Chapter Text
He allows himself a single moment of pride as he watches his T-70 take flight and soar easily out of sight, breaking atmo. with all the grace of a craft in peak condition. Even as his own situation grows more dire, the sense of unease that had been twisting in his gut, as he stumbled through repairs like a blind Bantha, begins to fade.
He had been confident the craft would fly, as had BB-8; if either of them hadn’t he never would have put Finn in it. Still, hearing the unstilted hum of the engine and watching the craft cut a steady line through the clouds to deliver Finn and BB-8 to safety brings him a deep sense of relief. He would never have been able to forgive himself –
No, this isn’t the time for this.
But by the Force, how perfect it would be to stare up at the sky and take comfort in the escape he was able to facilitate with some damn good engineering, to not focus on the line of soldiers coming his way.
He takes a deep breath as the X-Wing winks out of sight, completely. He’s left staring at an impossibly blue sky.
He looks to Finn’s ruined X-Wing and can’t help but shake his head; it’s a motion more meant to shake the tension from his soldiers than to mourn the craft.
It won’t fly; he knows this.
In the beginning of his administrations he had tried in earnest to fix the hunk of metal and he had been doing okay. He had rerouted power to the left coupler, had managed to get life support up and running and had even managed to get one of the blasters working.
He split his attention between Finn and the controls, his hands moving in a controlled yet frantic looking flurry. He had begun to label things in his head as simply as possible - this works, this doesn’t, this works, this – crack, sizzle, ouch – don’t touch this – and he had even gotten the craft to 64% operational, the pinnacle of its capabilities, a pass rate that he would have, all things considered, deemed ‘totally great’ and then …
But then R4 had taken a hit, a terminal hit, and the poor droid had shorted; the electricity had coursed through its frame and then into the ship. He had received a nice electrical burn for his efforts and, when he had cleared the smoke from his view and had managed to shake the ringing from his ears, he knew immediately the whole system was fried. A few quick motions later and the data purge initiated; anything the R4 had been had been lost forever in those few seconds. It had felt terrible, slimy.
Finn had been calling out to him, then, and he choked out a response.
Ironically, it probably would not have happened if he hadn’t rerouted the coupler. It had been a necessary but damning repair. He had wanted to scream, throw the sonic-tool across the room; he could hear the sounds of blaster fire.
After that it had all been a desperate attempt to make anything work; weapons, the distress beacon, communications –
After realizing none of those would work, he had given himself a full ten seconds to steel himself and prepare to lie through his teeth. To Finn.
I can fly anything, remember? The first lie. He can fly anything, granted that thing can fly at all. I’ll be right behind you. The second lie.
“You are a terrible liar, Poe.” General Organa has said to him – says to him – frequently. He figures that he had managed because it hadn’t really been about him, it had been about Finn, it had been about Finn being okay.
Kriff, he would dress himself in junk parts, smear engine grease on his skin, and deadpan proclaim himself Lord of the X-Wings, all to General Organa’s face if it meant Finn would be okay.
He’d say anything.
Then Finn was in trouble and Poe had run, had abandoned his thoughts and the X-Wing and had picked the man up off the ground; in that moment he had felt a thrill of desperation, a sensation that urged him to get Finn off planet.
It had been easy to detach himself from his own fear over being captured again. Of being tortured again.
In the face of what the New Order would do to Finn – what they would do to a defector – it was easy to stay behind.
His mind had been filled, in those moments between picking Finn up off the ground and running towards Black One, with dark thoughts; they would beat Finn, they would torture him and with no purpose or end but to punish.
They would make an example of him. They would kill him.
So, pushing him up that ladder, silently overriding everything the Black One had left, and watching him fly away, had been easy.
Lying had been so, so easy.
Poe takes a deep breath, gets control over his racing heart. He’s done it. Finn is safe.
Now for the fun part.
They’re almost here. He can hear them. There’s nowhere to run – they had parked on a veritable cliff, one that had housed an old beat hanger that had exposed the base like a wound.
