No Salvation For Us Now - Chapter 1
Synopsis: Once, they were two ambitious souls who found love in the heart of the Republic. Now, they are enemies. Florence Hale, a rebel spy disguised as a diplomat, never expected to see Orson Krennic again. But when their paths cross on a dangerous mission, the bitter past and a lingering attraction collide. As Krennic's rise to power threatens everything she believes in, Florence finds herself trapped between her duty and the memory of a love that never truly died.
🔹 Pairing: Director Krennic / OFC (Florence Hale) 🔹 Rating: Mature 🔹 Word Count: 3158 🔹 Read on AO3 🔹 Playlist that I listen to while writing Chapter One | Chapter Two
A/N: Hello Everyone! I just finished watching Andor, and I'm in the middle of a full-blown Ben Mendelsohn obsesseion. I've started watching all his movies - or basically anything he appears in. While doing that, I stumbled upon the music video for Lover to Lover by Florence + The Machine. And in one of those late-night daydreaming moments, the idea hit me: to write a fanfic with an OFC, but something deeper - exploring Krennic's past during the Republic. From those nights of imagination, this fanfic was born. I'll be taking you through the different stages of this OFC's life with Krennic, all way up to Rogue One. I'm by no means a Star Wars expert, but I'm doing my best to stay consistent with the facts we know. This will be a long journey. All the chapters are already planned, and I'm in the process of writing them. Also, English is not my first language, so please be patient with any mistakes!
Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist!
@sparklebunny57 @nymphl @orson-pope @skullfacedlady
Chapter One - A Collision of Minds
Coruscant - 25 BBY
The hum of the Republic’s bureaucratic heart was everywhere on Coruscant. It buzzed in the whine of repulsor lifts between towering durasteel spires, in the vibration of endless traffic echoing through the city-planet’s veins, and in the constant thrum of generators powering government halls.
Florence Hale navigated the crowded concourse, letting her fingers brush against the polished railing as she moved, a small reminder that she existed in the thrumming chaos.
To her, it was a sterile whisper at the back of her mind — promising a dazzling new career, yet hinting at the dread of the impersonal machine she’d just joined.
The sprawling metropolis was a galaxy away from the tranquil coastline of Sanctuary Coast on Alderaan. Back home, the air was crisp with sea salt and Alderaanian pine, the only sounds the lapping of waves against stilts that held her city above the inland sea. Sanctuary Coast wasn’t born of nature but of defiance — a haven built by refugees of past Republic wars.
That legacy was written into Florence. She grew up watching leaders quietly shelter those fleeing conflict. The starport bustled with trade by day, but at night, it hid the movement of anti-Separatist agents and vessels. Sanctuary was beauty and resistance in equal measure, and it fueled her desire to become a diplomat. She wasn’t here only for Alderaan. She was here to give voice to the countless refugees her city had sheltered — to bring Sanctuary’s spirit to the Republic’s cold heart.
At twenty-one, she was a new name in the Diplomatic Corps ledger — still faint, barely inked. On paper, a woman. In truth, still trying to let the girl behind. Her lanky frame carried both determination and self-consciousness. A tumble of auburn hair, barely tamed into a bun, spoke of pragmatism over vanity. Sharp green eyes held an intensity older than her years. The galaxy hadn’t stripped away her idealism yet, though it had tried in small ways.
Her first days blurred into orientation halls, security clearances, and endless introductions. The Diplomatic Corps headquarters gleamed with transparent walkways and vaulted chambers, perfumed with polished marble and the rustle of fine robes. It was a temple to politics and peace, where even a memo’s calligraphy carried weight.
Senior officers drifted past like comets: bright, brief, untouchable. Their whispered discussions of border tensions and trade crises echoed authority itself. Florence watched them, keenly aware of the immensity of her task — not only to represent the Republic, but to carve her place among these titans.
The Diplomatic Corps had once been its conscience, older than many of the conflicts it sought to heal. But cracks were showing. Too many disputes “deferred.” Too many negotiations about appearances rather than peace. Still, Florence believed. At least, for now.
Her latest trial was a dull, interminable assembly in the Senate Building’s sprawling engineering sub-committee hall, where diplomats shared the podium with members of the engineering corps. The recycled air was heavy with stale caf and the drone of speeches.
It was a tedious affair, the kind of meeting where the most significant decisions were often made in hushed asides and knowing glances, not on the podium.
Beside her, Elara - a fellow aide with a knack for gossip and maneuvering the Republic’s social maze, stifled a yawn.
