Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8620081.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      Gen, F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Wars_Episode_VII:_The_Force_Awakens_(2015)
  Character:
      Poe_Dameron, Ben_Solo_|_Kylo_Ren, Finn_(Star_Wars)
  Additional Tags:
      hazing/rape_in_the_military, Headspace, Poe_Dameron_hurts_so_pretty, And
      He_Knows_It, Takotsubo_syndrome, narcotic_deathwish_fantasy, Seduction_to
      the_Dark_Side, D/s, Ivan_Karamazov_Explains_Subspace, Force_Evangelism,
      Murder, Journey_Through_the_Underworld, Finally_Finn, Prostitution,
      Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Infantilizing_pheremones, Tragedy
  Series:
      Part 1 of Without_A_Cause
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-11 Completed: 2017-01-16 Chapters: 15/15 Words: 39306
****** Without a Cause ******
by msdaphne
Summary
     “Tell me more about the ex-pilot. Tell me who you are without your
     Resistance to fight for.”
     Poe has something Kylo wants, and Kylo has something to offer in
     return, whether Poe wants it or not.
     (FWIW, the underage warning is for self-exploration and consensual
     sex between teenagers)
***** Prologue: The Upward Spiral *****
Chapter Summary
     Poe receives the wisdom of his elders. He's pretty sure he knows the
     difference between being masochistic and self-destructive.
===============================================================================
 
This was literally his worst nightmare.
The two finest heads of hair in the galaxy. Well, human, male heads. Together.
Without anyone apparently buying drinks for them. Yet.
And here he was, just two weeks out from his last evercadet buzzcut.
They were grayer than in the comics and holos and the one still photo his dad
kept on a shelf. But they were unmistakable. The pirate, shaggy and grouchy and
eminently tousle-able. The privateer, enviably put-together, mildly amused by
everything around him, including his companion.
He wasn't about to spot them across the room and not go buy them drinks, before
the rest of the graduates spotted and flocked to them. But for fuck's sake, why
not a couple of months from now when his hair had grown out a little?
Ok, maybe not worst nightmare, but. A nightmare.
"Pardon me, Sirs.”
They turned, Han squinting and Lando smiling widely.
“Well congratulations, Lieutenant.”
“You can tell, Sir.”
Han waved his hand around in the all this motion, with particular attention
paid to the crewcut.
“Why d'ya think we're here, kid?"
Really? They came to see us graduate?
"Semi-retired old guy like me can't be expected to pay for his own drinks all
the time."
Right, then.
“Will you allow me the honor of contributing to the cause?”
The bartender smiled. Lando nodded toward Poe, and then at their glasses.
"What's your name, kid?”
“Second Lieutenant Poe Dameron, at your service, Sirs.”
"No shit," Han's voice was soft, almost a whisper.
Lando's eyes openly raked across his face and body. Much as Poe would have
liked to think the old scoundrel was checking him out, he knew better. For one
thing, he was used to watching veterans of the Civil War scrutinize him for
resemblance to his folks. For another, rumor had it guys had been striking out
since long before Poe was even born.
He dropped a lazy eyelid anyway, almost a reflex, and earned himself a flash of
the blinding grin he recognized from history volumes, and an equally
recognizable sort of helpless wince from Han.
"Oh-ho, stars, would ya look at that."
"Fuck, he's a baby."
"Shouldn't be surprised, tho."
"Those two couldn't keep their hands off each other to save their lives."
"Well, literally to save their lives."
"And other people's lives."
"Yours, a couple times, if I recall."
"You know what I mean."
The rhythmic banter between two old heroes would have been intoxicating enough
on any subject, but they were talking about his parents. He forced his mouth to
move.
"They were very much in love. As I understand it. I was, pretty young."
"Mmm. Yeah you were."
"Sorry. Sorry I didn't make it to the - y'know," Han wasn't sure where to go
from there. “Well, tell your old man hi for me. From one outclassed sonofabitch
to another." He clinked Poe's glass and drank.
"She was a goddamned hero," Lando agreed.
"My first," Poe said, feeling oddly like she was more theirs than his. "Still
my #1 hero. Sorry," he added, nodding at Han.
"Psh," Han rolled his eyes.
“I just mean, you're #1 to a lot of people, Sir.”
“You clearly haven't met his wife."
"And your dad's no fucking slouch.”
“I met her a few times. When I was a kid. And I meant - pilot heroes. Of
course.”
“Nn-hm. Well, kid, you know what they say about heroes.”
“Heh," Lando answered for him. "They say a hero's just a masochist with
something worth fighting for.”
He knew how he meant it, as a gentle tease to his poorer and more heavily
scarred old friend. But. Poe had not heard that maxim before, and damn if it
didn't hit all his buttons. His next breath flowed into bottomless lungs, he
flushed with pride, feeling suddenly two inches taller. There was no way he was
keeping a straight face, but he tried to fight off the sheer smugness that
wanted to erupt there.
“You tell all the young pilots that?”
Lando raised an eyebrow at him. “Most of them take it as a warning.”
Han looked hard at Poe. “He's not talking about whatever, recreational
activities you kids get up to nowadays. Listen, kid, I've seen a lot of self-
destructive pilots. Soldiers, too, anyone who fights for a living. And, for
what it's worth, there's still plenty of Darksiders out there. I don't want to
hear about my friends' kid going on any suicide missions.”
“No, Sir. No suicide missions. I promise. Unless it's really, really
important.” Charming smile. And just then some of his friends rolled up,
equally giddy with admiration, interrupting just in time to stop him - no, save
him - from asking Han Solo and Lando Calrissian what they knew about
recreational activities. Sirs.
They were happy to regale the group with war stories as long as the drinks were
coming, and they had plenty of advice for the baby pilots. Some of it sounded
like bullshit, some of it was pretty common sense. He definitely noticed the
way Lando's eyes swept over his old friend as he offered this gem:
"Look, I'm not gonna tell you to be safe out there, we all know what that's
worth. But I am gonna tell you something they didn't tell ya at the academy.
You find yourself stranded, maybe even captured? Remember one thing: there's
nothing in this galaxy sexier than an injured pilot. Whatever your persuasion,
you find the right person, you can have them eating out of the palm of your
hand.”
  
===============================================================================
 
 
He'd been honest, then, about not looking for suicide missions. He isn't self-
destructive. Not really.
Okay, there's a little part of him. Something beckoning downward. Something
that wants to drag him down, not just under the surface but right down the
fucking drain.
It promises a messy, inglorious fate. He mostly ignores it, or doesn't take it
very seriously; there will be plenty of time to confront it down the line, when
fate catches up with him. Because right now? The part that lifts him up is so
much stronger.
The part that is drawn to disappearing into something other, something greater
than himself.
It had made him a leader in the academy. He wasn't as concerned with his
grades, his rank or his evaluations; so much as with his class, his squadron,
his comrades. Whenever he rotated into a student cadre position, he inhabited
it, his own ego disappearing into the role.
It's true, too, of the ships he flies. Plenty of pilots claim that when they're
“in the zone,” the ship feels like an extension of their body. He feels,
rather, that he is a component of the ship. A vital one, sure, on par with the
astromech, but a component nonetheless. After all, a sentient with all the
destructive power of a starfighter in their hands can still be prone to caprice
or even malice. But an x-wing fighter is a part of a fleet, deployed to protect
the galaxy from fascist imperialism.
And that mission is what is worth fighting for.
That mission is why he joined the only faction in the galaxy that sees the
First Order for the threat they are. When he did, he gave his body, his heart
and his soul to it, immersed in the need to be worthy of the command he's been
given, and to inspire the same loyalty in his squadrons.
...
And yeah, it sounds simplistic, but one could compare it to sex. The need to
put his faith in someone else - a partner, or his comrades. The thrill of
making the choice to trust, and the comfort of accepting that choice.
The fear, going into battle. The cold white hot crack of a leather strap
softening to red and finally, blissfully, to black. Gratitude for soft kisses
and kind words. The ground beneath his feet again.
And increasingly, lately, the breathless pink uncertainty of a scalpel on his
flesh. It's not technically sex, but it is sex; it just is. Just like all this
covert spy shit doesn't look like fighting, but it is. Rarefied, maybe,
but still fighting.
...
They don't always win. Sometimes, they seem to be losing. Sometimes, his brain
rebels against the terrible odds, and his body doesn't want to move toward the
danger.
So sometimes, when he needs to, when he needs the extra shot of courage, he
does something just a little bit perverse. He gives himself not just to the
Resistance, but to Leia herself, its living avatar. Feels himself as an
instrument of her will, her hands guiding him into battle like a servomech.
Not that she could ever find out about that, gods no. He knew how it would go:
The lecture he'd get about recapitulating oppression and about free will
andself-determination.He would try to explain that this is his free will; that
his temporary and willing submission in battle is no more fascist than his
adult, consenting sex life is abusive.
He knows the difference between loyalty and obedience. He's hardly obedient by
nature; who knows that better than she? It's just a crutch, extra courage,
something to get him through a mission, the same way other soldiers use stim
tabs.
He'd stand as tall and defiant as he could, rest the back of his calm, steady
hand against her own, look her dead in the eye, and ask, Would you rather I had
a stim habit, Ma'am?
As if sarcasm could prove his point about obedience.
She couldn't tell him what or how to think. But she would withdraw, pull away
from him, because she would never again be certain that he could stand up to
her when she needed him to. If his fate came in the form of a photon missile,
she'd get over it alright. Missiles: quick, painless, kinda what he signed up
for.
 
But this: alone in the bowels of a star destroyer, facing interrogation,
torture, and an unmarked death.
He prayed to everything good and light in the universe that Bee would make it
back to her. But when ey did, ey'd tell her what had happened, how he'd been
taken, probably beg her to try to rescue him. It was going to hurt her enough
as it was, without her having to resent him for it, too.
This is why he'd never spoken of it to a living soul.
 
