Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kylo has it made for you.

It’s molded to perfection, smooth on every surface, and crisp around the edges. It’s a deep black mask with no garnish and curved sockets that manage a deeper perspective, one mimicking the ways of an abyss. Surprise chokes you, and dread knowing this day has come washes down at once. 

All for you. You and him. 

You say “I can’t accept,” hands stiffly setting it down. His fingers curl in and out of a fist, his lips twist from a bitter frown to an uncomfortable grin. His face finds neutral ground as he tries reviving his patience with a distraught huff. It’s a disquieting air. His gut still bubbles from the idea of inbound defeat. So he can’t, and won’t let this go either.

You blink at him, stoic and undeterred with a simple look.

There’s a pain in waiting — waiting for you to change your mind and waiting for him to do more. He doesn’t want that; he doesn’t want to make you. 

Cause even then it wouldn’t be a victory in retrospect.

He clears his throat and saves his next words from losing their weight under a pitiful crack his weepy tone threatens. 

“Please,” he says through pressed teeth. 

Your eyes slow to the helmet. And gentle, you grasp it. Its simplicity makes you expect something lighter, but your hold threatens. It’s cold. Sitting in your darkened quarters, it’s particular in how the light catches. A sliver of reflected white caresses its edges, and in the eyes, the light catches like piercing slits for pupils. It shines but doesn’t reflect images. Contrast to its black, it deflects everything around it. It stands alone, even in darkness. It is its own, almost as an entity, certainly in mechanical feat. 

“Okay,” you say, head bowed. Kylo hears it but can’t see your lips move. He fears it was a phantom taunt from beyond. He tilts his head unsure, and stricter, sensing him tense, you insist “Thank you.” 

Tired, you barely pick your head up, barely try to smile. “Lovely,” you bawl. “It’s lovely.”

And jolted out of observing, “Isn’t it?”

Kylo chuckles under his breath. His face twitches from forced patience and you don’t so much as gulp to give away your anxiety. The crack in your facade mends itself as you imagine the mask will if it’s been struck. Maybe he felt it, the crack. But, recognizing Kylo’s whim and expectations of you sews your acceptance as good as new. 

Oh, but how fun would it be for him to think you’re as meek as you used to be? As frightened by the Order’s hopes for you as you were? However, not anymore you’re not, and it is truly, truly — 

“Lovely.” 

Chapter Text

Suppose that the red-lit woods are called that with reason now. 

The light there shone red through white fog so dense it wouldn’t twirl even with a crisp cut of your lightsaber’s blade through the atmosphere. The fog covered the colonists’ bodies, and their blood spilled thin and unseen under everything. It slid off your mask and soaked into your chest. Your cloak drug the evidence of your deeds behind you. But of course, it couldn’t be seen. 

“We slaughtered tens of colonists to find a box.” You regret it now. You don’t know what came over you, or how. 

They tried fleeing through the woods of Mustafar to escape you and your trooper escorts but succumb to their own brutal foreshadow on the path of a crumbling castle.

Sat in the corner of Kylo’s quarters, you pull one foot to your seat and rest the other on the ground. 

“To get to a planet—“ 

“Exegol,” he rumbles.

You glare at him. The lights are off, your helmet is off, but you still deflect everything around you, and your eyes nearly shine like slit-pupils regardless. The colonists would find it sickening to know your mask wears the same stoicism as the face behind it. They would wonder the point of it. 

You lift yourself, unraveling, mechanical, even Ren thinks it’s creepy and recoils.

Stood tall, your shadow prevails in the dark and he traces it. He can’t deny that you fit by his side even without the suit’s design. You could sneak past and wind through platoons as you are. But pride squeezes his lungs and he gives a humored huff knowing you ultimately wouldn’t be stood like this without him. You haven’t gained a name for yourself (he’s concluded you deny them but the galaxy insists on having one. Call it modesty, or call it rejection of adding a name to a kill count), but your mask, your distinct movements, they have gained a name for themselves. 

He glares at you from behind thick brows. 

“Snoke. Kylo…did you know he was a clone?

“I-” your fingers dig into your palms, gloves stretching the length of your arm, “I feel we should have known….”

He should be having an iced drink, something to jingle in condescending amusement (or surprise, rather) at your break from stoicism. 

You fall quiet. 

He eyes your hands. He hasn’t seen skin from below your neck since before you joined him. 

Kylo speaks now as he did then and always has — challenging.

He pushes himself from his seat and glides to you without the pull of gravity. “We’re close,” he says slowly.

And the voice that came back on Exegol had a sickly tremor from deep in his scratchy throat. Palpatine. You could picture him without looking, yet you did, and you teetered between raw disgust and unflinching poise. He couldn’t tell the difference.

Palpatine snickered before breaking into a coughing fit. His sneer still strikes a cold in you. His chuckling turned to shrieked laughter that shook his dewlap and his throat closed too tightly from the strain to offer you — specifically you — anything more than pursed lips in the shape of a wrinkled “O” a crooked, stretched ‘smile’ with a squeaky “E” noise and more muted laughter that echoed like a cartoonish wail. It was grossly eccentric, like a tease, a puzzling sentence torn to fragments and he wanted you to find the missing pieces, but laughed knowing it would be impossible and you’d be left to wonder. 

You did wonder. You still do.

The red-lit woods of Mustafar, the red that soaked into your gloved hands, all that to still leave with the “Wayfinder” (Kylo corrects) and ominous prophecy from a dry-tongued maw and “It feels like it was for nothing,“ you spit.

You blink down at him, waiting. 

“Ben,” you whisper, voice as cold as his quarters. A sad crack of your voice hangs on the end.

His name strikes him deeper than the message you’re trying to send. He squeezes his jaw and with a flare of his nostrils, you see you’ve started something you’re not sure how to end. He surveys your stance. Just like back then something shifts. You’re frozen, preparation for this battle chilling your spine in weary anticipation, but you thaw and accept it couldn’t have been brought up by anyone but you. 

Pacing, you pull your lightsaber from its holster. You toss it up, catch it, and roll your thumb over the button.

“You’re messing with a force you don’t understand.” Your voice doesn’t have so much as a quiver. And your heart doesn’t give so much as a thump to rattle your ribcage.

He breathes deep, shuddery, fire on his tongue. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

You come to the displayed helmet of his grandfather, crushed and stained with dust. You don’t like it because it snips and bites at you in a way you don’t understand. It doesn’t speak to you (it could never speak to you) but it hurts your chest and muddles your emotions into betrayal and loss and like it’s all your fault when you focus on it too much.

"Why are you so drawn to her?” Your gloved hand hovers over the tip of it.

Amused he asks “Why aren’t you?”

The tip of your skull stings with sharp pulses, throbbing violently and calling for nausea to fill your gut. You don’t know why but she’s the one who does this to you. You scoff through your teeth, clenched to fight the pain, and glare over your shoulder.

Your heart twists seeing Kylo watch you with an undiscouraged and soft glare. 

“What was that?” You step once.

“Abandonment. It’s built in you.” He steps forward. “Wanting to know the answers but also content with not and fleeing from the ones who need you — I know you fear nothing more than what his helm says of you.” He looks to Vader’s mask. Your head hurts again, but you walk with slow steps and meet Kylo in the middle of the room. His voice is so low his baritone hurts. Every word is laced with extra meaning and purpose. He looks at you from behind thick brows. “Why are you proving it true?”

“I’m not.”

“This guilt in you…and you don’t want to meet your history?”

“I’m not sure if you want to acknowledge yours either,“ you spit. “Just because you talk to a mask doesn’t mean you know your ancestors.” 

His brows jump. Composed — “At least I know who mine are.” 

You guard your expression. 

“I need you to get out of my way.” 

“You wouldn’t fight me,” he whispers, daring for you to prove him wrong.

But with a slight tightening of his jaw, he repeats how “You wouldn’t fight me,” in sad understanding. He tries seeing something in your eyes that will feed his understanding. But he finds nothing, of course. Likewise, his too are dull and empty.

“You’re right.” You slip your saber in its holster. “I wouldn’t. And I won’t.”

You don’t have the heart for it. Or energy. 

Kylo paces backward and you start-up opposite him. It’s a ballroom dance coming together and tearing apart. You both move gracefully even if his steps are hard and yours slide an extra second like a spoken slur. 

“She’s special, you know.” 

You raise your chin. “I know.”

Vader’s pedestal meets you halfway across the room again. You stop and trace the surface’s outline. 

Kylo, in a gentle exhale asks “Don’t you want to figure out why?” 

You shake your head, fingers crawling toward the mask. “We already know why, don’t we?” Subtly condescending, the corner of your lip picks up for a second. “Oh? You couldn’t connect the dots?” you tease. It feels good watching him scowl but still, the guilt growing in your gut is familiar. You wonder if you could catch that guilt if you touched it, if you could figure out why you have so much of it. No —  you rest your fingers just over the edge of the pedestal instead. Your eyes find their way back to Kylo. “I don’t think this is the way to do it.”

Kylo Ren is tall and call him brooding but one can’t deny his eerie calm.

“Come with me on this last mission,” and he says the third name you’ve been given, “Cordis,” who is someone with a name that doesn’t match them. You flinch.

When he says it, you look across the room feeling it should be a plea for someone else. Something else. Your name, the one from before, has been a stalemate, always on the tip of your tongue from your first conceivable moment. You slip on your own words when introducing yourself because you can’t bring yourself to use the one mandated to you by the Order.

The first one was ‘Piravit’, often said slyly and with a delirious grin by those who found pleasure in it.

You wonder if Ben ever felt that way about ‘Kylo’ even if he hand-picked that name and to this day would polish its reputation clean with his own spit and a brush.

You would use your own if you knew it.

Phasma, Hux, before she was defeated (you spent the day slumped over with glossy eyes. They weren’t teary, just dull and vacant) and before he became a doormat gave insistence that it fit and a gentle huff respectively when you acknowledged how it just didn’t.

On the tongue — “Lieutenant Cordis,” Kylo says, voice thick — it sounds well enough.

When attached to you — “I’ll prove it.” — the puzzle’s put together but two pieces have switched. Though the picture may be clear enough, the pieces protrude and it’s still wrong.

You blink at your feet, then his vaguely stretched hand. 

(‘That she’s special?’ you think.)

Your hand slips from Vader’s pedestal, and you turn your side to Ren. “I don’t need you to prove it to me.”

“Then come and see it up close.”

You nod halfway and whisper “Okay…” 

He wonders why you eye the floor. Why your sight darts from your feet, to the tiles before you, to the ones before his, and to his hand and the doors and why you hold your hands out and look at them as though seeing something he can’t, or like you’re keeping them still to prevent using them. Your eyes roll from his feet to his face and you look tired now, defeated, all the energy put into staying up drained immediately. He doesn’t know why because clearly you haven’t been. If anything, what will transpire will be a win.

“I want you to meet her for yourself.” He walks to the center. It’s a beckon to meet him there.

Shoulders slumped, you look back at Kylo with an irritated sigh and make your way to his front.

Looking into his eyes and seeing that with a little polish they could shine, you remember wasting your days once upon a time thinking up achievements you’d make together and how they would be recognized. Once upon a time, you wasted your minutes dreaming up accomplishments in your grey-hued room (they said it was temporary; it stayed temporary for years until you got your official quarters), dreamt during your treks through sterile-white halls, and dreamt in the confines of the red room where you trained together under Snoke’s watch. 

His smile back then itched to tell you something. His lips — he had ciphered them shut it and your greatest goal was to decrypt them. You deny that the Order gave you as many puzzles as they did in an attempt to prep you as a cheap decipherer, and instead hope Phasma had some semblance of care for your entertainment. You didn’t solve it. You still haven’t.

If only he would grant you one single wish on account of it. Before wherever him showing you will lead to; if only. Because a sickly excitement lives in you imagining the possibilities. And nothingness at the end of the road is one of them…

Sappy to think it — but a hug would be something.

The sensation of touch isn’t something you get a lot. You don’t let anyone near you enough to fight fist-to-fist, and the warmth that radiates off him and only him as you stand toe-to-toe comes with a sour swirl of longing and hatred.

“On your call, Kylo…Ren…” you mock.

He tilts his head in warning. 

Chapter Text

His call — 

— join us —

starts with a force bond.

It’s never his voice, or directly his call. It’s a static hidden between broadcasts, and you sweep into his quarters with your cloak stretching the length of the hall and scaring stormtroopers out of its reach. When you enter the room, he nods once before you take the cue and plant yourself in the corner.