“I swear, if Senator Arvoss says 'structural integrity' one more time, I might just force-choke myself.” Elara whispered, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
Florence let out a soft chuckle. “You’re not alone,” she murmured, though her eyes stayed on the speaker across the amphitheater, following every word despite herself.
Finally, the meeting began to dissolve into the usual tide of aides and consultants edging toward the exits.
Elara nudge her.
“Don’t run off yet,” she murmured. “There are still plenty of people around... You should meet a few before we make our escape.”
Instead of heading out, she allowed herself to be pulled through the clusters of people until they reached a man standing alone, brow furrowed as he examined a complex conduit design. His hair was slightly messy, a sharp contrast to the pristine uniforms around him.
“There’s Galen,” Elara said, a genuine warmth in her voice. She led Florence over to him. “Galen, I’d like you to meet Florence Hale. She’s with the Diplomatic Corps, but she’s got a surprisingly keen eye for sustainable engineering.”
Galen Erso looked up, smiling with disarming friendliness.
“Really? Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Florence. It’s not often I have the chance to meet someone who understands sustainable engineering.”
His easy manner immediately set her at ease. They fell into conversations about the energy conduits, then about the challenges of integrating new technologies into old planetary infrastructures. Galen spoke with quiet passion, genuine and infectious. He wasn’t posturing; he was simply excited by his work.
Florence found herself captivated, hanging on his every word. It was in the middle of a sentence, as Galen was explaining the elegant solution to a structural problem, that a smooth, deep voice cut through their easy rapport.
“A theoretical solution for a problem that doesn’t exist. How very… charming.”
The voice belonged to a tall man who had appeared at Galen’s side, a friendly smile on his face as if joining an ongoing conversation and his tone wasn’t overtly hostile, but it carried the confident weight of someone used to challenging others and being listened to.
Florence turned to him, blinking at the interruption.
His uniform gleamed, posture impeccable. His eyes lingered on her, sharp and assessing, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. He shifted slightly, one hand brushing the edge of the holo-projector as if testing its sturdiness - a subtle, deliberate gesture.
She met his gaze without flinching.
“I wouldn’t call it theoretical,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Cities break down in quieter ways than most notice. Planning ahead prevents collapse. Or is prevention too dull to be worth your attention?”
The smirk deepened.
“The Republic has been building cities for centuries. The problems are known, the solutions codified. A matter of protocol,” he said, drawing out the word with smug precision. “Unless you think you’ve stumbled upon something new. A diplomatic solution, perhaps? Is that what urban planners are calling innovation these days?”
Florence tilted her head slightly, considering him. When she spoke again, her tone carried the faintest hint of amusement.
“Protocol has its uses. But protocol alone is just repetition. If repetition solved everything, the Senate wouldn’t still be debating the same crises year after year, would it?”
That earned a pause. His eyes narrowed a fraction — he was looking at her not with irritation, but with something sharper. Interest, maybe.
“Stagnation, then?” he said at last, slowly, as if tasting the word she had implied. The smirk returned, edged now with challenge. “Or perhaps efficiency. Why redesign the hyperdrive when centuries of refinement have already perfected it? Unless you’re suggesting the hyperdrive itself is flawed, little visionary?”
Florence stiffened. Little visionary?
Her pulse quickened, indignation simmering beneath her calm exterior. Who was this man — polished, confident, and utterly self-assured — to talk to her like that?
From the corner of her eye, she caught Elara and Galen exchanging a glance. Elara’s lips pressed together in a thin line, Galen’s brow furrowed. They were waiting to see if she would back down, smooth it over, or let it pass.
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she squared her shoulders and met his gaze directly, as if stepping up to a challenge.
“Only if that hyperdrive keeps stalling while the galaxy leaves you behind,” she said, each word measured, her voice steady but edged with indignation. “If vision means daring to think beyond what’s already been done, then I’ll claim it. Better that than mistaking yesterday’s solutions for progress”.
The silence between them stretched, thick with tension.
His gaze lingered, unblinking, almost predatory, as though weighing whether to challenge her further. Florence felt the thrill of the duel, aware she had accepted a contest she hadn’t planned for — and refused to lose.
Galen sighed. “Come on, everyone. There’s no need for such… heat. We’re all on the same side, looking for the best for the Republic, right?”
The man chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound that irritated Florence. “Some of us,” he said, his tone cool and precise, “also know when a conversation has run its course — especially when someone insists on arguing pointlessly, isn’t that right?”