 
***** Happy Places *****
Chapter Summary
     The full irony of the term "happy place" was somewhat lost on his
     generation. To them, it was just a callous nickname for the unique
     and usually very private mechanisms they developed to cope with
     duress and, ultimately, resist interrogation. Poe had a half-dozen or
     so. The direst one wasn't actually a place, and it sure as fuck
     wasn't happy.
===============================================================================
 
So maybe it hadn't been the best idea to try to sass his way through a random
FO stop-and-pummel. Who did he think he was, Han Solo? (And, honestly, how
often had it really even worked for Han?) Especially when he realized it wasn't
a random raid; they were after the same objective; they were after him.
He was - detained? Arrested? Abducted? Nothing technically legal, but that had
never stopped them before. While the factional lines were rapidly hardening
across the galaxy, war had yet to be formally declared. But everyone knew what
was up. For all practical purposes, he was a prisoner of war, now. So, he
guessed, he'd better start acting like one.
That, at least, was something he knew about. He'd trained to protect himself,
to protect the mission, to protect his comrades. Whether that training could
ever be adequate was doubtful, but it was something to cling to, and that in
itself was a comfort.
Supposedly, giving his name, rank and homeworld would give him a better chance
of ever getting out alive. But those were the old rules, from the last war. It
was unlikely he'd live to ever see the light of the stars again; it didn't seem
worth it to give even that much information, because anything could be used to
manipulate him.
No one would ever order him to give up that thin hope - it would be illegal as
well as immoral - but they didn't need to. He took a deep breath. He pulled his
manacled hands up to his chest, bowed his head and kissed his own knuckles, wet
and tender and sad. He closed his eyes and sank straight to his happy place of
last resort.
The full irony of the term happy place was somewhat lost on his generation. To
them, it was just a callous nickname for IVARS, the unique and usually very
private mechanisms they developed to cope with duress and, ultimately, resist
interrogation. Individualized visualization resilience strategy, something like
that. Poe had a half-dozen or so. The direst one wasn't actually a place, and
it sure as fuck wasn't happy.
He remembered the choice to have the surgery. He remembered signing the
papers. He remembered the last time he sang for his friends. He remembered the
anesthesiologist patiently waiting for him to stop sobbing. He remembered
enduring months of irritating throat aches afterward, before he really learned
to not even try.
He remembered when he could still tap out some consonants with his tongue, and
mutilating that too, enough to make those consonants indistinct, leaving just
enough to eat and swallow. He remembered the last, determined measure,
injecting todocaine into his lips before he slashed them open and sewed them
together, leaving just enough open at the corners to suck nutrients through a
straw. He remembered unreturned kisses across the gruesome scar.
 
It was brutal, but it worked. In training, anyway.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The ground troopers that had brought him in had been rough enough; the four
guards waiting in the cell, one with with a stun baton, were enough to make him
cower against the wall, manacles clutched to his chest. But the brig guards
seemed perfunctory, if not downright disinterested. The sergeant sat down with
his data pad while the other three batted the prisoner around casually and
asked vague questions.
The sergeant murmured to himself as he pecked at the screen, giving the date
and the ship's time and his name - "Sergeant" and then what sounded like a
string of numbers. He narrated some version of events:
“The.. pris..ner.. claimed.. igno.. rance.. of the ob..jec.tive."
Bullshit, I haven't said a godsdamned thing.  Since we left the surface,
anyway. Idiot.
"..that.. the.. Firrst .. Or.der.. can.. quote.. go.. to.. hell.. unnn.quote.
Eff.Dee..Four.One..Four.Four.. ap.plied.. com..pliance.. proto.. col.. thirty..
six-A." He turned to look at them.
"Shit or get off the vac, boys. I think he's a big one."
...
That's right, thought Kylo, from the other side of the wall. Put your toys down
and kick him in the face already. After all, the bastard was even more
beautiful now than he had been as a child. And after the way he'd sassed him,
Kylo wasn't about to face him again until his nose was broken at the very
least. A few missing teeth would be ideal.
He was impatient to get the map, of course, but now he also had the pleasure of
probing Poe at his leisure to look forward to. Poe was having some very
interesting thoughts already, much darker than he'd seen before in her people.
He was eager to know if this was something new in their training and culture,
or if maybe, just maybe, the sweet, kind, child of the light he remembered had
stepped toward the dark at some point.
Impatient and eager, but to his frustration it was policy that this phase was
essential to morale. He didn't understand how it could be good for their morale
to fail over and over, but they weren't his troops.
...
They had Poe back on his feet, his shirt open. 1881's back was against the
wall, and he held Poe at arm's length, one hand holding him by the neck, the
other fisted around his belt.
"Keep your hands down."
Poe was glaring into the holocorder, putting on his best dont give them a
Force-damned thing for me face for the proof-of-life holo he assumed they were
making. He also assumed they were pulling his shirt aside to expose his
identifying scars, since he sure as hell wasn't about to give them a
voiceprint.
4144 poked at him with the stun baton. His muscles spasmed involuntarily, but
it was hardly what he'd call torture. Yet. Poe's unconventional resistance
strategy went unchallenged, as they hadn't even asked him to state his name
yet. This was nothing like SERE, and he briefly wished he could survive to
debrief on their methods. Also the stun baton. The model they'd trained with
had mutiple taze settings, but this one seemed to shock proportionally to the
impact of the blows.
He shook his head. Even thinking about training was too close to acknowledging
things he shouldn't even be thinking about: The war and his part in it. The
very existence of the Resistance. He focused again on a familiar, reassuring
exercise: narrowing his existence down to here and now.
 
The room he was in was all he knew. Nowhere else existed. He was born here. He
lived here. He would die here. Until then, he would drink in its spare details
with the zeal of a naturalist. He set about estimating its dimensions,
imagining a little rule and flipping it along the vertices.
He was halfway up the door frame when a whack to the small of his back took his
knees out from under him. The trooper behind him pulled him back to his feet.
Another between his shoulder blades brought his elbows back like birds wings,
jerking so quickly that his wrists caught painfully in the heavy manacles.
4144 waited for his prisoner to regain both his footing and his breath. He
rubbed the baton around the middle of his back, under the shoulder blades. He
picked his spot and tapped.
Poe arched backward, head snapping back in 1881's grip, mouth flying open. A
faint Ah! escaped with his gasp.
"That's it," encouraged the trooper with the recorder.
 
Even through the vocoder, Poe recognized that tone of voice. Relishing and
demanding, the voice of someone who had found the keys to him. Under the right
circumstances, he liked that voice. The voice itself was a key; he felt it
click, felt a treasonous little urge to please the speaker.
It was like someone exhaling spice in your face and pressing the pipe into your
hand. Wrong person, wrong place, wrong everything, but you'd still feel some
little bit of want. It was easy enough to crush the urge, under the
circumstances, but the fact that he'd felt anything at all was scary.
What the fuck was that?
He stared at the tiny ghost of himself in the recorder's proof as 4144 rubbed
the baton around again, buzzing lightly, almost tickling, making him twitch,
and tapped again. Again he arched and gasped.
 
It would actually be a pretty effective POL, if you showed it to the right
people. The thought was amusing for a moment, and then suddenly it wasn't
anymore. It wasn't funny, it was fucking awful. That's exactly what they were
doing, weren't they? They were making some kind of... porn.
He felt himself staring wide-eyed and appalled at the trooper holding the
recorder.
"That's good, look at me."
He looked straight at the recorder and raised the manacles in front of his face
with both middle fingers extended. And immediately felt his guts ripped out of
his body with red-hot tongs. Next thing he knew he was on the floor, winded,
tears in his eyes, bile threatening his throat. He scrambled up to his knees
and breathed deep; the last thing he needed now was to puke.
"I told you to keep your hands down."
They hauled him to his feet, still panting. The trooper gripped his wrists,
touched a button on the manacles and clicked them together again behind his
back.
Nice going.
This wasn't how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to be brave, and
stoic, and go to his execution with his mouth shut. And someday, when they won,
some archivist would go through the records of this ship, and write a paragraph
about him to go in the Lives of the martyrs, and at least one person would know
he'd done his part and died a hero.
He wasn't supposed to be remembered for this. 
He could see himself in the proof, barechested and writhing. He wasn't
flattering himself by acknowledging that pain looked good on him. It was just a
fact, one that he'd enjoyed all his adult life, and now he felt like he was
paying with his soul for every ounce of pleasure he'd ever gotten from it.
All the horror that had been circling around inside his head found its center
of gravity: whoever the intended audience was, they were going to enjoy it.
They were going to jerk off to it. Would it stay here, something to entertain
the troops? Or would they release it, to damage Resistance morale? He imagined
millions of people across the galaxy, enemies gloating, friendlies admiring,
all of them masturbating to the last, anguished moments of his life.
 
He couldn't even fall back on it's just pain, it'll all be over soon. This was
something he had to fix. He pulled out the only weapon he had; he twisted his
face into the ugliest mask of disgust he could muster.
"Don't do that."
4144 swung the baton hard into his balls again. 1881 allowed him to crumple
forward, curled in and sucking for air. When they got him to his feet again, he
sneered again at the recorder, and got the same treatment. This time, 4144
yanked back on his hair, so he was staring at the ceiling.
"How's that?" he asked 3070, behind the corder.
"That's good. '81, hold him like that." The silent trooper behind him did as
instructed.
"Settle down, scum. No-one's gonna hurt you." The irony of this coming from a
man who'd just clubbed and tazed him thrice in the balls was lost on Poe, as he
knew that the hurt he was talking about was something categorically different.
They had him good; he was out of bolts. His pulse was as wild as his thoughts.
That had to stop. He blinked at the ceiling, breathing, breathing, breathing.
He took out his imaginary rule again and flipped it around the vertices: 20..
40.. 60.. 80.. one. 20.. 40...
 