Stupid, obviously a trap.
He knows he can’t fight his way out of this, either. He would get off a bolt or two, sure, but they would overpower him moments after that. They would kill him right there and then.
He knows his odds are poor but he isn’t quite ready to go out like that, to give in to the rash temptation to fight when surrendering is the more logical, self-preserving option. That option gives him a greater chance at seeing Finn again. Force knows they’re not great odds, but they are better.
“So much for your self-destruction theory, Snap.” He mutters to himself, for his own twisted amusement, as he tosses his blaster to the ground.
There is nothing for him to do but wait.
It’s an absurdly strange thing, standing around, waiting to be captured.
Should he whistle or pace around or something?
The pilot kicks at a something, a small pebble or a screw. It distracts him from the raw panic that has the potential to take over as the sounds of boots get closer.
Finn is safe, he thinks, BB-8 is safe.
“On my lead –“ He hears the tinny voice of a Trooper. They’re on the other side of that wall and he’s just standing here, the husk of an X-Wing behind him, Finn and BB-8 so far away.
They’re safe, he repeats as the weight of the situation bears down on him mercilessly, and that’s all that matters.
He swallows around the lump in his throat as unwanted images, unwanted reminders, of torture wash over him. He sees Kylo Ren in his mind, hand in front of his face, pulling, extracting what was his.
Finn is safe - it’s a mantra, now, and it keeps the images at bay - and that’s all that matters.
He thinks about his training, thinks about zero sum situations and procedure, about the things that will increase his survival.
He finds himself lowering himself to his knees, his breath quickening. He feels the sharp pull of shame until he remembers the words of General Organa, whenever she addressed her people – you are worth so much more to us alive than dead; don’t play the hero unless you absolutely must.
He had never been one to heed that so fully, had always been called reckless, had always been told the cause would kill him.
He can’t do that; he has to try, to fight, for Finn.
“There! One of the intruders – Resistance scum – “ They – all twelve of them - run at him, weapons held high, aimed at his head, his chest. He stares forward; he doesn’t show a shred of discomfort, of fear.
Some break off to search the area, a few move towards the X-Wing, intend on obliterating it.
“Search the area –“
He slips his hands, very non-threatening like, behind his head.
Finn is safe and that’s all that matters.
“Don’t move!” There’s a trooper in front of him, another behind him, a blaster stuck into his back
“Recover the data from the droid. Destroy the ship.” The trooper with the officer’s pauldron says and Poe feels a small rush of self-satisfaction over having thought to wipe all data.
“What is your name?” So it begins, he thinks. Questioning. Torture is not far behind. “Where is FN-2187?”
Finn is safe and that’s all that matters.
The question surprises him, but he doesn’t show it. This had been a trap, but not for just any Resistance member, he realizes; it had been a trap for Finn.
“I repeat, where is FN-2187?” The gun digs into his back but he doesn’t move.
“FN-2187? Nope. Don’t know that one. I do know an FN-1287. Great guy –“
Predictably the Trooper swings the butt of his gun at his face, hits him square in the jaw. He falls to the side but doesn’t even have time to get acquainted with the ground before he’s pulled back to an upright position. He spits blood.
This is how its going to go, he knows. The Trooper will say something. Then him. Ouch. Repeat. He doesn’t care. He just goes through the motions in an attempt to keep any thoughts but the mantra out of his head.
They bind his hands, tightly. They destroy the X-Wing and torch R4’s shell. They haul him roughly to his feet.
Finn is safe and that’s all that matters.
“We’re going back.” He yells at the control panel, to BB-8 as the Black One speeds him far away from that pit of a moon. In his anxiety he can’t even remember its designation, its name.
His demand goes ignored and he feels like a child, whisked away without consent, his authority null.
“You hear me BB-8? We’re going back, we are going back!” He bangs his fists against the console, his limbs are shaking and he can hear the shrill sounds of binary fill the cockpit; the screen is dead, blank. If the Black One had a binary reader it had likely shorted along with the rest of the unit.