You pick at your fingers with your arms tied behind your back.

He bears his eyes into Rey — the girl that’s tormented his mind and sparked him a new mission.

Close your eyes and you can almost imagine being apart of it. Maybe you can imagine her directly. Maybe you can take what you’ve seen of her (fleeting glimpses as she’s raced through halls from before you went everywhere with him) and piece together a full picture.

You try ignoring the urge to join, desperate to leave even.

Just a taste, you consider — it’s enough to add an extra punch in her gut. In her distress, Rey breaks from the bond, and you stalk after Ren calling for his transport to be prepared with her name effortlessly slipping off your tongue on repeat; broken record indeed, you can’t help yourself, fascination blooming as always but this time without the tools to contain it. 

His ears perk at the sound — “Rey…Rey…” your brows knitted and forehead creased in agitation wondering why suddenly you feel so pained. You’ll know her when you see her.

“Do you believe me now?”

As if you ever doubted.

As if this is the first time hiding while they connected has done your psyche punishment.

A transmission comes in — the “scavenger” and rebels are found on a planet in the midst of a festival whose lifespan is ultimately a fleeting occasion in its grand scheme of a century. 

Kylo calls you to join him again. You want to ask why, chest tight knowing the time you’ll meet her is approaching, but you don’t want him to enjoy your subtle fear of this moment.

Kylo, piloting, dips you two out of the ship’s hangar and into the planet’s atmosphere, fast and precise and you keep steady eye on him. You can’t say if he’s blinked once, and his breaths are as gentle as yours without a smidgen of aggression. The aggression is there but dedicated to cutting through with quick directions.

You try to discreetly swallow the lump in your throat as you shift in your seat, eyes caving in on the only part of this planet that brings relevance. 

A speck in the center of it stood with knees bent and lightsaber out.

You lean if not to whisper and distract him, then to get a better look at Rey.

The moment is coming, fast approaching.

Your heart demands attention like the festival’s ceremonial drums, riling you up and making the look in your eyes as feral as the feline-slits hidden in your masks’ sockets. And there’s a sort of unity. You hope, and you mean, by all means, hope to the force and everything it holds that you can see her win, at least. See her devour his energy, prove herself as warranting the pain you feel when merely thinking of her. It’s a wish you want to see complete and it’s treasonous maybe to say you’re sinister in deeply hoping for this but Kylo sinks the ship further, not stopping and unflinching. There’s the unity — frighteningly eager together.

In this silent stretch, you can hear the air around your craft crackling.

You’re in the corner of his eye, curious as a hound.

Your mouth is dry with waiting, your soul salivating if it could in anticipation of the show. 

And you tunnel in on her…

And she jumps…

She slices the wing right off.

You hold for impact, holding your breath through the crash as the ship slides through thick patches of sand and about hovers over the Earth when the grain is thin. You see Kylo’s anger slashed over his lips where he bit too hard. Limbs pressed out to keep yourself stable, you catch your breath when you come to a stop. He leaves too fast for you to catch him, stuck untangling yourself from your cloak and scrambling from the ship as a sand-cloud fills each inch of it. 

You plant your feet in the Earth at what you conclude is your final destination together.

Because he’s left you, stomping toward Rey from an opposite angle, either blind to, ignoring or oblivious of you stood perfect with vicious eyes under your helm. Your cloak lays back, hood covering and coming down in a wave to sit and pinch at your shoulders like hair.

It’s still on your shoulders, the wind twitching it barely.

You grunt and race against Ren from an opposite angle to corner her.

“Rey,” you warn but also say in a welcoming tone. It’s dreamy, alluring, almost sung, and it stretches across the desert.

Loving…but she’s heard the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. 

Careful, she looks past her shoulder. You’re approaching. She doesn’t see your feet lift off the ground, all of you lost in the cloak that eats your figure. But your mask with a tiny sliver of light curving its edges, and the look she senses in your eyes makes her shiver. You grab the fabric of your hood between your fingers, and slip it off, nudge your cloak with your elbows to flatten near your waist and now she sees you for what you are — his counterpart, his duo, and your surrendered lightsaber too.

You’re not even scuffed, your suit’s crisp and looking freshly factory-made — the sharpest black, like it’s a billowing window to its own shrouded universe, uncannily separate from the rest of this planet.

She knows your sockets can’t be as deep as they seem. So why does she feel like she’s looking into something so endless?

Her muscles shake from how tense she is. 

And feeling Kylo at her other side, she gulps to ease them.

Is this a dream?

Your presence has been in the room before, and it’s always been powerful. Yet you’ve avoided the force’s calls. Were you necessity to her and him? Was it your will that avoided the experience, that opted you out of them? How…? Or were you given an option and why haven’t you wanted to see her for yourself?

That energy — she’s wondered whose it is.

And she knows now.

You take a step, supposing this is how Kylo wanted things to be. Here’s where the feel of this being your ending proves true. If that’s the case, so be it…

Her friend Finn chokes. He knows who you are in the fact that simultaneously, nobody does. He recognizes that darkness, that mask, that cape; he’s seen you stood by Ren where Phasma once stood, but he feels like he knows you from something more. And that terrifies and allures him all the same. 

Finn shakes his head, disbelieving, but tries to make a dash. Fingers relaxed, you hold your hand back.  He isn’t stopped with a violent jolt, but a simple halt. 

You shake your head. “He’s trying to push you, Rey.” 

Another step. “Don’t listen to him, listen to your instincts – control your powers, Rey.”

She doesn’t know what you’re talking about. And Kylo’s prideful to finally hear you acknowledge them. You’re eyes are beckoned up as the transport carriers lift. You free Finn and  flails with newfound autonomy, shouts how – “THEY’VE GOT CHEWIE!” You hold your hand back to him, and he gulps unable to move forward. It’s not the force that holds him but your trust that he’ll keep put. He doesn’t know why on Earth he’s following it, and racks his brain while waiting for Rey’s assumed battle to happen.

Kylo and Rey, in a fit of determination, set their power and every drop of energy on pulling the carrier to the ground. You stand by, the force’s weight on you to join pulsing but you keep your hands by your thighs and keep from engaging.

It spooks Rey able to hear you so perfectly through her heartbeat, her grunts, her devastated breathing.

“Stop, Rey,” so monotone and stoic. When twisted it sounds like sarcastic encouragement.

Finn yells “REY,” and you back him up –

“Rey.” Why does she care about your disappointment? Why do her eyes suddenly leak from pressure? Why should she care? “Rey, you know what he’s doing — Rey.” 

Your calm is what kept Finn’s. But your voice trembles with one last – “Rey!” that both booms across the desert and echoes like a fluttery, distant cry. 

You bear into the back of her skull until your body stings with unease and you give Kylo a gentle tsk. 

He hears it.

It echoes.

And with a blast of force lightning, Rey decimates the carrier ship.

Your mask is a tomb cozy and suffocating with its tightness. The air-locked seal circulates your breath so particularly that you fight the oxygen that’s forcing its way into your lungs. Your heartbeat, for this reason, is systematically calm. On days when your morality is highest you fear a switch will go off and keep you stuck to combat your long to rebel. If anything, today would be that day. And the boom is muted, swampy with hints of Finn’s screaming and Rey’s sobbing making quick appearances at the surface of everything before your blanked thoughts drown them out.

You don’t blink. You slowly look from Rey to Kylo.

You could scream him out right now. You want to, want to scream and push him back with the force, curl your hands around his throat from this distance because fire and smoke reigns down and when she feels, you feel. Tears well up and stick to your cheeks, hardly squeezing past the crevice between your mask and your skin.

He proved it.

Finn rushes past you, slipping in the sand. Rey’s frozen and her chest convulses with hesitant sobs.

Your tense shoulders, stuck in surprise, slowly readjust back to proper poise. And after watching Kylo stand inconsequential like nothing happened, nothing at all, you whisk yourself around and up the path to the rebel ship. 

The fire roars as it comes down.

You focus on your boots shuffling through the coarse sand, and the pang of your chromium soles on the ship’s lowered ramp.

Poe Dameron’s startled out of watching through the windshield (leaned over to crane his neck and look in horror at the sky) by a glimmer in the corner of his eye. First thing’s first — you aim your blaster at his head.

“Sit down, I’m here to help.”

He lowers, your blaster leveled accordingly to guide him. You slip your blaster into its holder, and Poe’s hands are still clammy and in the air. He’s chilled by your mask, confusingly plain on holograms he’s seen but there’s that distinct darkness he couldn’t imagine without seeing. Seeing is believing.

Rey and Finn jog onto the ship, teary-eyes blinding them deep enough into the cockpit.

Poe’s nerves tingle sharper, hotter. He bulges his eyes to the corner and —

Your saber buzzes and a tint of green light fills the ship where the desert’s musty rays don’t hit.

Rey throws her arm over Finn, holds him back and loosens her grip as soon as the color catches her attention.

She gasps. Green, comforting, welcoming like Ajan Kloss where she’s been reading Luke’s notes on Kyber crystals lately — where rebels camp away from you and your beliefs.

Your head tilts, and dismissing what she has in mind you say “Don’t underestimate me. It’s a hand-me-down.”

She steps forward and draws her own. The light together makes a minty cyan.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice quakes with anger.

To Poe — “If you want to get out of here you better start flying now.”

And to Rey — “I’m helping you. Don’t waste your energy.”

“Who are – ?” She cuts herself before she can fully exhale her last word. Her voice is laced with tears that she gulps back and she clenches her jaw and flares her nostrils to try and gain some courage back. “I said - who are you? What are you doing on our ship?” Strong, pain stored away. 

“I don’t have a name!” You snap, grip tightening.

Rey’s face scrunches up, lips parted and letting free gentle breaths. “Of course you do. Everybody has a name.”

You bite – “Like you’d know.” 

Finn and Poe feel the sting. Poe curls up in his seat, Finn’s feet press tighter against the floor. Guilt flashes across your features and Rey’s brows twinge though they only see a cold, unmoving being.

She gulps. Each finger readjusts its grip around her handle, saber raised in the air and slightly behind her. She takes a step back. 

Again “I don’t have one…" and softer. Rey eases. “But I’m here to help.” You eye Poe, Finn, the droids.

"With what?” She challenges. Her tongue almost gets caught, and her heart kicks at the close call.

“The Wayfinder.” Poe holds his breath. Finn stares at you unapologetically. “Exegol.”

Poe speaks up. “Can you show us where it is?”

You shake your head once. “It’s not an easy route to remember.”

The red-lit woods. The white fog. The death, the shooting, the screaming; you twitch, the knot in your skull forming and you tremor, not so subtle. Rey squints but groans and reaches for her own temple, hearing pain, feeling pain. It was a malfunction (Poe and Finn gather, Poe holding the back of his head and sitting straighter, Finn pulling out his blaster slow as he can manage). You sweep forward and Rey stumbles back.

Finn sees your gloved hand adjust around your saber’s hilt, and with a pissed grunt, he shoots. 

Poe and Rey flinch as you snap your saber up to block the beam and throw your hand out to glue Finn down. She screams for you to “Stop!” but Finn’s only stuck, not thrown or beaten to the ground. 

The plasma bounces into a pile of discarded tubes and wires that slither with the impact.

“Let him go!” She warns, fight-ready.

You snap your head and look into her eyes. She doesn’t show herself shudder. You let go, and Finn chokes out a fresh breath.

“Don’t hurt my friends,” she growls.

“Wasn’t planning on it." 

"Are you taking us to Exegol?

"If one of you doesn’t try to shoot me again.”

“Deal.” She looks you up and down. “Can you read sith?” And nods back to the golden droid, up-right and humanoid. C-3PO jitters at being acknowledged. 

You wince, offended. “What makes you think that I can?”

Finn blinks hard.

Poe throws his hand down. “Doesn’t matter! Chewie had the dagger and—!” Poe sighs, dropping his palms in his lap. He doesn’t need to say it. Eyeing the sky, you find the memory of the ship is strong and vibrant.

“There were two carrier ships.“ Everyone perks with hope. "Your friend — do you feel their life-force?” 

Rey stutters caught on her tongue. She shakes her head. Her arms are getting tired holding her saber for what she knows is no purpose now. 

The air is split overhead, ships circling. You grunt and your plasma blade retreats into itself. “I told you to start flying!” You snap at Poe. 

Rey looks at him then gasps, unwillingly lowered into the chair behind her. She blinks, shocked, and tightens and loosens her hands around the arm-rest in a submissive response. 