Millions of people was probably an outside guess. And who was he to most of
them anyway? No one he loved would ever watch it. Well, someone from comms, and
someone from intel, to look for hidden messages. But they'd hate every second
of it. He believed in them.
...80.. three. 20.. 40.. 60...
Hell, for all he knew they weren't even recording, the whole thing a tactic to
get into his head. At some point they took his shirt entirely; if they
commented on his scars he didn't hear it.
...
When the door hissed open and another trooper entered, the guards' irritation
was evident even through the vocoders.
"Not til Beta, Alf. Like, the end of it. Lotta bullshit to edit out here."
Alf laid a chip on the sergeant's desk and approached 4144.
"Get outta here, man. We're almost done here. We don't have time for this."
Alf looked at Poe and back at 4144.
"Doesn't look like you even started."
"Look, he's someone important. Ren's gonna be down here any minute."
"Fuck Kylo Ren."
Three helmets whipped toward 3070 and the holocorder.
"It's paused, it's paused!" he cried, hands up.
Alf held up three more chips. "Well fucking unpause it and get busy. The boys
want some fucking action, not a fucking portrait."
"Well they don't have to fucking watch it then."
"Fo," Alf punched 4144 in the chest. "Your boy Twist. Wants the chance to give
it to someone else for a change."
1881 was indeed pulling Poe closer to him, but not like he wanted to give him
anything. More like a human shield. Poe instinctively crowded back against him.
...
Someone was screaming, silently, and it wasn't the pilot. Kylo's view of the
scene through the wall was interrupted by 1881's amygdala exploding, blazing
white and cold and blinding. It took him a moment to shield himself from the
man's terror.
...
"We don't have time for this."
Alf snapped the chips together into a stack and pressed them into Fo's palm.
"I have time."
Fo hesitated. He looked at the sergeant, who was aggressively ignoring them,
hunched so far over his pad his helmet nearly touched the desk. He looked at
3070, who shrugged. He did not look at Poe or 1881. He let Alf close his
fingers around the chips.
"Eighty-one. How bout you, uh, stand guard in the hall." 1881 was still frozen,
unwilling to step out from behind the prisoner.
...
Whatever had happened to 1881 - or, had been happening - he was a hell of a lot
more afraid of the newcomer, 1151, than was the pilot. Poe was afraid, but he
was also reeking of disdain. Kylo shared that disdain; the Order had just
proved itself twice over in a matter of seconds to be morally fathomless.
...
1881 finally released Poe and stepped toward the door, but the two others
blocked his way. He took the moment to spare a glance at the prisoner. The
prisoner's eyes were wide and looking intently at him.
Is that really what they call you? Fucking hell, man. You heard him, right?
Your boss? Say that no-one was gonna hurt me? It's not like I really believed
him, but... I know you can't do anything. I can't do anything. I just want you
to know I'm with you. Are you with me? Please?
"Sure you don't wanna stay, Twist?" Alf's coder was staticky with laughter.
1881 turned away. 4144 held out one of the chips. 1881 shrank away from it.
"Take the fucking money, '81. Beta's in two hours, Lenno's running tonight, get
yourself something for your nerves." The trooper snatched the chip and walked
out the door.
...
It was stupid, he knew, to feel betrayed. Just minutes ago, his relationship to
the squad was clear. They were enemies. He didn't know their names, just that
they were all his enemies. Then Alf showed up and disrupted the dynamic. He'd
heard the guards' names, and he'd seen Alf for a bully and a common enemy. And
he'd felt, for a second back there, like they were on the same side against the
bully.
And then they'd literally sold him out. And he knew there hadn't been one
single second where he could have trusted any one of them, but it still felt
like betrayal.
Maybe that's how he was supposed to feel. Maybe the whole thing was a script:
bad trooper/worse trooper. Maybe they were improvising. Maybe they were just
bored and fucking around.
Or maybe they really knew what they were doing, were reading him like a book,
zeroing in on his weak spots. Maybe when they were done with him Eighty-one was
going to come back with a soft towel and hot tea and furtive sympathy, ask him
for help, maybe.
Yeah. That one might actually work on you, sucker.
...
Any kind of sex made Kylo queasy. He so habitually and efficiently blocked it
out that he sometimes forgot it even went on in the Corps. He was also used to
occasional bursts of fear and pain lighting up around the ship sometimes. The
thought that some of these assaults might be sexual enraged him. Not because he
had compassion for anyone injured or terrorized, but because of the hypocrisy
it would take for the Order to tolerate this kind of indiscipline.
He already had his hands raised to throttle the whole squad where they stood,
when the prisoner had some absolutely fascinating insights into his
predicament.
...
Okay, don't panic, just, just imagine it's a scene. A really, really intense
scene. And it sounds like they don't have much time, so. Can't be any worse
than that time on Bespin, right, kiddo?
...
That time on Bespin? Kylo gently tugged at the memory already close to the
surface, and was revolted. Poe Dameron. Hell. Had been in a stim-fueled orgy on
Bespin? That had taken days to recover from? And his feelings about it were
fond? Fond enough to cling to like a pillow while the troopers assaulted him?
Damnation, he's as perverted as they are.
[If one asked Kylo all the ways Poe's memory was different than what he
currently endured, he would first cite the drugs and the xenos. Then maybe the
fact that most of those participating were doing so on their own time, not on
shift when they were supposed to be extracting intel. If it were pointed out
that Poe hadwanted to be there, he would wonder why, then, he felt differently
about the troopers. Consent had never been part of Kylo's experience. Of
anything. Ever, in his life. Strength and passion were the virtues he lived by.
And from where he was standing, Poe was showing admirable strength. The
troopers, on the other hand, seemed neither to hate nor truly desire their
enemy. They fell on him as if they were pilfering extra rations from captured
cargo.]
...
Breathe. Slower.
Okay, I met these guys... in... uh... they asked me if I'd ever been into
stormtrooper play. That's it. And I stupidly said yes. And here we are. With
their frighteningly accurate costumes in their terrifyingly convincing dungeon.
C'mon kid, you can do this. You have literally watched porn about this.
Asshole.
...
He watched Poe convince himself he could stop this if he really needed to,
watched him cling to being offended by the pain and rough handling, rather than
feeling panicked and helpless. Like this was something they weregoing to have
to talk about,afterward. 
And he saw regretful thoughts of his father flicker through the man's mind, a
not-fully enunciated notion that Han Solo would have talked his way out of this
before it went this far, or got himself shot trying. Is that what I should have
done? No, no, I did the right thing, I did what I trained to do...
And, Kylo noticed, his heart rate was dropping considerably. Without any good
reason. He was fascinated with how Poe was handling himself. His mind was
drifting from his imaginary scenarios to something more abstract. It was like
he was - was he meditating?
It wasn't like any kind of meditation Kylo had ever seen. There was something
like a warm, steamy ocean in his mind, and he was ... offering himself to it,
as if to drown in it. Blocks of ice - pain, panic, shame - bubbled up from
below, shoving him violently out of the warmth. He fought his way back down
into it, and the weapon with which he fought resembled nothing so much as
obedience. It was like nothing the knight had ever seen. Ye gods. If he'd had
such defenses... he resisted the urge to kneel against the wall.
 
===============================================================================
 
                                        
The troopers re-armored and dragged the prisoner to his feet. He'd lost track
of who was who. Sergeant Numbers was finishing his report. Poe tried to scour
the taste from his mouth, but it was so dry he could hardly move his tongue.
“Re.man..ded.. to Lord.. Ren...”
So that was that. These guys were done with him. They'd never intended to even
try to interrogate him. Wasn't that a kick in the teeth.
All that IVARS training. That was. Fucking hilarious. This would make a great
fucking lesson someday, in the alternate timeline where he lived to see 40 and
was semi-retired and a part-time SERE instructor, training a new generation to
face an enemy he didn't comprehend.
Apparently, this wasn't the first time he'd been tortured for nothing.
Fucking hilarious.
 
“...en..hannced.. in..terr..og-”
“I could really use some water.”
The sergeant stopped.
You got this, you magnificent smartass.
“Feel like I should at least gargle before I meet your boss.”
“Fucking hell." His shoulders slumped a little. "For fuck's sake boys, let him
use the fresher.” The trooper at his right pushed his shoulder, so Poe was
facing him.
“Good idea. People sometimes piss themselves in front of him.” It was hard to
tell through the coder, but it didn't sound like the trooper was mocking him.
More like a heads up, one soldier to another. Poe winced at him in utter
incomprehension of what went on inside those helmets.
He gathered his thoughts as he drank and pissed and washed as well as he could.
What was it Lando had said, all those years ago?
"You find the right person, you can have them eating out of the palm of your
hand.”
So far none of these assholes seemed like the right person. Except maybe
Eighty-one, who was about to go off-shift and drug himself into a stupor, if
he'd understood correctly. Pretty sure any hope in this situation was a
delusion. He decided he was ok with being delusional.
They dragged him to the next room and toward a shiny, bondage-y apparatus. He
allowed himself to crack wise, now, asking if they knew where he could get one
of those for his quarters, “you know, for entertaining?”
“Afraid Lord Ren isn't as entertaining as we are.”
Right.
“I don't suppose you could just-” Poe snapped his head to the side and slumped,
in imitation of being shot in the head.
“Sorry, scum. Wish I could.”
They'd started to file out when one of them turned around, stepped right up to
Poe, and punched him square in the nose. He heard the cartilage crunching, felt
the pain in the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet long before the
nerves in his face came back online. Brain reeling, he didn't see 4144 stiffen
and stare at his own arm, or hear his apology.
"Sorry," the trooper said, "I don't know why I did that."
 
