of her opponent; fear of herself. Â And buried beneath it, a bone-deep desire and curiosity. Ah, she thinks. Â Gotcha.
Cassandra is smarter than probably everyone Lamia has ever met, so there wonât be any straight-up conning her into what she wants, and that visit to the hospital had been unfortunately enlightening, because threatening probably wonât work either.
Dulaque, she knows, will want the girlâs head for numbers. Â And heâll get it. Â But perhaps if Lamia asks very nicely, heâll let her keep Cassandra to herself for a little bit and show her what she could really be capable of. Â A little push, someone to tell her itâs okay to crave that violence, and Lamia can have danger thrumming under her skin right next to those numbers in her brain.
She waits until the class is over, nods to the instructor, and walks up to her. Â Cassandra squints at her face for a moment, but it isnât long before a bright and surprisingly genuine smile breaks out. Â âHi! Â You know, you look really familiar.â
Lamia smiles; itâs more of a smirk, really.  Lying is a bad idea, so, âI think you work at that bar I was in the other night.  What was itâŠâ
âMcRoryâs?â
âOh, yes, thatâs it. Â I was kind of surprised to see you here, actually, you donât really seem the type.â
âWell, knowing how to defend yourself is important!â Â God, everything about her is bright and bubbly, isnât it? Â It begs the question how much of that is real, and how much is a front, a persona.
âAnyway.â Â Lamia holds out her hand. Â âLamia.â
âCassandra.â Â The girl takes it, and she makes sure to grip her hand warmly.
âCassandra,â she rubs her thumb over the back of her hand and curls her lips. Â When she leans forward, Cassandra does, too. Â Neither of them lets go. Â âHave a drink with me.â Not a question, not a demand.
Her eyes focus intently on Lamiaâs, something like real happiness lingering around her mouth. âYes.â
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Can I posit that Quynh was the mastermind, then ~things happened~ & Andy has to take over the role, & when Quynh comes back Andy stays in the role?
Also (Quynh as OG mastermind anon back) I think Booker is the Sterling, though I do like Booker better than Sterling, idek, I just don't want Booker to be the Parker, I love Parker too much. Here, I think this is how it should go:
Andy hitter -> mastermind
Quynh mastermind -> thief (back up grifter)
Nicky thief -> hitter (back up thief)
Joe grifter -> grifter (back up hitter)
Lykon hacker -> retires & sends them postcards
Booker hacker post Lykon -> actually interpol, but got fired & is on the outs from both interpol & the team, but gets called on for favors
Nile hacker post Booker
Copley -> Booker's interpol boss who tries to retire, but both interpol & the team keep calling on him for favors so sometimes he's on their side & sometimes not
Feel free to delete, I know I am foisting my hot takes on you
This is also a very interesting take! I love the idea of Andy/Quỳnh/Joe/Nicky/Lykon as version 1 of the team, and then cycling through Booker before they get to Nile. And it sounds like you got more to Copley as Stirling? Which also makes a lot of sense.Â
Honestly given the TOG team are all very competent the roles are as much about who you want to focus on as anything, and my version is the version *I* would want to focus on. But posting this because I think it will take some other peopleâs fancy!Â
Update to The Nakadia Job, in which the plot thickens, hands are kissed, bombs are exploded, and Bodhi is just about done with this whole politics thing.Â
Chirrut was busy plucking invisible lint from Julan Voshâs jacket when Bodhi made his way backstage. To the left of the former Guardian and the would-be political leader, Jyn was standing in a rigid military stance that was drastically at odds with her flowery sundress. Just over the former guerrilla soldierâs shoulder, the rebel spy she loved leaned against the wall with a datapad loosely in one hand, his face turned towards the screen but his eyes flicking from door to window to Jyn to the stage just beyond them all. Both of them glanced up at Bodhi as he walked up, nodded briefly, then went back to their wary vigils.
Sometimes, Bodhi thought, he really could not believe the path his life had somehow wandered down.
Iâm having way too much fun with this, and avoiding the final chapter of A Love Song because I kind of donât want to write heavy stuff right now. And so far Iâve mostly managed to keep The Nakadia Job light, so here, another chapter, in which Cassian, Jyn and Baze are professionals, Kay is hanging out in the shuttle, Chirrut is having way too much fun, and Bodhi asks himself: What Would Cassian Do?