Florence opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort, a cutting remark forming on her tongue, but before she could utter a word, Elara laughed, a clear, ringing sound that cut through the tension.
“Well, it’s always so enlightening to have these discussions!” Elara said loudly, already taking Florence’s arm with a surprisingly strong grip and beginning to steer her away. “Such a pleasure, gentlemen, but we really must be going. Duty calls, you know!”.
As Elara pulled her towards the nearest turbolift, Florence finally pulled her arm free, a frown on her face.
“Why did you pull me away, Elara?” she demanded. “He was arrogant and dismissive of everything we’re trying to achieve. I’m not going to stand there and let someone insult my work and ideas. I have no problem defending myself”.
Elara raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Oh, I gathered that much. But there’s defending yourself, and then there’s poking the biggest krayt dragon in the room.” She paused, then added, “Especially when that krayt dragon is Orson Krennic. He might be at the beginning of his career, but he’s already making a name for himself, and not just for his charm.”.
Florence scoffed, “Charm? What charm?”
As Elara ushered her into the turbolift, Florence couldn’t resist one last glance back.
Across the crowded room, Orson Krennic still stood beside Galen, who was now engaged in conversation with other guests, but Orson’s eyes remained fixed on Florence. The feeling of his dismissive stare lingered on her skin long after the doors hissed shut.
|•|
The lingering heat from her encounter with Orson Krennic had simmered beneath Florence’s skin all week. The sheer audacity of the man – his condescending smirk and effortless dismissal – had stuck with her, replaying in her mind during moments of quiet work and long, silent turbolift rides. She had been ready to launch into a full-scale verbal tirade, a cutting, precise dismantling of his arrogant arguments, but Elara had pulled her away.
Now, in the quiet of her own thoughts, she could almost be grateful. A public spectacle, a heated debate with a man who was clearly more interested in posturing than in peace, would have been a poor start to her diplomatic career.
She pushed the memory away, resolving to let the irritation fade. She had a new assignment now, a real chance to prove herself, and she wouldn’t let a single, frustrating interaction derail her focus.
She received her first real assignment a week later: a joint initiative between her department and the Republic Corps of Engineers. On paper, it was simple – oversee a public works project on a Remote Outer Rim world, ensuring the local population’s heeds were accounted for without derailing the corps’ timeline or budget. In reality, she suspected it would be a delicate balance between negotiation and survival.
The project was the development of a new water distribution system for a planet suffering from seasonal droughts. The initial Corps’ proposal was for a massive centralized aqueduct system; a brute-force solution that ignored the complexities of the local environment.
The meeting was scheduled in one of the neutral conference rooms in the central government complex. Florence arrived early, partly from discipline and partly from the nervous, unspoken fear of being late.
The room was a study in efficiency: a polished durasteel table, wall-mounted holocharts waiting to be activated, and a faint antiseptic tang in the air. A protocol droid greeted her in a monotonous voice, offered her the relevant data packets, and went about the mechanical process of preparing the room. She took her seat, smoothed down non-existent wrinkles in her uniform, and tried to steady her breathing.
The door opened with a clean hydraulic sigh.
He stepped in like he owned the space, and the air immediately thickened with his presence. Florence’s stomach tightened into a hard knot of exasperation. Of all the people to be assigned to this project, it had to be him. His uniform was immaculate, his movements precise, deliberate, as if even walking were executed with intent. His cool, assessing gaze swept the room before settling on her, and the faint smirk from their previous encounter returned.
“Well, well,” he said, his smooth baritone laced with dry amusement. “Hello again, little visionary”.
Florence’s green eyes narrowed. She would not fall for his games. She needed to maintain composure.
She rose slightly, offering a formal nod.
“I’m Florence Hale. I’m here representing the Diplomatic Corps”.
He chuckled softly.
“No need for formalities. Seems we’re destined to work together, though I can’t imagine a more… inconvenient pairing. We started our working relationship on the wrong foot. Let me remedy that…” He extended a hand.
“Orson Krennic. Architect, Corps of Engineers.” He delivered the title with calm certainty of someone who fully expected it to be only the beginning.
Florence hesitated, noting the contrast: polite, professional, yet the smirk lingered. A subtle power play, and he knew it. She resisted, keeping her arms crossed. She ignored his outstretched hand.
“I am aware of who you are, Mr. Krennic. Our last encounter was quite… Memorable”.
He lowered his hand with a casual shrug. “I aim to please. Now, shall we get to it? I assume your indignation is already accounted for in the project budget.”