 
***** I Saw Black and My Face Splash Across the Sky *****
Chapter Summary
     No one reacts *well* to a Force interrogation.
===============================================================================
 
It wasn't long til the adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain was asserting
itself. Everywhere. And then he must have passed out, because he didn't see the
knight enter. Just blinked, and he was there. And on the other side of the
blink, his eyes wouldn't open all the way, and his face stung and throbbed.
“Comfortable?”
Poe winced up at him resentfully, then closed his eyes again.
Kylo wasn't sure the busted nose had been a good idea after all. The pilot had
to breathe through his split, bloody lips. Just barely open, trying to conserve
moisture, just a crack. It was hard to look away from. It was supposed to have
made him less attractive.
Eager to resolve the business part of the interview, Kylo skipped any further
formalities and tore directly into the rebel's mind.
...
Lightning seared through Poe's skull, its flashes illuminating memories.
Random, at first. Friends, family, lovers. Leia. Cities, landscapes, home.
Leia. Flying, lots of it. Different craft, across the years of his life.
Academy. Navy. Resistance. Leia.
He'd been trained to avoid thinking about classified knowledge, to think away
from it. But this wasn't thinking. This wasn't even remembering. This was
having his head pried open and individual neurons turned in front of a
microscope.
He was flying, reliving the feel and sound and smell of every ship he'd ever
flown. A-wings. X-wings. Rapier One. Black One.The burning flashes converged,
slowly, toward a point in time:
Last month, joyriding with Karé, chasing the sunset after wildfires in the
northern hemisphere.
Last week, Alpha rota, milk run in the clunky freighter Mistflower.
Two days ago, prepping the Bluebird, the unregistered X-wing he'd taken to meet
the objective.
Flying the Bluebird.
 
He tried to scramble back in time, to pry himself out of the Bluebird's cockpit
and back into Black One, back into the freighter. Any ship, a shuttle, a
fucking speeder, anything.
But then he couldn't remember what those things looked like anymore, or what
their names were.
He just knew he had to get out of the Bluebird.
He couldn't remember where he was trying to get to. Besides out.
There was only one thing to do, eject, not even wait for reentry; he didn't
need to survive; he just needed to get outand not land this ship. But he
couldn't move his hand to hit the safety. Couldn't move. He imagined the snap,
click, snap of the safety, willed it to happen, begged the warnings in the
corners of the HUD to light, tried to pull the lever anyway, but his hand
wouldn't do that either, nothing, just the orange glow of reentry and then the
yellow surface filling his view.
Nor would the yoke respond to any suicidal maneuvers. After landing he tried
with all his might to run, just run off into the endless, indistinguishable
dunes, but his feet shuffled toward the village in the slow, trancelike gait
he'd practiced so as not to call attention to himself.
The whole mission played in his skull like a holo he couldn't shut off, until
he was crouched beside Bee, inserting the map: You take this. It's safer with
you than it is with me. You get as far away from here as you can! D'you hear
me?And then Bee was speeding away at approximately mark 215 from the landing
coordinates.
 
And then he was back in the cell, the ghost of his blaster rifle slipping from
his hands. He stared at the space between them as if the image of BB-8 and eir
trajectory were an object he could hope to snatch back.
As if the damage could be undone.
Kylo watched the slightest animation return to the prisoner's jaw and fingers
as he begged the Universe to rewind.
Just rewind, just a few seconds. That didn't go right, I can do better.
Watched horror and regret pouring into him as he realized it wasn't going to
rewind. He's going to cry.The pilot shook as he gulped in air, squeaking as the
air squeezed through his constricted throat, the shape of a wail that didn't
come. His eyes filling, the man sucked air through his teeth and muttered
Noagain and again as if he'd just watched someone he loved killed in front of
him.
Close enough, thought Kylo.
He paused to watch tears slowly leak out of the swollen nose, carrying tiny
flecks of blood, rejoining the flood on his cheeks, dripping over a wretched
grimace.
Watched the prisoner look up to the heavens, try to unclench his teeth long
enough to vocalize the abject I'm sorry that screamed in his mind, in his soul.
Give up and slump forward, still weeping.
No one reacted well to a Force interrogation. Indignation, always. Anger.
Guilt, sometimes, more often shame. Most of them had asked, vocally or not, to
be allowed to die by their own hand. For honor.
 
This, though, this was some kind of grief. The abject loneliness of a soul
divorced from the galaxy. Like every tendril and rootlet of the Force had
pulled out of him at once, leaving him porous and bloodless.
It was too familiar to Kylo; he'd lived in that place for years. Wouldn't wish
it on his worst enemy.
They didn't need to be enemies, though, not now. There was Darkness in the
pilot, he could taste it. He could draw it out, nourish it, fill the empty
spaces, take away some of the pain. It would fill him eventually anyway, if he
lived.
He wanted to meditate with the pilot, to understand how the protective cocoon
he'd knitted around himself earlier could be made from weaknesses like
emptiness and obedience.
 
He tilted the rack back, enough to let Poe's head rest, but not so much as to
keep his nose from draining. He moved to wipe some of the mess off of Poe's
face, but in response the pilot shrank away and hissed, “Don't touch me!”
Kylo tilted his head.
“As you wish.”
“I. Hate. You. I fucking hate you.”
Good.
Poe stopped abruptly and stared at the source of the voice in his head. He
hadn't pulled thattrick in the interrogation. Eyes wide, jaw slack, he
wondered, what fresh new fucking hell is this.
If he could have seen through the mask, he would have seen Kylo smiling fondly.
“You may be lost to the Light, Poe Dameron, but you needn't be lost to the
galaxy.”
He opened his mouth to make a smart rejoinder, but words failed him.
Rest, the knight commmanded, and his body obeyed.
  
...
 
Rest was fitful, though. Everything hurt. His face. His ribs. His wrists. His
ass. His back. Even his guts felt twisted.
His heart. It hurt. Physically. Like a blade slashing and hacking at his chest.
It was his heart, not as a metaphor, but the actual muscle that circulated
blood and kept him alive. He'd heard of people dropping dead of heart failure
after sudden and profound grief, and wondered if that was what was happening to
him.
Please, Force, if you can hear me at all, do it, let this be the end of this,
please.
 
 
 
 
***** Amarum et Decorum Est *****
Chapter Summary
     Alone and incapacitated, Poe tends first to his physical wounds, with
     the only analgesic available to him. Only then is he ready to address
     the moral wound Kylo has inflicted. The cure for all of these
     conditions is the same.
===============================================================================
 
Ren's suggestion to rest lasted a little while, but he barely lost
consciousness. Soon pain was nipping at his awareness, demanding attention, and
the soldier in him was inventorying his wounds and prescribing treatments.
It had been long enough to objectively assess his injuries. His wrists: he
flexed his fingers and bought sharp, hot pain, but not quite localized enough
to indicate fractures. It would've been nice to be able to wrap them, but. His
ribs: probably a couple of fractures, but it's not like he could've done
anything for them in the best of circumstances.
His nose: that was a problem. Not like he needed his pretty face anymore - look
where that had gotten him - but he couldn't breathe through it. Breathing
through his mouth was going to dehydrate him twice as fast, and that's no way
to go: headaches, pissy attitude, UTI, kidney failure. He strongly doubted he
was going to sass his way into another fresher break anytime soon.
Double vision, absurd thoughts flitting around and interrupting his inventory:
concussion. At least the bondage-y thing held him upright.
And there was still the sharp, slashing pain in his chest. He could only hope
it was his heart screaming for oxygen as it strangled and starved itself.
...

There were exercises he did in the cockpit, on long flights, to avoid neuralgia
and thrombosis. He had even less latitude to move, here. He could squirm a
little, and wiggle his fingers and toes.
Thrombosis had always been a funny word to him. It sounded more like a name for
a bass instrument than an emergent medical condition. But here in a First Order
brig, it sounded like the name of the angel that could escort him to the sweet
hereafter. A big fat blood clot to stop his heart. Or maybe an unattended
stroke.
He could feel the wings wrapping around him, the voice lifting him out of his
body,
I'm here, Poe. It's me, Thrombosis. It's gonna be okay. They're not gonna get
any more out of you. We're leaving here, you and me.
...

But his self-assessment was really just a distraction, from the only thing that
mattered. Which was the magnitude of the failure of his mission. How much
damage the First Order would do if they caught Bee. How he'd let the Resistance
down, let the goddamn galaxy down. It wasn't just a personal failure; people
would get hurt. People he loved, and people he didn't even know. Leia.
His thoughts leapt away from her like a nerf from a stun-fence. He wasn't ready
to think about her.
...

He needed it, now. His one abiding id-born analgesic. The only thing that could
take him away from here, the only thing powerful enough to take away the pain
and grief. As powerful as any chemical narcotic, and just as addictive.
He'd stopped, cut way back, anyway, when he'd realized he'd been abusing it.
But right now, hell, it hurt so bad, and he was dying anyway, or at least he
hoped he was. It might even be the last time.
...

Usually when he did this, in a bunk or a cot or his ruck on the ground, usually
he would pull his arms into the small of his back, fingertips to elbows, or as
close as he could reach, depending on what condition he was in. Here, all he
could do was tilt his head back a little more.
He's on his back, arms bound behind him. A man crouches over him; they suck one
another gently, just tasting, just warming up. Orgasm is so far away they can't
even smell it yet, like a deer in the woods, while they are still settling into
position. It's nice.
The world started to drop away.
They're not alone.
[Every single time, if only for a fraction of a second, he feels ashamed that
all of the players in his fantasy are human. It's just that, xeno sex can get
complicated and awkward, and this is his sick narcotic deathwish fantasy. It's
fucked up, but he needs it, and he needs it to go smoothly, and not get
derailed by the details of incompatible anatomy. But always, even if just for a
millisecond, he feels shitty about it.]
A pair of feet straddling him turn into a pair of knees, and his partner kneels
back to let someone else at Poe's cock. His man settles over his face, stroking
himself casually, allowing Poe to suck at his balls.
He hardly even notices the newcomer, so enthralled by the scrotum above him,
losing track of time. More feet arrive, and his man leans back to address
someone standing in front of him. His asscheeks close over Poe's face, and Poe
turns his head to the side, tearing his face away so he can breathe. The man
notices, sits up a little straighter, nudges Poe's elbow with his knee in
apology. Poe cranes his neck to get back to the man's balls.
Someone- the person that had been sucking him? Someone else? -is working their
fingers into him. “Don't fuck me, just use your hand, nice and slow, all the
way,” he wishes, and, since it's his damn fantasy, that's what they do, they
take their sweet time getting their hand inside him. So slow, so confident, so
nearly painless it's not really even arousing, it's just nice.
So nice, the sensation of being stuffed full at both ends, not even moving,
really, just stuffed like a fucking roast.
 
