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The glittering pile in the corner of the room caught and tugged at Phasma's eyes only in the morning when the light caught and scattered on the meticulously polished surface.
Since moving into the Rebel quarters, she had discarded fragments of her suit in their current heap before being pulled out of the room by Rey to do introductions around the base. The Feared and Venerated Captain Plasma; the word had gotten around quickly that she was here- here at the base. The Feared and Venerated Captain Phasma had shot a long, terrified look at the apparently less pivotal pieces of armor, deemed less necessary in her propagandic outfit.
Rey had assured her that wearing her chest piece, cape, and boots was only to assure people that she was the real Phasma- to strike respect & pride in the hearts of the resistance which brought the glittering knight to her knees. Phasma shifted uneasily beneath her silver skin, currently being reduced to an important costume. Still, she had gained enough trust in the young Jedi to piece and part herself to the most important bits, for now.
Phasma had dressed herself, pulling on her pieces, feeling their unusual weight against her heart. Rey had brought her cape to her, arms outstretched and holding it delicately. She trusted the warm fabric, even more than the girl, and the brush of her hand during the exchange and let the weight melt inside & become internalized. Like a deep swallow she took in the girl and her eyes, her eyes reflected in her armor. In any other situation that would have meant a death sentence for one of them. The cape felt like air as she pulled it on. The girl, for now, was her breath. She let Rey take her arm and guide her out into the busy corridor.
Still, as she crossed the threshold, the armor shone like jewels left vulnerable.
Now a day, when she entered the room, she ignored the pile, either willfully or by necessity. Most of the various pieces were lain without order; much against her nature-- her helmet, her crown, sat like an urn on the table besides them. She kept it turned at a slight angle, so that when she entered the room it wouldn't stare at her with accusing eyes. She wanted it to forgive her.
When she served the Empire her helmet had been the clear indication of her power. Storm troopers exist within a level of regularity-- chosen for traits positive to the movement, haplessly loyal, and hidden by a layer of anonymity by their armor; their white vestments of higher order. Those who deviated too much from their fellows often fell outcast.
Her armor acted as the garments of a god.
The cleansed clothes of a lowly PN- 1481, given the eternal bones of the immortal.
When she had been chosen by Kylo Ren- the master of the Knights of Ren- feared throughout the Empire for his tempter and his resolve, she was afraid. She had been warned once or twice before-- her heart bleeding with the things she had been feeling during fights. She was thankful to find their resolve was of the same breed. Their training; which had broken her down layer by layer, a system formatting of sorts, formed and chiseled her into a righteous automaton.
She wanted to be a god. She had wanted this.
He had praised her and given her purpose- taught her that her pinpoint ability to know people, know their presence, made her worthy to aid at the alter. Sometimes, she could stand at the feet of the Father himself.
This was the Crusades--
The endless drive to pull power from the Father; Human Error.
She was willing, for this, to become less or more than that. For; under gods, it was hard to see those who were not people as flawed.
Now, she was feeling her flesh too strongly, she supposed.
For all of her dealings with the Force, she had quite forgotten her own presence. She had started to notice this once Rey had begun searching her mind with the Force. Perhaps that had been the kick starter for it. She had let the girl have her at her most vulnerable-- armorless, emotional, hurt. The first time hadn't particularly effected her, but for Rey- seeing the barren wasteland of her memories had struck some remnant of familiarity. She insisted that they should have another meeting. She had consented; Rey was good company.
For now, her Helmet was an Idol. She wasn't in the mood to worship false gods, if even herself. She had driven herself to the pinnacle of her human form- learning to control and isolate. She could nearly still hear breathing, regulated her eating, and could hold in her physical urges.
She should have suspected the dangers would lurk in her own mind. She had taken it for granted the Empire had sorted those- her faith had been misguided, in more ways than one.
She let the Helmet sit there. She hoped soon enough, it would become just a 'thing'. She remembered the first night she had stayed at the base; Rey had slept in the complementing chair to the one that held current trash heap. Her small body had curled to conform to the space allowed by the metal and plush. Phasma had watched her tourmaline eyes with her own until Rey’s closed. Phasma watched the ceiling when they were gone.
Rey had asked her to turn the Helmet to the wall that first night. Phasma had felt it reflecting her own shame. The base had been a stir, but the base was not much interested in becoming her new fan club. She suspected...., she feared, Rey had only stayed over because FN2... Finn, was angry with her. It did not surprise her. Men and Women of flesh should stick to their loyalties. She had not taken it personally. She had killed their friends.
Still, the feeling that Rey had turned her away was at least a bit distressing. She had felt the ignition within her lungs as she tried to make herself as quiet as she could in her bed. It could be possible to be less than a presence; to pour herself into the Resistance enough to loose her identity to them. For the first time in years she thought about her birth name & its usefulness.
When she had woken in the morning, Rey was gone. Phasma been surprised that she had been able to leave without her notice. Then again, Rey could always move three steps ahead of her. She was usually left grasping out for nothing.
She had turned to the make shift vanity filled with very basic clothing. She had to search through it for a bit to find something that fit; she was after all a goliath of a person. After settling, she had turned to make her bed, and noticed that her other eyes- her Helmet, had been turned back outwards- and a lone hairband lay next to it-- perhaps an offering of peace to the god?
Phasma had slipped it around her wrist, under her glove. It could hold her hand, she supposed.
Now the Helmet was the only piece of the outfit she paid much attention to. She had felt the divide in her start when she couldn't bring herself to picture the particular pieces that covered her legs- all the small segments that connected in intricate and calculated places for optimal movement. She had felt dizzy as she realized the shapes she was remembering was her own body & not the exoskeleton around it.
There had been nights where she had traced the lines of the trooper mouth- the same sterile smile on her lips- with her scarred fingers. If there was anywhere on her body that showed her age, it was her fingers. These were not the fingers of youth, the ghosting feelings of weapons constantly whispered to her grip. She could trust herself with tools. Her fingertips kissed and wished for trust; the stigmata pulling at the metal of her former face.
There had also been nights where she had thrown a sheet-- this thin veil-- over the helmet. Sometimes, the nights when Rey curled up beneath the sheets of Phasma's bed, the Helmet was completely out of sight. Rey did not ask where it had gone.
The more Rey had stayed, the more the idol had hidden.
Phasma had felt it was far more important she focus on her real face- the detailing’s of the healing scars; the crooked bend of her nose where it had been broken, softening bags under her skyward eyes. She was thankful Rey took to instruction like that well.
One morning, at breakfast, Rey suggested she find it a better home-- concerned with the uselessness of her armor crypt there in the corner. Phasma had been surprised she'd mentioned it- she herself had mostly forgotten its presence.
Finn had suggested she throw it in the trash compactor.
She had smiled; perhaps without realizing.
Back then, the armor had been her quicksilver.
Her body was her temple; her temple was her body.
But now, among these peers, with her blasphemous need to protect them overriding scripture, she could consider the notion.
"Oh, what a great sin these people have committed! They have made themselves gods of gold."
She could, for now, let the head hang on the stake of her bed. She hoped the symbolism would suffice.