“I-I don’t-I don’t know if I-” 

You drop to your knees and hold her shoulder. Your features don’t hold so much intimidation when you’re the one looking up. Your grip is tight and she jerks her shoulder but you don’t budge. Yet she relaxes with a breath. It’s not her position that makes her feel more, but you willingly making yourself feel less. She sniffles and blinks her tears away, trying to steady herself.

“Focus on it,” you tell her. She nods, sniffling rapidly.  

She tries to think that you actually care  instead of stressing the likelihood that you care more about her betterment as an asset or specimen.  

Their droid C-3PO jeers for a moment, emotions forgotten and a realization made. What was read is still in his memory, although encrypted. You completely draw a blank, not privy to droid mechanics or ethics and the solution of overriding his protocol (so simple) makes your ego drop.

Poe grumbles about Kijimi and your head tics to the side in frustration. You tower over Rey before stomping past the litter of thick wires strewn across the floor and down a hallway. Uneased by your leave but their time to think on this ticking, Finn gulps down his worries. 

Rey watches then tracks you to your hiding spot while they start the ship up.

With a click and hiss, your mask comes undone. You sigh and take it off, hold it by its cheeks and gaze into its eyes with the dreary realization that you have left. Not the cockpit, but Ren. That Rey is perhaps as special as you’ve been told but with the potential for something sinister too. Your thumbs press into the eyes of your mask, anger bubbling knowing it’s her powers he wanted to get hold of and the sureness that they would be unstoppable with or without you.

The air is warm and musty, dust circling through it but it’s still so much more freeing. You need that right now.

You sniffle and shake your head out by knocking your palm to your temple with curses. You sew your eyes shut to get a feel for something solitary when Rey comes in. 

The light isn’t bright enough to cast her shadow on the wall, but you know when she’s entered. 

Somehow she’s brought peace with her. 

She holds onto the frame of the broken sliding door.

“I’m-I’m sorry just…” Her voice is giddy, previous attitude forgotten. You scrunch your nose up and she says “You’re a Jedi!” excited but with waning certainty. She knows it a fact but there’s a hint of a question, all the other things she wants to ask right on the tip of her tongue, and she bites it. 

You suck in a breath and raise your head.

The light doesn’t do well for giving away the shade of your hair or your complexion but a morsel of discovery as the light catches bits of your face (your eyes better than everything else, your mask may eat the darkness but your eyes steal the light and her jaw drops in how welcomingly they shine) is enough of a feat. 

“Yeah,” you say, looking into your mask.

Rey inches forward. She gives you her hand not wanting to scare you away. You fumble with your mask to get it back on and she pulls her arms back to herself but sees you stall when she’s done it. “Who trained you…?” She asks. 

She’s too eager to wait for an answer. “Where did you get your lightsaber from?” 

You bite “No one.’

“But you said you inherited it.” 

“I did but–” you cut yourself off. Your chuckle, so lowly and frustrated, almost frightens her. Almost. Anger, sadness, relief; it flows through you mutually. It doesn’t come in flashes. She has time to process it and wonders about it. But your composure despite it is what captivates her. 

You face Rey head-on with no further hesitation. She closes her slack jaw and gulps down all the questions she wants to ask.

“I don’t know who trained me — I had no master. And I don’t know who my lightsaber belonged to but I was told it was meant for me and whether or not I believe that, it’s mine now.” You finish in a hurried breath. Don’t think she doesn’t notice how it sounds like you’re convincing yourself. You look her up and down, and Rey stands taller to make her respect clear although you couldn’t care less about formalities. “Are you studying?”

After a moment she chokes out “Yeah! Yes.”

She’s a bashful girl, still wondering if you expect her to trust you or fear you. You expect nothing. But she’s according and right in between daring to look you in the eyes and looking just slightly off from them.

“What you did out there —“ Rey’s mouth quickly shuts “—have you ever done that?”

She looks between your eyes. Choked up, she shakes her head.’ 

You bow your head, understanding her inability to fully acknowledge it quite yet. 

The ship, taken off for Kijimi, cycles through new sources of light. She sees your features inch by inch, but never the full picture. You aren’t vile like visions she’s been having or the grotesque caricatures of the Order. You’re dim, is all. She knows there’s light in you — she could tell without the help of the force if this instance is all she had to go by — but like Kylo who she’s seen closer than this, it must be a curse for most things to appear so monotone about you.  

Her voice is barely a murmur “Do you know your parents?”

But the question grabs and stops your heart regardless. She’s innocent in asking though surprised at her own forwardness. You hide your frown by slipping your mask and Rey tilts her head to get her last look at you.

“No,” you muse when you come back up. That’s probably the last time she’ll hear your voice not mutilated by the changer. “I don’t remember them. I don’t remember anything from before the Order.”

She twists her neck to look back and hide from you, not sure how to respond to that.

You give a single nod and walk around her, careful to not let your cloak even nip at her heels. You stop at the hallway. “My knowledge extends to that. Apologies if I don’t have the answers to everything you’re looking for.”

“I…” her throat clicks with caught breaths. “I understand,” she insists. 

Her smile is sweet. You believe that she does, and keep it in mind.

Finn and Poe tense like your workers. Every sound you make warns of your arrival: your boots, your processed breathing, your dragging cloak. They’re careful with every minuscule movement, taking time to make sure it’s entirely purposeful. 

You lower into an available chair and pretend not to see them mouthing gibberish.

You’re harmlessly picking at the armrests.

Rey comes in and scurries across your path, at first hesitant but managing. She twists into her seat by Poe and she speaks on your behalf. Closing your eyes, you try to ignore their conversation. Then Poe stretches his neck to face you but takes a second for calculation. 

“Hey, why should we trust you?” He leans to Finn and Rey, faces close. “Why should we trust her?” You like how he tries for a whisper, but it isn’t quite.

Dropping your head in your hands, you chuckle. “I never said you had to,” voice raspy and tired.

Maybe it’ll make this easier. 

Chapter Text

Kijimi crawls with Imperial troopers. 

You ask “Are we here?” eagerly at the door seconds after you land. You push your cloak back to sit straight and not so obnoxious, hand on your lightsaber. You look down at them, waiting for courage. They’re silent, gulping down their nerves. 

Rey’s first, her staff in hand.

Finn and Poe follow, lost taking the last peek at your mask before it almost completely blends with the darkness your hood offers. Rey isn’t visibly keeping her guard, but Finn and Poe approach like you’re a carnivorous creature ready to pounce. 

Commotion sparks outside. 

Poe has your sights next, and he grunts “Yeah,” under his breath before getting the ramp down. He moves slower more careful under your gaze. 

He gathers cloaks made of canvas cloth for the rest of them. Wearing it makes him feel closer to your level, but he still attempts to stay behind you. You tempt him outside first with a single gesture. 

Expecting for there to be a blaster to his back the second he steps out, he hikes his shoulders up and hides his head near his chest in anticipation.

That’s when the original assumption comes to light — Kijimi is crawling with imperial troopers, and Poe has more than you to worry his ass about.

You fall back behind Poe, Finn, and the droids, instead, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Rey. 

Poe wonders why you don’t have your saber out, your blaster, a staff, even — anything for defense.

He also wonders why when Zorri and her crew bombard you, you nudge your cloak back to grip your saber but ultimately don’t pull it out. Rey does the work and handles herself perfectly. You seem to watch dully (but crack a smile under your mask). 

Zorri’s taking you to Babu Frik with little further negotiation. 

It’s dingy inside, littered with tools and knick-knacks from across the galaxy. You wonder how Babu got a hold of everything for such a little guy. Curious, you poke at a set of metal loops that look hastily glued together, and locate a welding set nearby. 

Watching that childish curiosity take hold as you mess with the tool, none of them decide to bother you with a summary of what Babu Frik says, so you don’t catch the point about their droid’s memory being erased.

Still you hear C-3PO go on about his friends, how they’re his friends, how he’s glad to have one last look at them. Arms crossed behind your back, you bow your head in a silent salute to him, considering his words a simple, traditional sentiment before he goes under.

Babu Frik gets to work, then you scatter.

Rey and Finn fiddle with the knick-knacks. Taking Zorri’s ambush into consideration, Rey has her hand on her staff at all times. 

You sit in an old chair and bounce your foot. You curl forward with your elbows to your knees and hands in your lap. 

Other than your heel’s tap tap tap, it’s quiet, even with the search outside.

Poe greets you with an exhale, lips pursed and cheeks puffed as he plops into the squeaky stool near you. He twists to better face you and his knee brushes your thigh but you keep your head down and don’t seem to mind.

He shuffles through his pockets with an assortment of noises, nudging his shawl out of the way with his elbow before settling and watching your side.

His jaw’s slack and his eyes scan your face before he mutters “D’you wanna go ahead and…?” he circles his finger around his head. You give a fluttering breath from your mask on cue. “Take that off?” 

He notices you stop shivering to gently shift and sit on your side farthest from him. 

Suddenly he feels bad and clears his throat to excuse himself in apology. 

You shake your head and say “No,” cradling your knees. “I don’t want to,” in case he didn’t get it.

“Got it…” he clicks his tongue and purses his lips to whistle while looking around the workshop.

Poe, at a point in his life, read up on notes regarding the structure and function of stormtrooper battle armor. To a degree, he respects it. As he’s read, the four layers of plastic composite armor, the anti-blaster mesh, the magnetic shielding, and interior insulator with additional cellular padding, are perfect and particular in every manner down to every ridge and detail yet he’s never been so personally discombobulated by the psychological warfare of his enemies being a thousand doppelgängers as he is by you being here right now. 

Your armor doesn’t have the fancy garnish of Vader’s or Ren’s. 

It’s plane on the face, simple and slick — there are no ridges, no cracks, no additional details. There’s no curve for the shape of your chin or the bridge of your nose; it’s all hidden. It looks like it should be identical to something else. Like you’re a packaged pair missing the other half of your duo. Like you should be a doppelgänger because the design is so constricting and simple it just doesn’t fit the lavishness of the Supreme Leader’s second-hand.    

But you fiddle with your fingers, you fiddle with the fabric — you have quirks and you flinch near him. 

You aren’t following any ‘approved’ manner of moving. You seem lost without it, really.

For that alone he knows you have a purpose outside of your organization. 

But he can’t figure out if the universe had a hand in it or if it was your call. 

“Why…? Why are you helping us?” He asks. 

Nothing about Poe Dameron is malevolent. His tone? Curious? It isn’t condescending. You don’t feel your skull tearing in two trying to fight yourself from revealing information like how Phasma and Snoke would pry it from you. You eye his hands — limp in his lap, completely relaxed. 

But Zorri appears down the steps. 

You give a discreet look. “I think you have some catching up to do.” 

The silence stretches with Poe staring at you. He sucks in his lips, pushes on his knees, and stands with a sigh, noting how he’ll get going with Zorri to keep a look-out for the guards creeping around the city.

It might be a good idea to go with them, but he doesn’t want to bother you with that. And what’s the harm in catching up?

Your eyes track their ascent up the stairs, and stay on the door until it closes with a dull thud.

Rey swoops in and settles in front of you. Her shadow eats the glimpse of moonlight on the floor that creeps through the sliver of a window above you. Kinda bums you. 

“Why are you helping us?” She holds her staff not in preparation to harm you. It’s stamped into the ground, and when she readjusts it with a thump it demands your attention. She’s making up for how frazzled she acted earlier. You think that was justified.

She was shocked, confused, surprised, out of her element and all that. 

You look up. “Why shouldn’t I?” you muse, voice dull. 

“All this time…” she starts, “and only now you help us.” 

Finn nods behind Rey, though he can’t quite say he doesn’t know you. He didn’t know a lot of the First Order, yet familiarity flavors your aura. Or maybe that’s Rey’s instincts he’s picking up.

Harsher, desperate for an answer, she demands “Why? Ren, he knows you. And you were there. All those times when-when we-” you sigh and it comes out grumbled through your translator. She gulps and grits her teeth. “You were there when the force brought us together, but you never joined. Why didn’t you join us?”

“Not my place.”

“Wait-” Finn leans in, “joined what?”

He shuffles back under your and Rey’s mutual gaze. 

You look at Rey. “I didn’t want to pick a side.” 

“But you picked ours,” Finn quips. He looks to Rey for backup. Jaw slack, she hopes you’ll tell him why without further questioning. Because she knows as well as you that —

“Something else is amiss about all of this.” Yet she wasn’t prepared and certainly didn’t want you to confirm the suspicions that make her stomach feel like a hollow pit. “I’m not picking sides I’m-I’m just trying to figure it out with someone.”