[Half the time he falls asleep at this point.]
An observer would have seen: his head lolling, his knees pulling as far apart
as the restraints allow, his pelvis undulating, as slow and deep as ocean waves
on a planet with a massive single moon. His blood pressure is dropping, his
respiration is shallow but every few breaths he makes up for it with a little
gasp. He has an erection, but he doesn't seem to be aware of it.
 
More people are showing up to the scene, into each other, standing and kneeling
over and around him. He's afraid his man is going to leave, doesn't want him
to, so with great effort he takes both balls into his mouth, works his lips up
to tighten around the skin above them. He can breathe just fine through his
nose, but he gags a little on the size and the hairs; he moves them around in
his mouth til he's comfortable. Still, he convulses a bit - it's not gagging,
exactly, but something like it. No one seems to notice.
Someone's crawling on top of him, straddling his stomach; they must be going
down on his man, yes, their chins graze together, their lips just an inch
apart. His man leans back, smothering him again. This time he can't break away.
He shakes his head, and his man just presses down harder, maybe he thinks he's
coming, not begging for air. Or maybe doesn't even remember he's there.
 
An observer would have seen: Poe stiffen and shudder in the restraints, sucking
his tongue back into his throat, choking himself a little. His pulse spikes for
a moment, circulating oxygen. [Poe had no idea about the tongue thing until he
did this once in a crowded field hospital with a shortage of pain meds. The
patient next to him saw him stop breathing and shook him awake. That was when
he decided to try to quit.]
 
His man squirms enough that he can occasionally get a tiny sip of air through
his nose, but he won't last long like this. The person straddling him rests
some of their weight on his chest... making room for someone to sit on his
cock, that feels good... but there's more weight on him, on his chest, and his
stomach, he can hardly inhale anyway, even if he can stay alert enough to
anticipate the little sips, which he can't.
He pries his eyes open to take one last look at the curve of his man's ass, so
close now he can hardly see anything else. He's aware of the unresolved light
and shadow of other bodies around them, and of the blackness closing in around
the periphery of his vision. As the blackness claims him, he sees it all, from
above, a squirming pile of lust and heat and at the bottom of it all, unnoticed
by anyone, his still and painless body.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
One hour and twenty minutes later he woke clear-eyed and clear-minded, after a
full, if accelerated, sleep cycle: a textbook combat nap. He knew exactly where
he was, and what he had to do.
The room was dark. He unfocused his vision, tried to picture her. Instead, the
darkness resolved into flecked black and grey. A wall? Granite? No... tarmac.
Tarmac, inches from his face.
   I'm sorry.
On his hands and knees, before him he can just see her standard-issue combat
boots. He's never wanted anything more than he does now to press his forehead
to the leather toes, to clutch her ankles, to beg her forgiveness.
   I'm so sorry.
Instead he drops his forehead to the rough tarmac, holds out his crossed
wrists.
   I won't resist.
Did Bee survive? Please, please tell me you found em...
She says nothing.
Would they- would they send his body home? Would anyone even want it?
   Please, I'm sorry!
A crowd is starting to gather around them.
   Say something, please! I don't want you to forgive me. Just, say something!
She turns and walks back toward the hangar.
   No, please! I'm sorry!
The crowd is murmuring, as they approach and surround him.
   I'm sorry!
...
 
[He knows that what he is about to do is unfair to his comrades. They will know
that he fought with everything he had. They will cherish the memory of him, not
curse it. But he needs this, now.]
 ...
 
"Get up."
He rises back up onto his hands and knees, moves a foot to start to stand, and
is kicked hard in the ribs, and falls back down.
"I said get up."
He tries again, and is kicked again.
He knows it's what he deserves: to be condemned, disowned, erased. More
importantly, it's what they deserve: to avenge their hero. That hero is dead,
and the wretch before them is the man that killed him.
"Ya mighta just got us all killt, least ya can do is look me in the eye and
apologize like a proper sentient."
Hands. Knees. Kick.
Then someone is kicking his legs open, and he tenses for a kick in the balls
before a voice behind him says, "Not there; he probably likes it."
He's hauled up by the back of his shirt, can't get his feet under him, hangs
there choking on his collar for a moment til he gets his footing.
"You know who didn't talk?"
Sharp yank by the hair, forcing him to look up into disgusted faces.
"Crossar."
 [They didn't actually know for sure. Crossar had been sucked into a grav beam;
they'd been on red alert for days after. His fellow-pilots were suited up and
ready to scramble, but other than that they'd had little to do to consume their
nervous energy, or to express grief for someone that was probably still alive,
but that they'd never see again. So they held vigil on the edge of the tarmac,
a bunch of mutes trying intently to feel the Force flowing through and around
them, to project strength and serenity out to their captured comrade.
A week later, a small supply freighter was attacked and destroyed, but it
wasn't of real strategic importance, and nothing else happened after that, so
the consensus was that it was a coincidence, and that Crossar had died as
bravely as he'd lived.]
 
At the mention of their fallen friend's name, he feels his arms pulled out,
opening him up to their fists. A sharp one to his gut, knocking the wind out of
him. One to his face, while he's still gulping futilely. Another.
"You know who wouldn't have talked?"
[Again his conscience protests, conjecture! - a muffled cry from behind a
locked door.]
"Captain Branna."
 [Branna had been an exceptional pilot and leader, and Poe had recommended her
to take over command of Blue squadron. In the absence of a military college to
send her to, she'd been studying strategy and intelligence with the Resistance
command. She was a few weeks away from the promotion when she was blown to dust
in an ambush.]
 
"It should have been me," he croaks.
"Damn straight."
A heavy blow knocks the wind out of him yet again, his legs collapse. The names
of the fallen ring in his ears. The blows fall on him now like a summer
hailstorm. His whole body ringing with pain and condemnation. His lungs burn,
they won't open, they're going to kill him.
He welcomes the rough cradle of the tarmac as he collapses fully onto it. Every
time he's kicked, his cheekbone scrapes across it, tearing skin away, grinding
gravel in. What a mess, he thinks sadly.
He sees Ileenium hanging low in the sky, just touching the treetops, glowing
red in the thick haze of the atmosphere, red as the blood that fills his mouth.
Someone's still stomping his hips and thighs. And his right flank, his liver.
But the boots around his head and shoulders are still, staring down at his
pulpy face, watching his lips working like a fish's tossed up on a dock, trying
to suck air into his lungs. But his bruised diaphragm just won't move, and his
lungs won't fill.
   I'm so sorry.
The soldiers wander away in twos and threes, bitter and sullen. When he pulls
away from himself this time, it's not from above that he sees his body, but
from across the landing strip. The tarmac is still warm from the heat of the
day. The heat rises and mixes with the chill breeze rolling down from the
wooded hills.
Ileenium is huge and red; it hangs over the crumpled body at the end of the
runway. He shivers, and knows that it will hang at this altitude for the rest
of his life.
 
***** Your Thoughts Betray You *****
Chapter Summary
     Kylo presents his opening arguments.
===============================================================================
 
Kylo awoke to the sense that the sun itself was setting right there in his
room. An ominous chill chased the sleep-warmth from his skin. He smiled. Poe
was sleeping, dreaming. Processing. Healing.
He'd like to let him sleep longer, but they had to make the most of the time
they had together. He was confident he could keep Poe hidden and forgotten for
as long as he needed to, but it was surely just a short matter of time before
he was called away to fight Skywalker. 
...
He sat across from the rack and gently planted the suggestion that Poe was not
alone, so as not to startle him. Poe floated close to the surface of
consciousness. He was both delicious and sickening, aching and mournful but
still tinged with hypnagogic arousal. Kylo blocked the latter to the extent
that it existed in the Force. He couldn't block his other senses, though. He
was sure he could taste the man from across the room.
Please wake up.
He waited for Poe to wake to his surroundings, to sense again the man who
steeled himself to his duty with thoughts of suicide and self-mutilation. But
those notions were mere artifice, responses to circumstance. What he sensed
now was so, so much more promising. There was darkness in every soul, and it
was strong in this one. He'd spent a lifetime repressing it, hiding it behind
baffles and sweeping it into blind, barren niches. Now it was waking to its own
unexpected freedom. Stretching and flexing and creeping out into fresh
territory. This was going to be easier than he thought. 
He felt Poe's heart sink as he became aware again of where he was and what had
happened.
 