He is able to make out no and no again.
“No … NO? You’re his friend, aren’t you?” He yells at the droid; he’s still getting used to droids as companions, as friends. It’s not for lack of evidence – BB-8 and Poe were particularly spectacular examples – but rather familiarity.
“If you care about him, you’ll turn us around. You hear me, BB?” There is a long string of binary, filled with those rare grunts and clicks that signal anger.
He goes at it again, flailing about like a drunken rathtar. He doesn’t stop, he loses himself in an utter tantrum and he’s kicking at the pedals, pushing useless buttons, hitting things he really shouldn’t, all in an attempt to take control.
“Come on, come on – “ he’s shouting at the console, at BB-8.
Something sparks and, though it doesn’t shock him, it’s enough to pull him out of his blind frustration, his anger, his fear. His hands are shaking terribly and he clenches his fists, and then opens them, repeating the motion when he realizes he can’t feel them; the thrum of adrenaline is making him feel numb and anxious all at once.
He’s dislodged a panel or two, given the console a few more scuffs –
Another deep breathe. He looks at his hands, bathed in the blues and whites of Hyperspace; he’s speeding further and further and further away.
He stares at his hands for a moment more, watches how they shake completely unbidden. The weight of his foolishness hits him.
He reaches forward, a hand hovering over the damaged console, a sudden sense of regret weighing heavy in his chest; he’s hurting Poe’s ship. Poe loves this ship and he’s doing his best to ruin it.
His hand lands on the area above the stick; he pats the cool metal, and suddenly his body feels heavy, exhausted.
“I’m sorry , I’m sorry –“ His voice is raw and barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to – the ship, BB-8, the Resistance, Poe. BB-8 hums sadly and that, at least, needs no translation.
Finn takes in a few stuttering breathes, pinches the bridge of his nose and thumbs at tears of frustration.
He blinks slowly, scrubs his hand across his face and stares at the floor of the cockpit, the whirl of Hyperspace too dizzying for the time being.
He spends the next few moments in mostly silence – BB-8 is purring sadly, clicks occasionally, ever the vocal one – staring at the dark metal floor, the bits of broken panel, a …
Finn squints, sitting forward as his eyes catch the perfectly rounded shape of a personal holoprojector. He reaches down, the angle making him have to lean away, his hand searching blindly. He grabs the holoproj, and as he leans back, his hand brushes the opening of a barely noticeable compartment on the underside of the pilot panel.
He must have opened it accidentally, when he has been busy being an idiot.
He thumbs the unpolished metal, turns the device over in his hands. He inspects it, notices the polish is worn out around the initiator. It’s clearly well loved, well used.
His finger hovers over the button; he wants to look, wants something to distract him from the agony of his frustration and complete inability to do anything to help Poe.
He also wants to respect the man’s privacy. Perhaps it had been well hidden, well guarded for a reason. Finn had never seen it before, had never heard mention of it.
He decides against it and inspects it one more time before tucking it into the safety of his jacket pocket. The weight of it grounds him, for the time being. He can feel the prickle of his worry ever present in the back of his mind, but if anything, he feels a little more focused.
They should be dropping out of Hyperspace soon, he thinks, and as soon as he debriefs the General he is heading back. He is going back for Poe and no one will be able to stop him.
He thinks back to all that had happened, prepares what he is going to say, when he suddenly remembers.
“BB-8,” His voice is calm and he feels numb, the memories passing through him painted only by the logic of what happened, not what was felt; he is finding himself once again calling upon the better parts, the useful parts - if there were such a thing - of his conditioning, tapping into what Poe had told him was disassociation. Finn fleetingly remembers how sad he had looked when he had told him that.
He shakes his head, continues, cool and calm: “What did Poe say? Before we left? I couldn’t – “
BB-8 trills a short burst of sound; it ends in a soft, short hum.
He doesn’t understand.
Further and further and further away.