Rey gulps. She kneels before you, staff on the ground. You jump looking into her eyes — so pure and lively. And her hand reaches for your own hung off your knee. She puts hers over it. You hold your breath.

“So you chose to figure it out with me, then. With us. Why?”

Silence stretches, but isn’t sliced by you, rather by —

Poe hurries down the steps with Zorri right behind him. He takes a leap off the second-to-last, rolling his arm for you three to come over. “We gotta get going. Now.” He points to C-3PO. “He done? Is he done?” Babu Frik raises his arms and gives a little mewl of triumph as C-3PO sits up. His eyes glow red, tweak under the shutters before he speaks of the Wayfinder’s location. 

You sigh “Of course,” under the rustle of soldiers outside.

It couldn’t fit in any better place. 

You get up and your seat scrapes the ground. They’re distracted with you skipping up the steps and creaking the door open to peak at the troopers marching by. 

C-3PO’s mechanisms whir and he introduces himself good as new overtop the company’s held breaths. Good as new…Your brows furrow. But, as much as you love reunions and theatrics and all things sappy —

You nod from them to the door. “Come on.”

Poe cracks a smile seeing you jittery on your feet so eager to speed out of here.

“Stick behind me and I can get you back without question.” 

Finn steps forward. “Are you sure they’ll listen to you?”

“I’m the Supreme Leader’s right hand. It’s treasonous if they don’t.” 

Poe snides how “You left the Supreme Leader. You’re rebelling by helping us right now.”

You tilt your head and hiss “Well, they don’t know who the real traitor is yet.”

Rey and Finn, close behind, have their breaths on your neck. Rey has to stop herself from curling her fingers over your shoulder to keep close. You look through the alleys and to where the sky is crisp and not swarmed in torch-smoke. Around the corner is an imperial ship.

Rey can’t help herself. Your shoulder squeezes and you wince, look back and see her peering past you with her hand there.

Her eyes are wide and teary “Chewie…” she cries in quiet relief.

“Are you sure?” You ask.

She barely gets out “Yes,” and passes you. Finn follows, giving your shoulder two rough pats (he quickly wonders 'what did I just do’). You jolt with each one but stay where you are because Poe’s behind with his arm in Zorri’s grip. They exchange a secret hushed and in the shadows. Something glints in the alley torches and moonlight. She wishes him luck, and Poe jogs to you. He shows off a coin or chip between his fingers — whatever you want to call it, it’s easy access onto a First Order ship. 

He chuckles mischievously and you nod.

He skips backward and past you, shouting Zorri a final farewell before you reclaim your role at the front of the group and lead them through Kijimi. Poe still navigates through alleyways for convenience.

Your walk is different, each stomp one with the potential to rumble its surroundings. Each leg raises to a specific angle, your arms sway at your sides with the right amount of resistance — no one would take you as a traitor with a look like this. You’re like a fully functional, newly packaged First Order soldier. With an empty ship and mandated workers scoping the place in other ways, Poe slips into the pilot’s seat with ease. 

“Get us to the hangar. I can show you where Chewie would be.” 

The hiss of the rising ramp drowns you out. Did he hear you right? About Chewie?

Nevermind — “Aye aye Captain.” 

You smirk. “It’s Lieutenant.“ 

Chapter Text

It’s not too tricky navigating an Imperial ship. 

Act like you belong, don’t run or appear in a hurry, keep your head level, and use basic sense in avoiding scenes. Humorously, you’ve cursed rebels and wondered why they don’t get that.

Poe pulls into the hangar and the droids see you off, waving meekly and giving high chirps as you speed to and through the narrowest of halls right through the door atop the mezzanine. Your cape isn’t so narrow now and stretches the length of the hall in a familiar way. It doesn’t stretch back very far but they walk behind you orderly and afraid to touch it. 

Every step of yours that echoes sends their rhythm off. It’s an uneasy feeling, like they’re being escorted. 

In the core of the first hallway, Rey slows to the middle of it. Poe’s in the middle of asking "Right or left?” You don’t give an answer, slowly looking back at Rey no longer apart of your entourage.

“I have to do something first,” she says with worry, clutching her bag. 

Of course she’s leaving again. They deflate and hold their tongues.

“Rey,” you grunt in annoyance and stand before her. Your cape twists around your ankles. Finn and Poe sneak by and look down a hall. “What are you doing?” You ask, head shaking. 

She breathes “The dagger,” and you glance down at her saber firm in hand. “I have to get it.”

“Fine,“ you say through grit teeth. "But you don’t know where it is.” 

"I’ll find it,” she insists. You glare, raising a brow. 

“Will you two be alright?” You ask. Poe holds his hip, blaster ready in its holster, and Finn waves his around with a tight smile. He salutes you with the barrel to his forehead, and you nod back.

You grab Rey’s shoulder and her adjacent arm and push her forward, keeping her close to you. She squirms at first but gets the gist and becomes submissive when you whisper “Don’t struggle.” 

You lead her through the halls with those same mechanical steps and she feels like a prisoner. She wonders how you turn it all on and off at once but nevermind the complexities of your training, nevermind wondering how you got to this point. She doesn’t like how this feels, and she doesn’t like to think about things like that. 

At once her image of you vanishes, and she has to start from the ground up trying to contemplate features that fit with a heart so warm and exterior so cold.

You stop suddenly and hold her shoulder to keep her from continuing.

She looks to the left, a near-hidden door. 

She can’t say she’s shocked to find Ren’s quarters so tidy and sterile, eerily so in how void it is — except for something black on a pedestal. She’s drawn to it but you yank her arm back and keep her behind you for no purpose other than to see it for yourself first, and in the meanwhile she spots the room for the dagger with as limited space to move as you’re giving her.

You let go and are immediate to gaze into the crushed, squinted eye-sockets of Vader’s mask.

Part of you wants to snatch it and bury it in her bag, but your heart palpitates just looking. No way you could touch it.

She chirps “Found it!” And holds it delicately across both hands. 

Then she grunts, and you wince with a twist of your neck before hearing from a distance like an echo slithering through a cave — Kylo’s voice. 

Rey hides the dagger behind her back and you freeze.

You’re ready to pounce to her or out of this room — whichever she needs from you. She gently shakes the dagger, end pointed at you and a little bit past. She’s guiding you to the door, saying to 'get out.' 

That same discomfort of listening in as a third person is here too. Even when you’re with her and not him. 

Kylo hums, amused, only stopped from fretting over your obvious, tactile presence when Rey’s overt glance to the door makes him second guess where you are. 

You back up to it, and nod. 

You’re out of there before you hear Kylo ask “Lieutenant Cordis. Is she with you?” And before Rey can be distracted by her curious hum of “Who?” 

You give faint nods to stormtroopers making their rounds as you stomp through the halls — they call back your names, never sure which one turned out to be right. You barely give each one a nod. Some shuffle out of your way and descend deeper back the way they initially came. 

Good, is all you have to say. 

The containment chambers are empty, so you backtrack and listen close for commotion. That gets you in the right direction but the commotion dies and the sizzling of firing plasma rings down the hall from a past memory not a current thing. It’s not a fire-fight, because it stops faster than it started.

Footsteps with hard-soles come from behind you. You wait, stood still  in the center of the corridor and eyes down.

Then a nasally voice pierces your eardrum in its suddenness. 

“General Pryde.” You turn, attentive, hand to your forehead in salute then slick back down to your thigh. His lips twitch but his coy grin remains stable enough to greet you back. 

“Your absence has been noted, Lieutenant.” 

“I have been on missions with the Supreme Leader and the Knights of Ren.” 

“I know,” he replies, tone weary. “So why aren’t you on Kijimi right now?”

You tense. 

Enric Pryde isn’t a man you get along with. He was snippy with Phasma, is still snippy with Hux, and maintains enough respect for Kylo to not get his head sliced off. Everything he speaks off, he does so bitterly. He’s bitter about you even; he knows you’ve noticed. You met in passing when you were mere leverage for the Order (he teased how you weren’t supposed to be here, and his suggestion that you ever wanted to belong angered you more than the fact that you were stuck) and an extra mouth to feed — twice as much, even, fueled to keep up your duels with Ren. 

You tilt your head. “General… I am the Supreme Leader’s right hand regardless and have from this point on been sworn to secrecy out of sake for the spy. I suggest you do your work in finding them instead of questioning me.”

You cringe. Did your voice stall too much or was it too fast? Does he know how right now he’s making you seethe? Does he know your guilt somehow? 

He huffs. Your silence is interrupted by troopers’ marching.

“Rebels have been found in the perimeters and here you are.”

You raise your chin. “How convenient. Which direction? I’ll handle them.” 

“I believe they’re being taken that way, Lieutenant.” 

You spit “Thank you, Enric,” with a mocking nasal-tone; sounds like hacking a gob of spit you wish to throw down on his shoes. He grimaces watching you escape him.

Three high-pitched rings bounce down the hall, and you speed up. You look over your shoulder and Pryde is still watching. Faster, you round a corner and come to an immediate stop in the open doorway of—“I’m the spy!” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,“ you don’t try to whisper but their adrenaline drowns you out. Three stormtroopers are dead at Armitage Hux’s feet and Poe, Finn, and a wookie are lined up with their backs to you. 

Approaching Hux you  grab his shoulder, press your blaster to the side of his neck and shoot. Past him, is all.

Hux crumbles to his knees with a frightened call and crawls. You move to him, raising a brow and watching amused as he feels with a hiss at the slight imprint the cold barrel left. He pulls his feet closer to his body when yours get too close to them.

Poe, Finn (you take a moment to forget about your built-up frustration with Hux and silently congratulate them for finding their friend) hands still bound and focus forward, share a scream of “WHAT?” interrupted with even more relief seeing you stood over Hux.

“Ehm,” Hux clears his throat. “Piravit,” he sneers, swiping at his spittle-dripping lips. “Nice to see you again.”

Poe, dazed, mouths the name.

"Piravit,” Finn breathes in whimpering disbelief. “Piravit-” 

You kick in the back of Hux’s knee to get a wail out of him before you hook your arm with his and force him to his feet. “Don’t call me that,” you grunt as you adjust to his weight against you. 

The whole interaction is horribly off, you supporting him and him stuck to your whims. Hux gives a content sigh that he gulps down in fear when something familiar comes along — you holding a blaster to his head. 

“Take us to their ship,” you hiss.

“I was going to help regardless.” 

“I know. I’m just doing this for fun.” Hux twists in your hold, wincing as you press the blaster deeper. “And I think you deserve it.” You bump the back of his knee to get him going, and with your arm still wrapped around his back you crane your wrist to hold the nape of his neck.

"Oh, uhm…” Poe gives a little wave and nudges the wookie. “This is Chewbaca. Chewie.”

You tilt your head. “Nice to meet you." 

The droids have manage to catch up as Hux leads you to their Millennium Falcon confiscated by the Order. 

Before he opens the door he says a quick “Wait! Wait wait wait -” and though you know he has no idea about General Pryde marching toward you with a jaw so tight you can hear his teeth scraping, you snake your arm away from Hux, grab his shirt, whisper “I gotcha,” with a hidden smirk before push him on the ground with your might. Hux falls and slides back, all the more grouchy and scrambling to his palms about to spit about your incompetence because he certainly didn’t expect such violent genuine handling, but you just smile at his ratty little face and let him drone, ignorant to Poe whipping out his blaster and even more ignorant to Pryde.

Now, the plasma Poe shoots through his leg gets his attention, and he’s screaming in his cheeks clutching the wound. The screaming is louder in his mouth when he notices the man who hates his guts approaching. And a little louder realizing he was ready to start up a monologue about his role as the spy in front of Pryde.

Finn, adrenaline rushing, bounces on his feet and forces the door open. You hold onto the frame and salute Pryde.

“Guess you were questioning the right person all along!” You lie.

Hux whimpers, confused, and you nod curtly before slipping out.

You run to the ship and Finn turns to jog backward. He paws at your arm, and in a single breath exclaims “You’re Piravit! Or-or you were Piravit! You were Phasma’s protege and you-you helped train me I was-”

You nod, your jog slowing as you reach the ramp and Poe hurries inside, droids following. “FN-2187.” 

Finn smirks, jerking his head to the side to get a good look at you. 

He can vaguely remember what you looked like back then before they put all this on you. At best your past still translates to your posture. 

“‘Course I remember you. Now get on.” 