“You dream loudly, pilot.”
“Don't call me that.”
“It's not an insult.”
   Of course it fucking isn't.
“It's not true. Not anymore.”
“You don't think you will live to fly again.”
   No, asshole. He was the best part of me, the part that gave a fuck, and he's
gone. You fucking killed him.
"Doesn't matter. I'm dead to them anyway."
“I imagine so. Are they dead to you?”
   I guess they'll be dead for real soon enough.
Soon enough. Right. They didn't even know, yet. They were still living in the
same galaxy he had left them in.
"They still love me," he whispered, to himself. Not meaning: despite his
failure. Meaning: because they didn't know, yet. It was a mistake to let the
thought slip out of his mouth; Kylo pounced on it.
"Love," he scoffed. "Two galactic wars have taught your people nothing, then."
   Galactic wars...?
Poe looked confused and offended.
“How do you not understand by now!" Kylo turned on him, furious. "You say you
value love? It is the Light that rejects it!”
Poe spluttered, too bemused to stay offended. “You don't think the people in
that village loved each other?”
“You know nothing of the Cult of the Force.”
“The families you tear apart with your kidnappings,” Poe snarled through bared
teeth.
“That is the work of the First Order.”
“Yeah - the fucking Dark Side.”
“The Order is not Dark. I am Dark.”
   What the fucking jive-ass bantha shit...
“Isn't this,” Poe waved his fingers as expansively as pain would allow, “your
operation?”
“No. We serve the same Master, but we are not the same.” Poe could hear
disdain, even through the voice box.
“You're one of those fucking knights.”
“I am Master of the Knights of Ren.”
“You killed those children.”
“At the temple? I assure you, no love was lost that day. The Jedi reject it
even more dogmatically than these bureaucrats.” Kylo nodded up, indicating the
whole of the ship they were on.
“What about their families!”
“They were already lost to their families.”
“What! You killed a friend of mine!”
“Really?” Ren paused. “A friend?”
“Our... our families were friends.” Well. “I mean, his mother, anyway.”
“And if he hadn't been murdered? What then? Today you would be fast friends?
He'd be frantic over your current disappearance?”
“No, of course not, he was...” going to become a Jedi.
“You see? He was already lost to you.”
This seemed, somehow, self-evident. But it also contradicted everything he
thought he knew. Some force-wielder mind trick? He was pretty sure he wasn't
what anyone would call weak-minded, although he was pretty worn down right at
the moment.
 
“Would you feel better knowing that your friend is only dead in the sense that
your pilot is dead?”
Poe's capacity for surprise must have just reached its limit, because he
absorbed this information - which the day before would have turned his world
upside down - with little shock, like the way facts shift on spice or in a
dream.
“So, what, he works for you now? Or,” he rolled his eyes, “serves you, or
whatever you call it?”
They had closed in on this question much faster than Kylo intended. He'd meant
to tease out what Poe remembered of Ben, thoughts he was sure were going to
hurt, and to poke at them for hours like a rotten tooth. But Poe - both of
them, really - had lasered in on it with the precision of a sharpshooter. He
looked for a long time at Poe, not vacillating exactly, just holding on to this
last moment. And Poe - as moments passed, he knew what was about to happen. It
wasn't a sudden realization; it was just the truth now, where it hadn't been
before.
Kylo pulled back his hood and lifted off his mask. His pale face met Poe's
battered one.
...
 
Poe had so many questions. How did this happen? Who did this? This 'Supreme
Leader?' Who is he? What did he do to you? How did you get here?  He didn't
know where to start. And Ben wasn't about to give him the space to collect his
thoughts. He pounced again.
“Tell me more about the ex-pilot. Tell me who you are without your Resistance
to fight for.”
Tell me didn't mean talk to me. It meant, I'm going to look at you now. He
already knew where to look.
 
   The ex-pilot. That whore. I'm gonna miss that guy.
He really was. The thought of dying here, on a godsdamned Star Destroyer, was
beyond depressing. Death felt real and close and final and regrettable.
He'd had plans for that guy. Or rather, it had plans. It, that something
beckoning him downward, that thing that wanted to drag himnot just below the
surface but down the fucking drain.
He'd seen them: vets, dropouts, assorted fuckups, in out of the way cantinas,
silently drinking themselves to death. Replaying their failures over and over
in their minds. This was where the downward pull would take him, he had been
sure. Something would happen, he would fuck up somewhere along the way. Too
badly to get over. He wasn't generally someone who dwelt on his failures, nor
was he especially prone to addiction. But he could feel it pulling, gently,
patiently, like it wasn't quite trying to turn him, but rather was ready to
catch him when everything else fell apart.
And he knew exactly how he would come up with the credits to drink himself to
death. He knew he was good-looking. Not lacking for talent, either. Maybe he'd
do a little smuggling here and there. But mainly he expected to end up turning
increasingly risky tricks until his luck or his liver ran out. Losing all
force-damned respect for himself would be such a blessed relief, when the time
came.
It comforted him. It shouldn't, he knew. But it did. Maybe it was comforting
just to have a Plan B, regardless how terrible. Maybe it was comforting to
establish a limit for just how bad things were likely to get for him.
Likely, apparently, had a sense of humor. Because how likely was it he'd end up
here, with the living ghost of one of the galaxy's most famous martyrs, Ben
goddamn Solo, trying to convert him to the fucking Dark side. And, honestly,
standing a middling chance, because that singular, irrecoverable fuckup had
just occurred.
 
"So you already know, then. That you are bound to the Dark, destined for it."
"Destined. Ha!"
He had to laugh. However miserable his thoughts were, the word itself was
impossible to take seriously. He'd watched the Restoration Trilogy a dozen
times. He and his friends knew Vader's pickup lines by heart:
  "Give yourself to the Dark side."
  "It is your destiny."
  "Search your feelings, you know it to be true."
They intoned them to one another in the face of minor temptations: One too many
drinks at the end of a night. Inadvisable dates. Hell, one too many cupcakes
might be one's destiny. Whatever chills the words gave children watching the
series for the first time, they were warm and familiar to adults, a basis
for easy bonhomie across the galaxy.
He felt sanguine for a moment, until he realized that he would never feel that
warmth and bonhomie again. A fresh wave of cold loneliness washed over him.
"But you needn't be alone."
"Are you really doing this? Seriously?"
"I have seen the darkness in you. I see that it comforts you."
This was not something he could honestly deny. But.
"I think you saw me pissed off. I think you saw me in this shitty situation in
this shitty war."
Lightning flashed again. He rarely went so far as to actually fantasize about
what it would be like, down the drain. But there were snippets, vignettes.
Pictures of himself, blind drunk in some Outer Rim cantina, kneeling under
tables, taking anything put in front of him, being dragged into back rooms,
waking up... waking up dead.
"So? So what. You saw a lot of sex," he shrugged, deliberately, doing his best
to suggest that this was no big fucking deal. "That comforts me." 
"They are often the same, for you."
"No," he insisted, sounding a little more defensive than he would have liked.
There was nothing necessarily dark about - What? Whipping? Cutting? Choking?
Begging? Having your own name denied to you? 
"How can you even tell?" Poe countered. "Aren't you... you know?"
Seriously, if there were such a thing as sounding like a virgin.
"I am. "
"Is that a... choice? For you?"
"I can't really tell anymore."
Poe couldn't think of a response to that. 
"It's no matter. I have no interest. I am interested only in your power."
"My...?"
"I saw the way you meditated to protect yourself when you were attacked. How
you healed yourself after we fought. It's powerful."
   After we "fought." Interesting choice of words.
   And also: Oh. That.
He struggled for a moment to save face, to make some joke or excuse for
himself, but there was no hiding anything from this thing that Ben had become.
Even if there were anything in him worth trying to hide. What was Ben going to
do? Laugh at him? Okay. Ben could laugh at him. He deserved it, probably.
"I'm sorry. That's not a power. That's, what I guess you could call. Kind of,"
an inappropriate use of subspace. Gods, fuck me. There's a reason normal people
don't talk about their happy places.
"Yeah, I guess it's kinda like meditation. That's not, really, how you're
supposed to do it. I'm certainly not proud of myself."
He certainly wasn't.
"I just - couldn't be here. With everything. Happening. To me. Here. So I
kinda, checked out for a while. I'm sorry. If I - if you misunderstood."
"Show me." Kylo spoke aloud, but his voice rang in Poe's head, too.
   No.
   Nope.
"So, um, when you said you had no interest. In, you know, sex. That's kind of
how it works."
"You are interested in your General?"
"No! No, I guess it doesn't have to be like that, okay."
Kylo was silent. Poe stared at the polished floor, feeling stupid because, he
thought, Ben had overestimated him. He tried just to be glad not to have
anything left to hide.
Kylo let him sit in the most worthless part of stupid until he felt it. The
faintest little catch of anxiety. Wanting Kylo to talk to him again, even if it
was to mock him or lie to him. Kylo knew exactly how that felt, and exactly how
long to let it go before it turned to irritation.
"I saw your deathwish. I feel it pulling at you now. It has been there a long
time."
   Always. Since before I can remember.
"Would you like to try to remember?"
Kylo allowed a wisp of happiness to attend the word remember.
Poe should have shuddered at the thought of Ben entering his mind again. But
then - the thought of being made whole again before he died. To remember a time
before regret and failure, before loneliness and loss. Surely anything
Ben proposed was, at the least, not in his best interest. But there was no
tactical information that far in the past; whatever harm came would come to Poe
alone, and, in what was quickly becoming his mantra, or maybe his epitaph, he
fucking deserved it.
He imagined himself decades hence: crippled and grey, shackled in this same
cell, eyes glittering in reverie, birds chirping inside his greasy grey skull
as a child rolled endlessly in soft green grass.
 
"We can stop anytime you wish."
"Will it hurt? Like last time?"
"No."
Poe closed his eyes and felt himself nodding.
 
 
 
***** Throwing Shadows On Our Eyes *****
===============================================================================
 
They played Rebel Alliance on the playground, playing the heroes of the war
against the Galactic Empire. Sometimes re-enacting real battles, sometimes
making them up. There were so many heroes to play, living and lost. Sometimes
kids played Poe's parents. He never did; that would've been weird, but it was
fun to watch kids imitating their mannerisms. He liked playing Leia Organa,
even besides the fact that it let him brag that he'd met her. He liked the
scene where she was captive on the first Death Star:
“Inject me. With the torture serum.”
“Okay. Psst.”
“Tch, no. Poke me, with a stylus or something. No, hard. Like it's a needle.”
“I can't cut you, I'll get in trouble.”
“Okay but you have to torture me. The serum hurts your whole body.”
“I can't do that. Just pretend.”
“Just, like, pinch me all over, okay? I won't tell anyone.”
 