Florence gestured toward the datapad in front of her.
“The preliminary briefing outlines the key objectives. The Corps of Engineers will handle construction oversight, while the Diplomatic Corps facilitates communication with the planetary council and local stakeholders.”
Krennic leaned back, hands folded neatly on the table. “So, you’re here to keep the locals happy while we actually build the thing.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“I’m here to ensure the people most affected by this project have a voice. The Republic works best when all parties are represented”.
“Representation,” he repeated, testing the word’s weight. “Tends to slow things down. Deadlines are tight, resources limited. Endless conversations with locals won’t help.”
She didn’t flinch. “The goal isn’t endless conversations. It’s informed decision-making. Their input prevents costly mistakes your models might overlook.”
Krennic’s brow lifted. “Or it could result in compromises that water down the efficiency of the build.”.
Florence tilted her head, locking eyes with him. “Or a stronger, more resilient project. One that lasts.”
For a beat, his gaze lingered on her, measuring.
“I was under the impression,” he began, his smooth baritone loud with condescension, “we were here to discuss logistics, not trade ceremonial pleasantries.”
She allowed the barest smile. Her hands tightened subtly on the table. “And I was under the impression the Republic was built on diplomacy, not a single ambitious architect’s vision.”
A flicker of amusement touched his features before hardening into guardedness.
“Ambition,” he said, leaning back, “is what moves the galaxy forward. Diplomacy merely delays the inevitable”.
“And what, exactly, is inevitable?”
“Some things must be sacrificed for progress,” he said matter-of-factly. “This project will create lasting infrastructure. I won’t let it dissolve into a feel-good gesture.”
Florence’s brows lifted. “A gesture? It’s their home. The people who live there have a right to shape what’s being built on their land”.
He held her gaze. “While you’re busy ensuring everyone feels heard, the project may overrun budget and miss deadlines. My job is to deliver results, not community outreach.”
She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “Their knowledge could save you time and resources. That’s strategy, not sentiment.”.
He paused, weighing her words. “We have schematics, environmental models, Corps expertise. You have… anecdotes.”
“And you have a design without a heartbeat,” she shot back. “A skeleton without a soul.”
His gaze lingered on her, heavier now. “Perhaps the Republic has too much soul. It makes it weak. Some of us are here to make it strong.”
Florence held his stare, pulse quickening. She could feel the weight of the moment, the chess-like tension between them. “And in doing so,” she replied calmly, “you risk making it hollow.”
The corner of his mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a genuine smile. “A skeleton without a soul,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I’ll give you that one, Miss Hale.”
For a beat, he remained silent, his gaze fixed on her. The silence stretched, a tense, weighted thing. Florence held his stare, refusing to look away or be intimidated. She had made her point; now it was up to him.
Finally, he exhaled, slow, grudging.
“All right, Miss Hale. A stronger, more resilient project. One that lasts.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. “I’m willing to consider your ‘strategy’ of local consultation, but on one condition. You will personally manage the budgetary constraints of any changes they propose. We will not fall behind schedule because of a diplomatic feel-good gesture. Do we have an agreement?”
Florence felt a jolt of surprise. She had fully expected him to dismiss her points, to argue until the deadline, but he had conceded.
“We have an agreement, Mr. Krennic,” she said, the words a victory in themselves.
He powered down the holochart above the table. “I’ll schedule a formal presentation with the higher-ups in a little over a month. You’ll have that time to prepare your full proposal. Be ready to defend it”.
As she rose to leave, he stood as well, extending a hand. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took his hand. His grip was firm and cool, and he gave a subtle, almost imperceptible squeeze.
“It was a pleasure to have this conversation with you, Miss Hale,” he said, his voice a low, smooth murmur meant for her ears alone. “I look forward to our next engagement”.
A short, incredulous laugh spaced her as she puller her hand away. Without another word, she turned and walked out, her boots clicking sharply against the pristine floor.
The corridor outside stretched long and impersonal, its walls reflecting the glow of overhead lights. The hum of the Republic’s machinery filled her ears again, but now it mixed with something else: a heat under her skin, equals parts irritation and exhilaration.
She caught her reflection in the glossy wall – hair beginning to come undone, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with an unsettling, electric light. Contemplating her reflection, Florence realized the encounter with Krennic hadn’t left her feeling defeated or anxious. Instead, a strange sense of invigoration coursed through her. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips as she acknowledged this unexpected feeling.
The next time they met, she promised herself, she wouldn’t just win the argument. She would win the war.