“What about Rey?!” Finn asks. Chewie takes back his spot in the co-pilot’s seat. You hold the back of Poe’s seat and stare into the stars through the windshield.

“Rey’s coming. We just have to wait. You,” Poe realizes he hasn’t introduced himself, “can you make it so we can circle back?”

“Got it!” The ship jolts and you hold on.

Poe’s quick but Rey is too. She’s already in the hangar by the ship comes around. You stomp down the hanging ramp and resist gravity’s pull. 

Her back is to you and the vast space.

Her blade angles down.

Kylo mimics — Kylo, how did he get here so fast? And hell, the image of him alone is distracting.

You can’t hear them. The ship’s engines are too loud.

Maybe she’ll ignore what you assume are his taunts. Maybe she’ll go for pacifism, forget him and come to you. 

You admit to envy when Kylo extends his hand to Rey. You can pinpoint that strange feeling you get when they force-bond. It’s in your gut — a jealousy you conclude that you aren’t so necessary in this grand scheme to be forced together like they are. “REY!” You shout before the possibility of what you three could accomplish together even dares to flesh out in your mind. Rey looks, still in fighter position. She unravels and stands tall, the ship approaching closer and her fingers curl into a tight fist that threatens to bruise her palms as she keeps her ground. Kylo does as well, almost knelt but resisting the push of the ship while the rest of his men are pushed back and slid across the ground. “C’MON!” 

 There’s a tinge of worry that she won’t make it. Just a little bit. 

With a start-up run, Rey leaps off the edge of the hangar and to the ramp. You catch her hand and pull, grasping the cloth over her chest and guiding her behind you and into the ship, completely out of Kylo’s sight.

You give a glare, just for him, before the ramp lifts and Rey’s running down the halls with you barely speed-walking behind her. 

She pulls the dagger from her bag to give it a show, and Poe kicks the ship into flight.

To Kef Bir — that is to say, the moon. 

Chapter Text

If the dead speak, they’re speaking here.

It hurts being here. Regardless of cause, the casualties are clear. You shiver and curl your fingers into a loose fist. The air is stale for you, even with the violent waves spritzing moisture into it.

The fact can have remained unspoken but you feel the need to say it.

“The Death Star…” your voice crackles, punch muted by the waves.

It’s half-submerged in the Earth, but its size is just as frightening, the farther half-concealed in fog. 

Poe holds his breath, his cheeks containing all the questions he wants to ask and comfort he wants to give. Are you considering this sight a tragedy or a win? Or are you ambiguous, caught between the message and the men?

Jannah, leader you suppose of the Equus-riders you find upon landing, says they can bring you over there around morning when the waves calm down. This is after they shy from the fight they threaten to pick with you and only you, startled by your suit and talked down by Finn.

Rey tugs at a piece of the dagger. It slides to reveal a compass that, when aligned with the wreckage, points directly to the Wayfinder. She says no, you must do it today. 

Jannah’s polite, says there’s no chance you’re all getting across those waves today.

For a moment, Rey contemplates.

But back on the ship and patching things up twenty minutes later, you snap your head up and look to nowhere right by Poe Dameron’s head. Finn can feel it too and knows the defiance in Rey’s veins has persuaded her again and she’s departed across the fighting sea.

“We have to go after her!” Finn says having rushed  you and Poe back to the cliff. 

“We can’t!” Poe tries. 

The name Leia Organa strikes as heartfelt. You don’t know her personally, but for Kylo you take offense hearing how they use it.

“What do you want?! I’m not Leia!”

“Damn right you aren’t!” Finn bites and you stand idle on the hill between him at the top and Poe slapping a greased rag to his thigh while stumbling down the steep decline.

“Finn,” you say, “Rey’s got this.”

“You don’t even know her!” He screams. You bow your head, shoulders lowered but scowl unseen. You can’t say he’s wrong. You could say you share a connection with her but it’s one you’ve denied and hid away. You can’t flaunt it now, it wouldn’t be right.

You can’t help but follow Poe, not sparing Finn even the smallest glance after that.

He watches you lug after Poe, held back only by an internal battle he couldn’t see even if head-on, and scoffs with his tongue to cheek as Poe finally hears the brush of your uniform. It’s not a horrid sound, just a soft one that’s considered loud in this quiet place. You don’t have to deal with the stiffer joints when you move so purposely and mechanically while under the Order.

Poe shakes his head in disbelief. “Why are you following me?”

You stop, and he turns. “Should I not be?”

“No just…sorry…” He nods and you continue after him through the brittle dying grass and back to the ship. 

When inside he asks “You know how to work a wrench?” with a forced chuckle.

“No,” you admit and he catches the shame. 

“You d-…you don’t know how to work a wrench?” Sure, he’s confused but at least he’s not rude about it, and his tiny scoff is curious, not condescending. You’re an anomaly so far, fascinating. The Supreme Leader’s right-hand doesn’t know how to work a wrench. Would it be tasteless to ask if you know how to spot a screw?

You whisper “I haven’t had much opportunity…” and look up.

“Well alright…listen we uh…I’ll find something for you to do. Just hang on.”

Poe jumps down a level where the floor’s been torn up and you watch over his shoulder.

“Why do you fight in this war?” He’s heard that a lot. Hell, heard it from Zorri just back on Kijimi, but he always takes it, runs with it, and gives a clear answer under circumstances that don’t involve the question coming from the tongue of a person on the other side of it. 

So “Why do you?” he responds instead.

You look around “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yeah well,” he clicks his tongue, “I didn’t either. Can’t ignore the call to fight for something good and keep your conscious clear at the same time.” His bite doesn’t poison but it certainly stings. “But that’s just me. So what do youuu,” he stretches, focused on his handiwork “fight for?”

You shudder. “I don’t fight for anything. I’ve only ever fought with something.”

Poe takes a breath and swipes at his lips. He looks down and past his side. Chuckling, almost manic he says “That’s still a side…” because he doesn’t know if you get it. Or maybe it’s him that’s not understanding. ‘With something’ makes him wonder if he’d abandon the light if it meant he could follow Finn and Rey into the darkness. He wants to think not…but never mind.

He slaps his tool to his palm, thinking of Finn. “Then, how did you get there?”

“Well…” you lower to the ground, fingers splayed where you choose to sit before you drop down and hang your legs into the bowels of the ship where he’s working. He squints back and noticing it’s darker for him with you sat there, you discreetly shift to the side and let the overhead light back in. 

You go to tuck your hair behind your ear but you still have your mask on.

“I was taken and put to train as a Sith.”

Poe sighs and looks up, elbow on his knee. 

Seconds pass in silence.

“I guess.” You shrug. 

Humming with tongue to cheek, he flips his tool around in his hand. “Thought you said you weren’t a Sith.”

You bite your tongue.

He’s trying to find what reaction would be appropriate. Would it be insulting then to respond with pity? Condescending to pour his heart out with a spiel praising you for your bravery, or downright insensitive to shrug it off as another misfortune of the galaxy?

He whispers “I’m sorry.”

And tired, you sigh “It’s fine. Don’t remember much of anything before that anyways.”

The ship roars and whimpers like it’s alive. It’s the steam shooting in pipes and the electricity crackling throughout it. With that and Poe’s gentle grunts as he gets his fingers slick and dirtied up, you’re content just sitting here. It’s not as marvelous of a view as the cliff overlooking the crash, but it’s warm and comforting.

“Can you—?” He throws his hand back and curls his fingers, “Hand me that? The one that looks like—” and he twists his fingers into its shape.

You hand it over, hesitant and holding it loose and at the tip as far from you as you can manage, but he snatches it without complaint and mutters “Thank you,” with his tongue bitten.

“So, what d’you do?” He asks. You hum, confused. “For the Order? In your free time?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?” He laughs. “Nothing at all?” 

Poe stands up and even then his chest just reaches the height of the floor-panel you sit on. He crosses his arms and leans against it, looking up at you. You shy away, chin pressed to your chest as he waits and is eager but you almost wish you had a better answer so he would be satisfied with it.

His lips are puckered and pouting but creep into a smile.

“Did you order around fleets? Have your own battalion?” 

You nod and look at your lap. “I helped Captain Phasma train the FN Corps when I got older.”

“Oh?” He muses and looks at his feet covered in the darkness of the ship’s underground. “You trained Finn…? 2187?” 

“Mmm…” 

With a grunt, Poe pulls himself up. He sits by you with his leg pulled to his chest and the other dangling into the depths. “Piravit?” He teases.

Your head bobbles. He imagines you’re smiling all shy and flushed under your mask.

“Lieutenant Piravit…” he tries. He nods, lips pressed tight. “I like it.” 

“They don’t call me that now.” 

Picking yourself up, you’re drawn to the rest of the ship. It has…personality. Imperial ships are stainless and seamless too. They run in long, ever-connected halls — the maze, the puzzle is psychological warfare on its own but this one has loose panels, dropped screws, wires poking out of the repetitive holes carved into each metal slab as part of the floor. Poe follows you, watching with no regard to his neck and how it aches to stretch so much but he’s waiting for you to elaborate.

You step past him, and he turns your direction with a quick, amused roll of his eyes to ask, “Then what do they call you now?”

You say “Cordis,” and walk, tracing your fingers the bumps and ridges on the wall.

Poe huffs. “Is that your real name?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

"Well…I’m Poe. Dameron. Poe Dameron." 

You hesitate, pressing a button that seems to do nothing. "Nice to meet you…”

His lips purse, but that’s enough questions regarding that for now.

Poe swipes his things out of the ship’s underground then tugs his bottoms to sit better on his hips before settling in an area closer to you. 

“Have you ever flown?”

You furrow your brows at him. “How else did we get here?”

He chuckles. “I mean, have you ever piloted?”.

You pop out a quick “No.”

Poe clicks his tongue and his voice dips, “Eh, maybe I’ll teach you some time…” 

And finding that his remark makes something flutter in your stomach, you get the courage to let out a gentle sigh and say “Maybe I’ll allow that.” 

Poe drags his eyes over your…'features,’ upset to recognize no tone. He likes to imagine you’re playful. Even if your humor is dry as a bone, that would be fine. But he can’t tell between genuine and tasteful stoicism. You feel him watching and carefully hold the sides of your mask. 

Though he’s tempted to encourage you, he brings his attention to the machinery that glints in his eye. 

“Is that ah…? A creed or something? Like you can’t take the helmet off, or what?”

“I can.”  

There’s no catch. No tiny tick at the end of your sentence to suggest something else in the mix. You don’t even find offense, or at least you don’t show it. With his nerves so jazzed after every question and cursing himself for potentially asking an offensive one, he appreciates how understanding you are of his curiosity. 

The least he can do is be just as understanding.

Your emotions? They’re volatile. 

So is this whole gig but you’re on the verge of maybe giggling at a petty joke he’s made. You give a breath that continues in short, sharp bursts and it’s a blurry sound but he thinks he’s managed to pull a laugh out of you and he’s content. Then your neck snaps to the door as you fly out over the wreckage, ship patched up. 

Nothing has suggested something’s wrong. Not to him at least.

But the time? Maybe you’ve just realized quite a bit of it has passed — another 30, 40 minutes since Finn and Jannah ran off. 

They’re the only ones that run on, too. 

And as you suspected, No Rey.

No Rey. 

“Where’s Rey?” You barely sit on the edge of your seat, and when Finn’s forehead creases in worry you’re immediate to storm past them. The ocean water falls down on you, and you find yourself knelt against the wreckage. You groan. Finn gulps hard — “Kylo,” and is careful coming down the ramp to help you up. 

When he grabs your hand, he feels you give a thankful shake.

“Hey!” Poe shouts, voice strained. “Where are you going?”

You ignore his call.

The ocean is a downpour on its own, throwing itself up then coming back in drops thick and heavy as hail. The spritz you felt getting off the ship was nothing but a drizzle. Force-jumping onto a split-off platform, you’re thrown back down with a gush of water. But you will yourself to your feet, clothes heavy. He’s here, legs stretch before him and water beats on his face and clings to the ends of his hair.  

You slip off your mask and whisper “Are you okay?” your strictness transitions into unsteady worry by the end and you set your mask beside him. 

Poe leans into the console, stretched to watch through the windshield. Finn squeezes against him, palm implanting itself in the foggy condensation, and Jannah watches over his shoulder. She hugs herself to forget about the waves that crash hardest this time of day.

You get on your knees and grunt when you jab into sharp debris. 

“Ben…” You say. 

You don’t know if he genuinely is, or not. You have a tendency to be softer when you need to be is all.