He liked playing Han Solo, too, when Han was rescued from Jabba's palace. He'd
close his eyes and stand motionless, hands raised in an invisible carbonite
tomb, while the other kids ran around and battled rancors. Even if they took a
long time and his arms started to ache, he rarely peeked. Han had been blind,
at first, and so he didn't open his eyes when the other kids liberated him,
making them pull and nudge to steer him, and catch him when he tripped. He
liked being helpless and manhandled by his friends. He trusted them.
He saw the sunlight blotchy through his eyelids. Felt friendly hands in his,
and on his arms and shoulders, guiding him to safety. They faded quickly with
Kylo's retreat, leaving Poe in the cold and dread of the star destroyer.
“Please,” he whispered, “bring it back. Please.”
                                        
===============================================================================
 
                                        
He had lots of friends, but he wished there was someone special, someone else
who liked playing torture as much as he did. Someone he could bring home, or
maybe out to the woods, willing to play for real, to give him bruises, to break
the skin. But he was pretty sure that anyone he asked wouldn't just say No, but
also stop playing with him altogether, and maybe even tell other kids how weird
he was.
He wondered if maybe they were right, maybe there was something wrong with
wanting to play that way. After all, the Empire really had tortured people, and
used the information they got to coerce, deprive and murder countless souls.
Which meant he could count guilt among his feelings, along with loneliness and
frustration. He figured he could eventually make peace with being a weirdo, but
he didn't want to be evil.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
After his mother died, he lost all interest in playing rebel alliance, or any
other playground games. It would be a long time before he wanted anything from
his friends but solid, reassuring hugs.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
He hiked alone into the forest. He had carefully sharpened and cleaned the
blade on the little knife in his pocket, but he was still a little afraid of
it, so when he spotted some sharp-edged rocks in a little hillside, he felt
relieved, pardoned almost. He picked one out, one that felt good in his hand,
and carried it with him. He caressed its sharpest edges with his fingertips,
and felt his heart flutter.
He stopped at nice mossy spot, soft but not too damp. Knelt down and felt the
forest around him: the thick organic smells of the understory, the wind in the
treetops high above, the symphonically complex birdsongs. He took his shirt off
and laid down on the moss. Ferns curved up around him; he imagined they were
swallowing him. He breathed and listened and let the forest absorb him. He
caressed the sharp edges of his stone, stoking the ache that seemed to be
everywhere and nowhere in his body. He traced the sharpest edge gently against
all the places he couldn't cut himself, places the cuts would show- his arms,
his throat, his face.
He picked another surface, one that was rough-sharp, not knife-sharp, and
tested the feel of it against his chest. It felt good. The way it was making
him breathe felt good, too. At the last moment, he stretched his other arm out
beside him and grasped a little sapling. He pressed the stone against his chest
and gouged sharply. Sucked in his next breath in stuttering little bursts. Felt
his whole body spasm a little. Stared wide-eyed into the canopy for a moment
before looking down at the wound.
There were a few crisp red scratches, pinhead-sized droplets peeking out. The
skin around them was pale, waxy and ragged. That meant it would hurt even more
in a few minutes. If there's one thing eleven year-olds know, it's abrasions.
He closed his eyes and felt.
Felt how the faintest breeze felt cold against the tender exposed flesh,
breezes the the dry outer epidermis didn't even register. Felt the blood rising
to the surface, pins and needles at first, maturing into loud stinging that
throbbed with his pulse. Felt the sticky-wet sensation of blood separating as
it started to clot. Sensed the commitment he had just made to himself- he
couldn't go home until the blood dried enough to put his shirt back on.
He gouged himself two more times before he felt done, both sated and empty at
the same time. He rested the stone on his stomach, over his navel. The weight
felt good but it wobbled when he breathed, so he tucked it halfway into his
waistband. He stretched the other arm out, now, too, finding a thick stalk to
hold on to. He breathed deeply, feeling the wounds crackling and puckering as
his chest rose and fell, feeling the stone move up and down on his stomach. He
wished it were bigger, heavy enough to hold him down, crush him a little,
enough to feel the weight on his hips and -
His eyes snapped open.
 
   Oh.
 
So that's what this was.
These were sex thoughts.
 
   Okay.
 
For a while he didn't think, just absorbed it. Finally a few thoughts coalesced
and surfaced.
One, this partly explained the embarrassment he felt about it. From what he'd
picked up, most people, even happily married grown-ups, were at least a little
embarrassed about sex stuff. So that was normal.
Two, he was pretty sure it wasn't normal to want to be hurt when you did it.
The question was: was it bad? It's not like he wanted to hurt anyone else.
Three, was it something that would change when he became a teenager? Some
people changed a lot at that age. Maybe he'd grow out of it?
Four, what if he didn't?
He stared blankly up at the canopy. Felt the jungle growing into him, himself
dissolving into it. The ferns swathed him like a shroud, and the broadleaf
understory closed over him like a living sarcophagus. High above, the birds
were busy. Their work was important. Mating, nesting, hunting, protecting
territory, it was all vital. The creature bleeding on the forest floor was
beneath their notice.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Kylo was torn. So much of what he'd just seen felt so familiar, he wanted to
talk to Poe, tell him everything, everything he'd never told anyone before. But
he also wanted to cuff him hard and scream at him,
You think you were weird? You felt alienated? You were afraid in some
disconnected abstract way that there might be something a little bit evil in
you?
NO. You don't get to feel that way. You were loved and admired and you still
are. You're beautiful, you're brave and loyal and you make people happy without
even trying. You don't get to have my life too, when I would have done anything
to have yours.
 
But still. He'd been there, in the man's mind and memories, and his feelings
were real and they hurt. And the real pisser was that they could have been
friends. Ben would absolutely have been the someone specialPoe wanted.
He'd gone into Poe's mind expecting, hoping to find fresh resentments to
stroke, old wounds to aggravate. He'd expected them to come from the man
himself, memories of disdain for weak, weird little Ben.
Instead, it just confirmed the old resentments, the hatreds he already held.
They had needed each other, then. But they had each other now.
 
***** By the Time I Get to Nurra City *****
===============================================================================
 
 
The first year of civic school, some of the more mature girls in his class
Decided they were going to be friends with him.
“Um, ok. I mean, you sure you don't have me confused with someone else?”
“All the other boys in our class are infantile. And most of the girls.”
“Well, I guess we all were, not that long ago.”
“I know. We're not judging. They'll catch up.”
They did all kinds of mature things together. They recited Old Republic poetry.
They discussed galactic politics and clucked at rumours of neo-Imperialist
factions. They talked about gender and species and what sentience is, really.
They practiced kissing. They attended duels, dipping their heads close and
murmuring their appreciation for the older athletes.
By second year, Kora was his inseparable best friend. She really was very
mature, someone who knew what she was about. Even her closest friends sometimes
felt the need to be on their best behavior around her, and she was only
fifteen. It was no surprise she wasn't dating anyone. She had bigger things on
her mind. To the extent that she payed any attention to the microsocial
behavioral cues of the boys around her, it was with an eye to who might be
interested in her best friend.
But. Until that guy came along. They were teenagers, after all. They had
hormones. Oh, stars did they have hormones. And they already loved and trusted
one another. So.
When she propositioned him, it was like she was reading from a textbook. We
should have some experience. Not just physical technique, but learning to
communicate and find our boundaries. But her tone and posture and eye movements
made him feel special, like this rite of passage would bond the two of them
forever. Of course he said yes.
...
They were making out in his room. She reached down to his ass and asked Can I
hold you here and he said Yes and then it was just a flurry of her hands and
lips and him saying Yes Yes Yes until she asked if there was anything he
wouldn't say Yes to, and it was like he'd been sprinting and stumbled over a
rock.
Touche, he thought, and grinned at her, but she wasn't smiling back.
"I'm serious, Poe."
“Kora, you're my best friend. I trust you, totally.”
“We're not always going to be with people we know so well. We should be able to
talk about what we want. And don't. Tell me about, you know, what turns you on.
Besides fourth-year duelists.”
The thought of telling anyone, even his best friend, about the desires he'd
been repressing for so long, literally as long as he could remember, terrified
him. His stomach clenched so tight he was afraid for a second he might throw
up.
“I don't know; I haven't thought about it that much. I just want you to feel
good.”
She shook her head. Of course he couldn't bullshit her.
“You first, sweetie. I'm pretty sure I can articulate what I want. And even
surer that anything I say will somehow turn out to be exactly what you want. Am
I wrong?”
He smiled, laughed at himself a little. She so had his number.
“Does it occur to you that I might feel the same way? About wanting to be good
for you? Don't I deserve to know what you want, and the chance to give it to
you?”
“Heavens, girl, you are going to be an amazing diplomat.”
“And you, sweetie, are going to do your mom real proud as a pilot. But right
now, I want to see the boy that would make her blush.”
He gaped at her, feigning scandal.
“Look down and say, damn, my boy's a sex machine, just like his Daddy.”
“My stars and planets, young lady, do your parents know you talk that way?”
[She had confessed at one point to having a little bit of a crush on Kes. Poe
had said he was fine with that, on one condition: That if she ever thought
about him while they were kissing, that Poe never, ever, ever have to hear
about it. She'd said “Of course not, sweetie, that would be traumatizing.” And
then she'd kissed him. And then made a big show of not speaking for a few
minutes after, humming contentedly to herself and conspicuously avoiding eye
contact.]
“But seriously. Poe. Sweetie. Tell me. Something. One thing.”
He couldn't ask her to slap him, or cut him, or choke him or anything, he
couldn't, he pictured her pulling away, outraged, walking out, not answering
his calls. He could feel the distress showing on his face; he had to do
something.
He took a deep breath and looked her as squarely in the eye as he could. Then
hung his head and slowly, deliberately, one leg at a time, knelt in front of
her. He was shaking and his breath was catching.
“Go on,” she whispered.
He looked up at her, fear naked on his face, and looked away again. He slowly
folded his arms behind his back, and hung his head again. And then he was
really out of what he could communicate without having to speak. Which ability
seemed to have escaped him. He fought the urge to wrap himself around her
thighs and beg her not to leave.
She wasn't leaving. She stepped up close to him. She slid her fingers into his
hair and held his head gently. He turned his face up to meet her palm, like a
kitten moving into a scratch. She was as gentle and generous as she'd be with a
kitten, too, pressing her palm to his cheek and tilting his head back toward
her, caressing his cheekbone with her thumb.
He imagined her slapping him hard, and at that arousal finally started to gain
on insecurity.
 