You reach for his face and he jumps, hand over his stomach. You peer down and see the hole in his clothing but are relieved to find his skin untainted by injury. 

“Ben…? Where’s Rey?”

He sputters, water dribbling.

He coughs it all out before he gulps and admits, “I don’t know,” wanting to get this over with. But there’s a plea in his words, a plea to believe that he really doesn’t. 

And you believe him.

As if you ever doubted.

Water drips from his hair, ticking on his lap like a metronome.

You look over your shoulder in a panic. Poe rests against Finn as they squint to make out your face. Jannah too squeezes in but makes out as little as they do before the waves fall down on you. You shiver and wait for the water to fall still, then turn to Ben. 

He watches you, eyes wide but expression stubbornly stoic. Though…stubborn isn’t the right word. It tweaks for a moment and think you spot an outline of sorrow, of devastation on his face when his lip quivers and his brows tightens confused. He looks for reassurance and begs for the answer to a question he can’t ask. 

You don’t understand, and you can’t help him.

Putting on your mask, you step back and ignore the slick surface that threatens your footing.

His eyes grow soft. And weakly, he scoffs knowing you have to go. 

You share that devastation with him. You bite your lip to keep it from quivering but your brows knit and your chest stills trying to hold in his effect. 

He doesn’t blame you. He doesn’t question you.

Poe slams a button and the ramp hisses shut. You stare into the floor where the carpet is ragged and visibly thin, scruffed and bristles worn from years of stomping. Poe pokes his head out of the cockpit and Finn squeezes ahead of him. You’re limp, shoulders dropped, head tilted, legs locked but a hand snakes under your cloak and you pull out your blaster.

Finn stutters, shouts prematurely with hands going to rise in defense.

You hold it loose and let it sit in your hand. What are you thinking? Poe puts his hands on his hips, irritated with each heavy crash of water against the roof and wanting to see where this is going.

They don’t see it when it starts to happen. Finn misses your fingers clench painfully tight and misses you bring the blaster to your head. He hears the horrible, hollow thump but looking seconds after you’re in normal position. Because the sound doesn’t ring. But you’re repetitive, ramming the blaster into your head again and again. You stroll past Finn like it’s nothing like he doesn’t hear you curse fallacies about yourself and doesn’t see your aggression worsening.

You close your eyes and clench your teeth, hoping to crack your mask and hear that pop. 

Feeling like it should hurt much more than it does.

Once, then twice, a third time and a fourth, Finn shouts for you to “Hey hey! Stop that!” Favoring an authoritative demand instead of gentle encouragement. 

It works.

You bring it to your head again, give a final smash, then chuck your blaster across the ship without a single grunt. Finn barely jumps out of the way as it dents paneling. He holds his chest and heavy heart while you slump to your seat and  your head in your hands. 

Him and Poe decide not to say anything.

They wouldn’t know what to or how to anyways.

Chapter Text

The rebel base (green with nature-made comfort) screams for you to get out of its terrain. You’re pristine, maybe, but a sore spot, an eye-catcher even when hidden behind Chewbacca. 

Not keen on getting off in the first place, you didn’t want to show your hesitance.

You ignored the landing, humming and apparently confused when Poe asked if you were coming. Before they landed you still knocked your knuckles into your mask every other moment. Each pang echoed and circled your senses like the familiar wailing of First Order-raided villages.

You didn’t wince with each knock and snap-shot of a violent memory. (They certainly did.)

Though mindless you felt you deserved it.

Because your throat chokes knowing you went through with all that you have but you come to a sanctuary wanting to follow Finn and Poe like a cowardice puppy and belong as though you deserve it.

Poe calls for Leia and you don’t follow him from there. 

Frozen, you can understand from all your ways away why his call is not returned. 

Poe’s granted acting General while stood over her. 

She’s not dead. She’s sick - comatose. Ben probably felt it…you know it. That’s what he was asking with his eyes — “Is she dead? Is she dying?”

You keep your distance.

One explanation from Finn to a single pilot later and you’re treated with unflinching esteem, no need to hype yourself up. A woman offers a blanket, others offers nothing more than a quick step out of your path. You take the blanket, and consider the side-step fine. Just fine. You groan in relief when they leave you alone, frankly exhausted.

You shamble over to Finn and Poe with the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. It’s bundled tight in your fist and pulled to a pinch at your chest. It’s a cloak over your cloak. With that, the stoic mechanism on your head, and the wet leaves stuck to your boots, your garbled sentiment of “I’m sorry about your General…” has their lips fighting to become smiles instead of pouts.

Poe manages to grin sadly and mutters “It’s alright…thank you…”

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, knowing he’s looking into the closest things he can consider your eyes, but you don’t turn your head away. You raise your chin and gulp, let him try to imagine you as something living and breathing with a face underneath the mask.

He doesn’t get the feeling you’re looking back into his. He looks away defeated, but understands.

What he saw of your silhouette on the wreckage, despite interrupted by the sea, gives him enough to gage what you’re dealing with. Yet how you so gently kneeled in front of the ‘Jedi Killer’ and gave your condolences before you knew what you were consoling him for…there was enough humanity packed in that for his belief in you to last beyond a century. 

Poe’s startled when Finn pats him on the back. He calms when Finn dutifully rubs between his shoulder-blades and sucks his lip in before saying “Looking at the new one now.”

Finn slides his hand to Poe’s shoulder, gives it a weak squeeze, and Poe’s lips twist in a sad smile. “You too…Thanks buddy.”

Then Finn hunches over his knees to hide his face. He runs his hand over it in frustration and rids himself of the sweat at his hairline and silent tears on his cheeks. 

You step between your feet, ashamedly caught peeling the sticky leaves off your boots with your metal-tipped toes. It’s to distract yourself from the nerves in your stomach. They notice and are pleased to find that it’s working. 

You turn your shoulder to them, and prepare to step off and explore the camp or settle in a corner somewhere where no one can see you. 

But Poe calls “Hey,” and nods up at you.

You peer at them, head tilted. 

He scoots and Finn follows, not minding cause it gives you room to sit at the end of the medical bench. You still scoot the opposite way, teetering right on the edge. They share a look. They’re not discreet and it lasts long enough for you to put your chin to your chest, embarrassed and thoughts about what they could be saying running free.

They don’t need words to get a message across. 

“Hey,” Poe sighs, reaching and tapping the back of your hand.

You don’t flinch immediately, but pull the edges of your blanket to cover your lap after. 

“We’ll find her.” 

“I know,” you say cautiously, furrowing your brows. “I should be telling you.” 

You taste offense on your tongue. But they’re the only ones you consider with the ‘right’ to be worried; it’s about their friend, not someone you barely have a bond with. They don’t know what that bond is, what ‘connection’ you have with her, how you knew her name and said it so worriedly when you stepped onto the desert as though you had a reason to care…you have a reason why it hurt to see her gone, and why it hurt to see Kylo Ren almost wounded and on the ground but they know what that reason is as barely as you do.

Your breath shudders harshly and you let out a violent huff as your neck pivots to survey the scene before you. 

You eye a thin holopad, green and strictly upright, no protrusions. It has a grid on it. You suppose it’s a map…it’s empty.

Your breath intakes and splits the air, catches their ears and they’re leaning past each other to hear what you have to say.

“She’ll be fine,” you tell them. You hold eye-contact with Finn, then Poe. 

They can feel it this time.

You pick yourself up, adjust your blanket, and looking back to make sure it’s fallen off the bench and come to pool at your feet, a ding echoes from ear to ear and you perk your head up. You look, the map glowing brighter and a series of dashes drawing itself across the screen. 

“Uh, General?” Someone asks. 

Poe looks, then Finn.

You drop the blanket onto the bed with a simple shrug of your shoulders and you’re back to normal, walking after Poe and visibly guarded. Those who lean in make a point to not stand so close. 

Finn squeezes in there.

If he had just tapped your shoulder you would have scooted to the side to give him room a second earlier. He smiles at you, then puts his game-face on as you observe the trail. 

“Where’s it going?” 

“Exegol,” you gasp. “She’s going to Exegol. She got the wayfinder.” You try hiding your excitement. 

But is that a relieved giggle they hear? Perfectly clear, not garbled with a voice-changer or muted under metal. It brings a smile to them. And your excitement is followed by theirs then the rest of the rebels as Poe racks his brain for a solution on how to use this. 

“That’s it,” he whispers. He reaches across your chest to squeeze’s Finn’s arm then turns to the group. You feel him pat your back as you awe at the map. You almost bring yourself to touch it, but snap yourself out of it and listen to Poe’s plan instead.

The group responds to Poe’s first with questions, then silence as Poe bites his lip trying to think up all the responses. 

You look over your shoulder, and mutter, “Oh…That’s what this was then…” 

You can see it now…the impenetrable fleet on Exegol. You saw prototypes, heard news about the construction of more than a dozen new ships — miniature Starkiller Bases and Death Stars to wreak havoc. Pryde took pride in watching you ‘pout’ with slumped shoulders when he refused to share current information with you. And Kylo shrugged your insistence that he tell you off by giving you other ‘more important’ things to do. At least Pryde could only dream of getting his claws in Ren, and you could keep that connection away from him as far as he kept information from you.

Their faces fall. They can feel your worry without the visual. With a gentle shake of your head, the brief joy that you’ve found a solution completely vanishes.

A girl asks “Is it gonna work…?” propped on her toes. 

Poe nudges you. You hum, confused. But she was talking to you. Admittedly you have a small kick to your ego but it’s gone as soon as you turn around and the crowd shifts ready to stand up to you if need be.

You don’t expect them to naturally trust you. But still…

You nod. It’s weak. They’re not sure what that means.

“I uhm…it…yeah?” You squeak. 

Poe mumbles. You tilt your head at him. “I’m sorry?”

“W-what do you mean ‘yeah?’”

Confused cries erupt and you hold your breath hoping to think up a better response by the time they —

stop. And you’re still speechless. 

“No no-” Poe holds his hands out to try and ease them, propose that with thinking about it from a different direction it won’t seem so bad. The thing is you know it will work but you don’t want to get their hopes up when the other likelihood is…well…

You turn to avoid them and this, everything spinning. Your breathing — the mask forces air in your lungs and you panic, looking down and throat pinching more. You give a whimper, a groan, hold your head in your hands, the beat of your heart aggravating you more and more, and rip your mask off. 

The air stills — a clatter. Poe’s words fade out, and he jumps with a soft “Oh.” 

You’re facing them now, mask behind you on the table, but you refuse to let go.

You lower your head, brows tight and skin pale as compared to usual from sitting inside that thing all the time. The story of stress is evident from the pits under your eyes. They see you don’t need that mask to get them to shut up. That with your contained anger and frustration you’re your own ticking time bomb. Jaw-dropped.

Your teeth are tearing into your lip, but with a quiet exhale your face and posture becomes incredibly soft. You speak from one side of your mouth. Your words are small, your voice strained, but they quiet up for you. 

“It will work,” you croak, looking up from behind your brows. Instead of shying down, those whose eyes you bear into are locked in your trance. “The underbelly of the ships are their weakest spots. This isn’t a couple dozen. It’s a fleet. If you go in there, no matter how much ‘hope’ you have, you will lose if you don’t get more of you.”

Silence. You hear the creatures in the trees. 

“With so many men needed on those ships you won’t have to worry about their TIEs or X-Wings and at least you’ll have the advantage of mobility. If you plan to stall, you have to be sure it’s just a stall. And that you aren’t all there is.” 

You eye Poe. He’s smiling. It doesn’t convince you to give one back.

“You know how to fly a ship?” He asks.

“No…” you mutter.

“Looks like you’re flying with me then,” he smirks. “Okay! Here’s how we go in —” 

Cheers on the ready. 

Chapter Text

You don’t back out. Of course you wouldn’t.

“You okay back there?” Poe asks and flips a switch.

“Yes,” you sigh, but you’re choked and it’s cramped. Rey’s pull on the force is also suffocating. Poe handed you a helmet to keep safe and stay sane but you wish for the compactness of your original ordeal. 

He’s as hesitant to look at you without it as he was with it.

Circumstances and pressure got that thing off of you, at least that’s how it seems. He isn’t sure if you were ready, so he’ll’ keep it as it was until you are. Though he notes it would be an endearing joke to say you’re at your prime. Exhausted, devastated, bruised — it’s not the best look for you. Your lips are chapped at the edges but plump in the center, raw from biting. He wouldn’t guess your eyes could be even more abyss-like, but he finds they do glimmer with hopefulness, and they’re alluring in a twisted way just like one. 

Hiding your apprehension toward flying with him, you grip the back of his seat, fingers so tight they dig into the foam under the leather skin. 

He clears his throat and you perk a moment late, asking “What did you say?” but he was talking to the comm. 

About what?

You would say it yourself upon seeing the First Order fleet but Poe expresses it better with “Oh shit.” 

Yet he flies forward, all in. He doesn’t slow, he doesn’t cower, he clears his throat and starts up with composed orders, but you tense, succumbing to the sudden need to tense and the galaxy fills with zooming X-Wings and shots. 

Poe’s a sharp flier. You knock back even with precautions, but still will yourself to half-hover over your seat just to get a peak at it — the icy square that seems to hover over the Earth.

“There!” You shout in his ear, and Poe jerks the ship to evade fire. 

“That’s-that’s where Rey is.” Poe has a small grunt in annoyance. “I need you to get me there.” 

“Are you insane?” He shouts. 

“Yes. Rey’s down there!”

Poe hisses through his teeth and warns “Hold on.” The ship dips and he speaks through the comm an update on your situation. You unbuckle before Poe hits the ground, keeping yourself stable with a pull of the force and pressing yourself down hard as you can. 

Poe lands on the ice with a rough skid.

Your exit pops open you hop to the ground. You land on your feet with a grunt before he can watch.

He grits luck through his teeth, and you descend under the crust of Exegol. 

The battle still echoes, still strikes down to crack the ice and ping-pongs off the ground and into the slab above you. You snap your wrist out and ignite your lightsaber. You hold it up and close, elbows folded.

Your steps ring back louder than they come, sneaking up behind you again and again. The cold chills the nerves out of you till you. You loosen up, speed up, and make it to the other end where the ceiling is tall and the light is less dim under fog.

You blink up, down, side to side, but fight against looking behind.

The ground sizzles as you dip your saber into it, dragging your blade in the path behind you.

When the weight gets heavy you reach to your chest and unclasp your cloak - one click, two click, the fabric falls off your shoulders and like that, the fabric’s fall to the Earth (a woosh) rings in your ears again seconds later. It lingers, lasting your entire stretch down the given path. So do your steps, boots clacking and metal-tipped toes knocking along the floor. 

But not the battle. No, the battle is quiet.

But a slow-growing chanting isn’t. 

Forward and left there are only dead ends. Taking a right and picking up the pace, you heart thumps with an extra kick.

Your body can’t make up its mind, your lungs burning from cold but muscles hot in anticipation. The cheers, however, the damn cheers tickle your throat and you curl your lip in disgust trying to ignore the sound. It’s putrid, eerie — you focus to avoid a painful dry heave.

Croaking and choked up, you shake your head out, squeeze eyes closed until you consider them well enough to see clearly again. 

Still not. 

Your saber is like a match in the sea, muted and though it illuminates the side of your leg (and face as you slowly lift it, both hands around the hilt, and you look worriedly at the raising tip) it feels like its dying. It feels like you’re stepping too deep. Step one more and the light will snap from existence.

Your path is outlined on one side with a crumbling abyss, deep but not black, blue. 

You could whistle to see if you catch anyone’s attention — anything’s attention, draw them here so they can’t draw in and ambush you, just like you could kick a pebble and see how far it drops.

Almost like Palpatine hears your thinking, a call seems to have come.

You stop, feet brushing the ice behind you.

Your fist clenches so tight you indent the ridges of your hilt into your palm.

And you turn around —

Slice the air before you — a distant figure of Rey fades like cut smoke. Feels like you’ve seen that image before in a fleeting memory.

Suddenly the handle of your saber is hot, hot as ice. You gasp, stumbling back because you haven’t been there with Kylo — you haven’t seen her like that before. You’ve avoided it of course, hidden in shadowed corners, resisted the urge but dealt with the consequence of pain in your temples. 

Rey chokes and awes at nothing in front of her. But a slash across her front-side barely burns now.

She looks down, fingers fleet across her chest where a pain fades, and she thinks.

A call, again, a whistle. 

You whip around and hold your saber upright as to not make the same mistake. But nothing, and nerves from the back of your head to your heart to your stomach shoot off like the chaos above you. Paranoia settles in. 

Something’s behind you, somewhere.

Stepping back, legs tripping over themselves, nothing moves through the distant fog that you can see. You hold your saber out, ready. You curse “Fuck,” and gulp. Your eyes prick, they burn — you know they’re red now, pink at least. You gulp again to soothe the heat in your throat but it doesn’t work. 

You shake your head and lower your saber, close your eyes and focus. 

You blink over your shoulder and, “Ben…?” 

Ben…you say it, then he skids to a stop, just slid in from around the corner.

Mouth painfully dry now, your jaw drops and you’re stuck on what else to say to him. You bite into your lip, bother to crack a smile, and Ben gets a sense knocked into him to run. Right, Rey. You start jogging backward, facing him and at enough speed so he can grab your shoulder, whisk you around, and you keep up with him without tripping over your feet. 

You wonder why these caverns only glow green with your light. You see he doesn’t have his lightsaber.

Even closer — your stamina feels undefeated but you slam into Ben’s backside, cornered by the Knights of Ren having waited for you in the foggy shadows. 

“Get behind me,” Ben spits. You oblige, stand back-to-back with him and you have your saber, he has his fists. 

The knights creep closer. They know they’re teasing. 

Weapons wielded, their steps so in unison guide you and Ben with the ticking of their boots — thump-thump-thump. 

Ben’s breath pauses. You lower your chin, glare behind your brows, and give your last gentle breath. And on the last thump, together you give —

Ben lunges, arm reeled back and knee pulled up to meet a Knight’s jaw and gut. You twirl and slice down, pushing a Knight’s blade down with your own. His arms raise and you shout, slicing up and blocking the over-head attack. You push it up till your muscles are shaking. Defense is what you focus on. A blade swings from the corner of your eye, and you throw your blade up with a final thrust before jumping back. Two Knights meet you. One amps his arm, one goes in for another over-head. You sweep to the side, skidding with one leg bent and the other stretched to your side.

Knelt and fingers splayed against the floor, you roll out to dodge and hop up to crash your saber through his chest. The other gets hold of your waist from behind. You pull your legs up, kick the poor guy down to his back, then swing your legs back to kick in the knees of the one behind you. 

You collapse with him, and watch Ben.

Ben throws his fist at the knights and it’s surely enough to rattle their teeth but his knuckles are already bloody, raw, pink, their masks uncracked.

Focus lost and instinct late, something hits your spine and you grunt, falling on your chest. You crawl, fighting to get your air back before blindly kicking back. You meet one’s ankle, and roll onto your back before jumping up. 

You flail and slice across his chest. It isn’t a deep cut but he staggers back. Ben launches himself at the Knight and they crash to the ground. He keeps trying with the punches but you know it’s just not working. 

“Ben!” you shout and throw your arm up.

The Knight goes straight for a swing into your abdomen. You lose your grip and drop your saber but before it can clatter to the floor Ben holds his arm back and pulls it to himself. It tears through the air and resonates.

One straight punch to your jaw and you fall flat on your back.

They grab your shoulders and you jerk, groaning as you lift to your feet. Pushing one with the force doesn’t account for the other three. You clutch your stomach and heave after a stomp on your back. Blood seeps into the cracks of your lips.

Ben falls against you.

It hurts more than the bruises to see a knight wielding your weapon. The green glows gross and dim in their loose hand.

Stumbling to your feet, you glance over your shoulder. Your eyes catch nothing, but you can feel her. Your breathing slows, the knights are quiet, and Ben’s back against yours has nerves going off like fireworks. You can feel the prickling, the weird sensation and pressure but this time the twist in your stomach is good.

You close your eyes, and slow them open again to see Rey standing past Ben.

She finds her eyes burst with more tears. She blinks surprised, they’re sudden, but your lips curve at one corner, and your eyes bear into hers over Ben’s shoulder. Her heart aches. This time it’s a triumphant feeling.

Ben nods, you smirk. She raises her saber behind her back, fist clenched, opens it…

She reveals Palpatine her empty palm. 

Heat grows on your back, and your head bows, smile delirious. You shout and with an open palm rip your saber from the Knight’s hands as Ben reveals his own — blue and green — it makes a minty cyan. 

The guards step back. Ben (goodness you love him, you swear he hears you chuckle) bows. 

They don’t stand a chance. 

Ben raises his saber and cuts down along their chests. You slice along their knees. The ones standing react late to you lunging at them. Ben’s aggressive doing what needs to be done. You dodge, you wait, you tire them out then when they’re bent over their knees you throw your hand out and push with the force. They tumble over themselves and toward Ben.

One you stick in the back, rip the blade from his chest, then trip him at his knees. He falls into the abyss stretching your path.

Ben’s shadow flies over you. He lands behind a Knight with an echoing thump, and stabs through him.

Guffawed, jaw slack, and blade stretched behind you, you examine each other and find your faces both wear bruises and bloody lips. 

The familiar sound of battle comes from farther along. 

You shout, “Rey!” voice hoarse, and race Ben. 

Your voice strikes her across the throne room.

Red-cloaked guards lay about her.

She doesn’t dare to gasp out loud. But her lips quiver when parting. The crack in the ceiling gives enough light for her to see you. And she doesn’t have a single doubt that it’s you the second you walk in the room. 

She felt it — felt it was him, felt it was you. 

Palpatine has an uproar, amused. 

Ben continues first, limping but in a hurry, and Palpatine’s crane pulls him back, puny little fingers weakly pointed at the three of you.

Rey wouldn’t guess that anger blinds you so often.

Your head is pulsing, the sound of blood and your beating heart loud in your ear, louder than Palpatine because all you can see is the people sat in a curve that lasts a mile. Skin crawling, your shiver so bad your muscles hurt seeing all of them and you fight back the bile their unease brings you. 

("The dyad’s become a triad.”)

Everything stops for a moment.

Something jerks within Palpatine. There’s nothingness, a complete lack of senses for just a moment…before they all come back at once with a flash of white and purple.

Your eyes go wide and you howl, sharp spritzes of Palpatine’s lightning hitting and coursing through you as your energy forces its way out. This stone palace hidden in the Earth crumbles, and you can’t so much as whimper in confusion. Your knees lock in place and every joint is tight, unmoving.

You can’t even scream, jaw stuck shut but the air in your lungs viciously sucked out. 

It grows so intense that you see the jagged veins that hop off and around you three.

Palpatine’s words, said through a manic squeaky laughter, is lost.

You pull up with a jolt, knees together and shoulders pinned at your side. 

Ben and Rey rise too.

His words echo clearer and clearer. They burn through your ears, in one side and out the other, catching you on a horribly painful string. You can hear what he says as he says it but all meaning and comprehension fades seconds after it passes, everything a bunch of mush. Your jaw unhinges, everything desperate to scream and cry out, before your eyes roll back and so does your body in a final blast.

You fall. 

Weight ceases to exist before you hit the ground. 

You come to, met in silence.

Things are muffled, swampy, the words trickling out your ear before you can grasp at them like water dripping through the canal. Your chest rises and falls steadily, and your bruised fingers clench your stomach tight as though wishing to tear through it and override this other pain you’re feeling.

It’s still a silent moment for you. Your heart beat slows to a distant, rhythmic drumming, and you wait with eyes rolling back and forth for the drumming to stop. You’re waiting for that final bang, and for everything to go to black.

Everything grows brighter. 

The thumping stops, and you jerk to roll to your side then stomach and curl to face the darkness. 

“Look what you have made.” His voice is so horrid it makes you weep.

His crowd guffaws at the triumph. 

You try to look, but wince away seeing Palpatine stood over his throne in a cloak that somehow attracts more darkness. The chanting starts again, and you press your ear tight to the floor to get it to quiet.

But through it a groan travels to you from across the floor.

You look and see Ben on his back, twitching with his neck stretched and veins bulging. He tries to roll over, tries to get up despite aching. And craning your neck more, you see Rey curled up so delicately. And Ben’s brought himself to his feet. 

You crack a smile.

Palpatine raises his hand and imprints deep on Ben’s neck, raising him to fly over the surface. His head is forced to the sky. It’s not the same as moments before. Whatever that was, whatever happened to bring Palpatine to his feet, it was almost involuntary. You see now there was no hope in stopping that. 

On your stomach, you pull your arms underneath your chest. It scrapes, it burns, and you try to lift yourself but your arms feel like they’re going to snap in the middle of the bone. You fall back on your chest and lose all your breath. 

Palpatine sneers. 

“As once I fell, so falls the last Skywalker.”

The air moves around Ben and follows him with a deep bass as he’s pushed over the abyss. 

You pick your neck up and choke out “Ben!” in anguish.

When he drops he’s thrown against rocks that chip upon impact and fall to crumble on top of him. 

You get on your knees, but he hardly lets you get that far.

Palpatine slams your chin and throat back to the floor. Then he lifts you, and you flail before he throw your onto your back and drags you against the ground. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t find this funny, he just finds you disgusting now. 

You try to claw at your throat where his force imprints on your neck. But you can’t free yourself.

You stop at the edge, head dipping back enough to think you just might meet Ben at the bottom of the abyss, but the force on you stops and you lean forward and up, back onto your stomach in a desperate attempt to save yourself.

Palpatine’s words ring so strangely: “Maybe this time you won’t let him fall!” And there’s no amusement, again — he isn’t finding this funny. He’s scolding you, and that guilt you know so well settles in your stomach. 

You try calling for Ben but your last dose of energy was spent on dragging yourself back up. You reach over the edge, and your arm goes limp before your head drops and you stare wearily into the pit. 

“Do not fear that feeble attack my faithful. Nothing will stop the return of the sith!” 

The pit fills with light. 

And you’re deafened by the lightning. 

Groaning, teeth against the stone, you try to scream or do anything louder than that to get it away. To get it over with. It doesn’t work. You close your eyes, finding that you really can’t press your ear deeper. You close your eyes again.

What is there to look back on at this moment? 

Nothing significant brings you comfort that hasn’t happened in the last hours. Maybe small things like the coziness of your quarters, getting a tsk out of Kylo, every time he let you call him Ben…

A different image comes to mind. You look up, confused to remember a city of stone and steel, but neat with shrubs and greenery cemented in stone-slab fences. It’s sterile, but there’s color like yellow sand, green trees, blue flooring.

Your forehead brushes against the floor, scrapes, and cuts at your cheeks but you dig it deeper, closing your eyes and tearing into your gloves trying to dig into it. 

But give up, maybe. And it would be easier. 

You close your eyes, and they urge to open, forehead creasing in frustration because it just hurts. You heave into your mouth, try to lift yourself up, feel the piercing pain of nerves erupting in your arms again. 

Like a switch.

Your eyes pop open yet you’re immediately groggy.

And the noise has stopped.  

Everything is cool, silent, your body just warm enough but still stiff and crawling your hand forward, your palm bleeds against the ground and drags the red behind. 

You hear a thump. 

Another switch, and you ignore your stiff muscles, dig your palms deeper and yelp when sitting up as you almost tip yourself back into the abyss. You twist your stomach and look past your shoulder, see Rey on the ground and curled again mere feet before the throne.

And the memory of that thump is a needle to your lungs.

In the abyss, there’s a scuffle. Your body clenches in anticipation but something smaller follows it. So you crawl to Rey, stomach painfully hollow and your legs dragging behind you. She’s limp, just as she was then.

You paw at her arm, and she’s…not cold, but she’s stiff.

There’s a certain viscosity to a body, a bounciness and will to be moved that you don’t find in her. It’s like every drop of life in something has faded. It’s like the difference between the plants of a beautiful planet against the sterile, pristine ones. And she still pretty, completely calm, even now. 

But you don’t want to believe that’s the reason why. 

You shake a tight knot from your skull in disbelief, insisting to yourself a mantra that she’s fine.

With a grunt and a hiss, you roll her over. You try getting your legs out from under you and though one is still pinched under your weight and is tingling and numb enough, you pull her into your lap.

Her head dips back.

You hold her cheek and raise it.

Her eyes are open.

Her skin is fresh. 

You blink and scrunch your nose, brush your thumb along her cheekbone and smudge the coal. This doesn’t feel right. It isn’t right. You caress her cheek again and trail your fingers to the back of her head so you can cradle it. 

“Rey,” you say. You shake her and you just can’t. “Rey?” Louder. You dart your tongue out to quickly swipe your lips now pulling into a strained smile. You rock her back and forth. “Rey,” sing-songy, sounding so certain that she’s just playing. Steps rock the floor. You look and see Ben from the abyss with a limp leg and the other shaking under his weight.

You wince amid a relieved huff.

Then back at Rey as though she’d be so happy to see him.

But you adjust your grip around her, pull her farther upon you, and drop your head closer to her. “Rey….” your lip quivers. “Please?”

You hiccup on a sob you refuse to let out. 

Your cheeks, once stiff with coal and dirt, dust and blood, you find stretching up in a similar pained smile as tears rush down and blind you.

“Ben?” You call with a relieved whimper when he falls on his knees beside you.

He holds your back and gives a nod. You hear a soft “Yeah…” reassuring.

The bubble in your throat breaks into a violent sob.

Because Ben’s here for real this time, but Rey’s not.

Your hand slides along her side as you hold her tighter. And it finds its way to her heart. You hold it there, feeling nothing even through her clothes but it still makes you let out another sob. You hold her heart, close your eyes to unstick the thick tears in your eyes, and trust, hope.

Hold your breath, rely on the force, don’t just think, but know this will work.

You inhale, exhale, feel warmth in your palms and tingling in your air. Feel breaths become crisp as you let out each one through slightly parted lips. 

Your weight becomes nothing.

Not until hers shifts, and prematurely you can’t help but smile.

Your eyes now fight to keep closed. Because you don’t want to open up. When they’re like this everything is so dark and you can see if you try hard enough, colorful swirls making kaleidoscopes in your vision, and look a little farther and you can see Kylo with his hand on your back, or Rey in your lap and living.

With a sudden gasp, they open and you’re shocked at their defiance. 

But there she is…lost, though pushing herself up to sit.

You choke, giving a fluttery, wispy breath that makes Ben sob too. You’re smiling like goofs; his teeth are in his lip and yours are folded in so tight they hurt.

“Hey,” your voice breaks. 

She squints at you, face still pulled tight in anger. But your smile, and Ben’s too makes her nose scrunch, and she looks behind her. The throne is empty — Palpatine gone. She gulps hard and reaches blindly, clutches your shoulder and Ben’s, and yanks you two into a hug. You rest your forehead on her shoulder, breaths still fragmented with hiccups but calming. Ben hooks his chin over your shoulder and wraps his arms around Rey’s shoulder.

With another pang of understanding, Rey’s hug tightens. 

Then she grunts under a sudden weight you give her.

You can’t control how you lean into her, and when you try to lean back your back curves, your head drops back, and you fall. Ben catches you and Rey’s fingers brush against yours.

Your breath and energy give in a single moment. 

Nothingness before your head can hit the floor.

Ben has you. 

He really has you. He cries your name when he catches you, when he feels that you’re limp and feels that you’re gone from him. Your name, and it seems to fit. Rey gasps. But Ben’s face is sketched with shock, like he didn’t even know that was it. Or maybe like all this time he did but that’s what he once itched to tell you and he couldn’t. Rey has a feeling that at a point, he forgot it.

Rey goes to heal like you healed her but he’s focusing on it first and she feels like this is something he needs to do.

Life, energy, something — you feel it. 

And your eyes open one at a time, blinking soft and slow. You squirm in a warm hold and see Ben’s dark locks hung and tickling your forehead. You smile, and he does too. Rey’s still there, knees under her.

He says “I’ve gotcha…”

You would jump at his voice, already so soft and that suffocating tightness of it is lost.

Your hands are limp at your sides but with a gentle twitch you realize Rey’s holding one. Her hold is careful. She pulls you up to sit between her and Ben. You blink softly at both of them.

Ben has such a sweet smile, and Rey does too. 

But it’s all that extra sweet when he gives a little chuckle, voice wet. 

Then his shoulders slump and he falls back. 

You both reach — “Ben!” You stretch out over him, barely cup your hands under his head before his skull can hit the ground. Your knuckles scrape and you hiss in pain but keep your hands there until you can shuffle over and lift his top into your lap. Rey, though letting the weight sink against you, keeps her fingers on her skin as she crawls and kneels by his stomach. Her knees bump into his ribcage.

This is sick. 

Are you supposed to be playing, going back and forth until you have to decide on who?

You hold his face, his cheeks drooping.

You stretch to Rey and grab her hand. You squeeze, your other arm hugging his chest. You’ll be damned if he’s taken from you again.

She’s trembling, and you’re so tense you couldn’t move from your spot if you tried. “Rey, Rey…I need you to listen to me.” She nods.

You grab her face, thumb on her cheeks, and pull her to you.

“We can do this together, okay? We can try!” You cry, hopefully.

She nods, sniffling. She licks at the tears that coat her lips.

You let go of her hands and hold the top of his head while she holds his chest.

Eyes closed — breaths in sync.

Your eyes twitch with each vision, each subtle memory of you and him. Your lip quivers ever second his weight in your lap, his limp body registers again, and again. You bow your head, nostrils flaring angrily because hell, this isn’t right.

Your fingers stretch to his jaw, thumbs by his cheeks, palms pressed against his temples. 

“Ben…Stay with us,” you demand silently.

You hear a sharp breath.

Open your eyes, and you see Ben, breathing. His eyes dart across your features, Rey’s too. But you don’t smile down at him. You don’t greet him with the same joy he greeted you with. Wait, just a moment longer.

You hold his head, Rey still has her hands on him, silence reigns.

He coughs up a chuckle.

Your strictness breaks as you throw your arms around his neck and pull him up so you can bury your nose into his neck, your chest on his back. he bows forward, lungs heavy, and finds Rey hugging him from the front. 

You run your fingers through his hair, an arm locked tight around his neck. You aren’t so sly about wrapping the other around Rey’s neck either. She relaxes under your affection. 

Your touch is heated; a welcome hot.

You sit in the underground of Exegol waiting for one of you to be lost until you’re certain one of you will not.

Chapter Text

Words can’t be shared. 

Do you have them?

Could you say them even if you knew what they were?

The ship rumbles almost in pain back to Ajan Kloss. You don’t know how Rey has the energy to fly. You awe at her with a dropped jaw and soft eyes. You’re so lost in your own mind you can’t imagine for a moment what they might be thinking. What Rey wonders as she flies, what Ben wonders as he sits with you.

Dragging each other from that broken palace, your stomach stirred at the idea of going to the rebel base. You feel raw, even with the rest of your armor on. You feel known, wrong. 

You don’t talk about it, but Rey hesitates when starting the engine.

Ben holds his sweaty head in his bloody hands, the aftermath of his deeds dried and his sweat and leaking tears dripping onto his lap with the lurking doom of coming to a place that may or may not have an energy he couldn’t disarm even if he wanted to try. 

Close to dozing off, you’re slow to sit up when Rey lands.

Turns out you’re not far behind everybody else. 

Your ears are still numb and the sound of your heartbeat still thuds and your lungs rise and fall like squeaky hinges but you’re…home?

Luke Skywalker’s very own ship rustles the Earth around it as it lowers. Rey emerges from it first, postponing her triumphant return to beckon you two out. Your heads are down, shameful, and she doesn’t know what she expected.

She doesn’t expect you two to act anything less than sad, shameful, unwelcomed. But you’re tired and it doesn’t take much for your head to dip in whatever direction anyone calls for it. Your arm wraps around Rey’s back and Ben’s on her other side. Your legs still quite bruised and lazy, you walk well enough when you’re together.

You sway in this loose hug and move across the crowd. 

Three Jedi have come back with bruised cheeks and busted lips, barely able to walk.

Your smile is weary. 

A smile, at least…

The awe is steadily replaced with cheers as they realize Rey’s work is done, the work they’ve all done. You can’t accept any praise, you were just there it fells. But the exclamation, the love, the applause, it warms you right up. Hands clap, people are pulled into hugs and you try your best to smile through it all despite how your cheeks burn being kept up.

Though your smile wishes to fade, you can’t put it down when you see familiar faces. 

Yours is newly familiar but they still jog to it.

Finn cries “You made it!” 

And Poe pulls Finn and Rey into a hug.

You and Ben aren’t bothered at all. You bump your head into his arm to tease and he smiles. 

“Get in here!” Poe rolls his wrist. You and Ben freeze and a giggle escapes Rey’s lips. Rey offers you her hand and you hold yours to your chest in defense because you’re fine, really. Suddenly your heels drag across the floor and Ben too gives a surprised grunt. 

You let yourself go limp under everyone’s weight and just enjoy it.

You suppose if the force wills it.