Right. That's why they were here. To lose their virginity. He didn't have to
tell her everything all at once. He'd done what she asked, he'd given her one
thing. He'd trusted her, been vulnerable, was at this moment still very
vulnerable. It was her turn. He looked up at her, knowing she could read his
face, see that he was begging to be let off the hook.
She dropped to one knee, looked him level in the eyes. Took his chin firmly in
one hand so he couldn't look away.
“Listen to me. You have to tell me if I do something you're uncomfortable with.
Something you don't like or that will hurt you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Kora,” he whispered, and the sound of his own voice turned him on even
more.
“You must tell me. I have to be able to trust you.”
Those words hit home. Trust him too, of course. He was responsible to her, too.
Of course.
“I swear, Kora, I'll tell you. I won't let you hurt me.” And then, afraid of
giving the wrong impression, hastened to add, “I mean, really hurt me; if you
want to, um, like..."
She looked at him indulgently.
“Let me think about it some more.”
He nodded gratefully.
She seemed satisfied, but there was still a hint of skepticism in her eyes. She
stood again, took a gentle fistful of hair, and pulled his face toward her fly.
He opened his mouth, sucked on the dry fabric.
“Who are you thinking about?” she asked.
“Besides you?”
“I know you are, sweetie, you have to be. I think it would actually be more
intimate if you could tell me.”
“I believe you. But my mind isn't really focused on like, one person. I just,
ah, ha, kinda wish you were hiding a dick in there.”
She smiled lazily. “I'll tell you who I'm thinking about.”
He looked up, eyes wide, lower lip still dragging on the fabric of her pants. 
He'd never seen her look bashful before.
“I'm thinking about Dev.”
"Sinder?" A fine, cute boy in their class.
"No, Torres." She was blushing a little. But she was right. Dev Torres. Damn.
Twenty-ish, skilled mechanic, polytech dropout, wouldn't say why. Thrilling
politics, sexy as hell.
“Oh, gods yes,” he breathed, and bit into her fly with newly piqued hunger.
“Can I show you? What I want to do with him?”
“Yeah. Please.”
“Lie down.” He did, and she settled over him, straddling his thighs.
“I would let him watch me for a while.” She opened her pants, hovering an inch
above his erection. Reached in, looked at him for a moment and then threw her
head back. The other hand tugged at a nipple through her shirt. He lifted his
pelvis, trying to reach her, to grind together. She pressed down to allow it.
She pulled her fingers out and sucked them loosely, looking down at him.
“I want to see you doing this,” she said, fingers caressing her lower lip. Her
voice sounded ten years older. “Is that something you would do for me? Or are
you turned off by -” she grasped for the right word, admitted defeat and just
said, “- by girls?”
“Oh, no. I mean I don't, you know, think about girls, the same way, but. I'm
not turned off. At all. No.” He licked his lips, hoping she could see how much
he meant it. She must have, because her hand was back in her pants, and she was
crawling forward, closer to his face, some of her weight on his chest. He found
her ankles, and slipped his wrists under them.
“Oh, really?” she gloated.
“Yes. Really, really.”
She rubbed her wet fingertips against his lips. He opened just enough to invite
her in, not so much that she didn't have to push a little. She gently worked
two fingers in and out of his mouth while he tongued and sucked at them. She
clenched her thumb and ring finger around his jaw. His eyes rolled back in his
head.
“You want to be underneath him.”
"Nhn-hnn"
She nudged his arms and adjusted herself so she was kneeling on them, her
weight concentrated on her knees. It hurt; it might even bruise, he hoped. She
pushed her hand back into his mouth, three fingers this time, then four, thumb
firm under his jaw. She bent down to growl in his ear.
“You want him pinning you down like this?”
Oh fuck yes he did.
Her pelvis ground against her other hand.
"You want his hand in your mouth like this?"
"Yff."
"But what do you really want?" She pulled her hand away.
His dick. Of course. But really. Really. His balls. Kriff.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight; he couldn't look at her. Mercifully, she
pressed her ear to his lips.
"His balls," he whispered, and tremors ripped through his body as he spoke, "I
want to suck his balls, Force, please."
She pushed her hand back into his mouth and he sucked at it desperately.
“You want to watch him masturbate while you do it?”
Like nothing he'd ever wanted before.
“You want him to ejaculate in your hair?”
Oh kriff, Dev -
Ecstasy blossomed through his whole being. Her knees, painfully bruising his
arms, her weight and her victory, his helplessness and shamelessness, the
breath urgent in his nostrils. It was heaven, it was life, it was death, it was
glorious.
 
===============================================================================
 
He got better, with his vocabulary. He'd had to find the right words when he
finally started meeting boys, and when his partners' reactions went from, “That
was so hot,” to “Are you sure you're okay?” to “Hey, I think we need to talk
about what just happened.”
He learned not to spring things on people in the heat of the moment. Which
thank the gods he hadn't done with Taren.
They'd made friends at the end of senior year and dated all summer, and were
going to Academy and University on the same planet, where they met up almost
every weekend. It was good for both of them- Taren was shy, and Poe was way too
outgoing. It would've been a terrible idea to start slutting around freshman
year, with the people he was going to work with, in a strictly hierarchical
organization, for the next few decades. So. Having a sweet boyfriend from back
home kinda made sense, for now.
At the same time, the Academy was full of stone fucking panthers, and the sweet
vanilla sex he had with Taren on the weekends left him aching. So he read up on
some advice zines and fora on ways to gently introduce straight partners to a
little kink. It all sounded pretty cheesy, but it's not like he could've asked
for advice from anyone in person. Not and kept his fidelity intact.
So on a pleasant afternoon picnic, outdoors and fully clothed, he bit the
bullet and flirtatiously suggested a couple of role-play scenarios, whereby
Taren could dom him a little. Lightly. Nothing hardcore. Just good, clean,
dirty fun. But. His boyfriend's reaction had been cold and blank.
“Oh, wait, babe, I'm sorry if I wasn't clear - I'd be the prisoner. I would
never ask you, you know...”
Taren shook his head a little.
"Okay! Just something I read about, I thought it sounded kinda hot. Thought it
might be fun to try. Sometime. In the future. Maybe. I mean, maybe, think about
it?" He waited a beat.
"I mean, really think about it,” he purred the last sentence, grinning and
raising his eyebrows.
"Ahm."
“I meant while you masturbate,” Poe added, deadpan, as if anyone could have
thought he meant anything else. That should have gotten a smile out of Taren.
He was pretty sure he'd used the exact same line before and gotten a giggle.
“Okay. Um, well, then, you know, just file it with Things you know about me.
Like my shoe size, and how I take my caf.” He smiled, bright and cheerful and
insincere. "No biggie."
Taren's voice was steady but distant.
“I know its a thing, Poe, but... how is it yourthing? You're such a
sweetheart.”
Poe grinned, “Yes I am.”
“You're so kind, and so respectful.”
[Respectful, unfortunately, was one of those words he'd never be able to take
seriously again. The previous year, another boy had tried respectful in regard
to the way he should conduct himself when giving head. He'd tried so hard to
sound stern and commanding like Poe had asked him to, but he was seventeen and
his voice was full of sunshine and candy. It had been too damn adorable; Poe
had been helpless against the giggles that bubbled up from a warm spot, maybe
from his heart. He'd tried to pass it off as choking, when he felt his friend
convulsing too and then gasping “Ah! No! Stop!” before falling on him, the two
of them collapsing in snorting laughter.]
He huffed a little laugh at just the sound of the word, but Taren was being
Very Serious.
“You're so compassionate, and you know right from wrong better than anyone I
know. It's what I admire about you so much! How can you...” he trailed off.
   What??
He had to take care of his face, first. It was doing things that don't
encourage trust in the person speaking to you. He finally managed to get his
eyelids shut.
“Right fromwrong? Taren, I don't understand, I've met people who know it's not
wrong but still expect me to be, like, ashamed of myself. And dammit, I love
you, and you think it's wrong? Like, morally? Seriously? Fuck.” Poe scowled.
“No, not, not wrong. Exactly.”
Neither spoke for a while, neither offered their hand.
 
 
“Poe. You know. People really do get assaulted in custody.”
 
 
That hit him like a brick in the face.
 
 
[After this debacle, he would think long and hard about why, exactly, he liked
what he did. And, no lie, he resented having to, at first; he was even a little
afraid of what he might discover. But.
He learned to admit he liked being helpless with someone he trusted, because it
made him feel safe. Liked pain because it made him feel healthy and alive, and
because it elevated him to something almost spiritual. He spent so much of his
life staying in control, it was like a vacation to give it up, and still be
safe, having his boundaries not just respected but zealously guarded, while his
conscience and willpower were lightyears away.
If only he could have said all this to Taren, instead of trying some idiotic
game from an insipid zine. He wanted to root through the datanet and wipe every
instance of the thing.]
 
 
“You know I didn't grow up - the way you did.”
“I know,” he answered warily.
Everyone knew. Or, had known, back home. Taren's homeworld had been one of the
last Imperial holdouts, and neo-imperialists held a lot of local power. Even
though it was obvious his family had fled from the place, suspicion still
attached to them, and it had been hard to make friends. Now that they were away
at school he never mentioned it to new friends, just said he was from Yavin. He
didn't even like talking to Poe about it, and they'd been together for months.
“But you've heard. Stories.”
"Yeah, a little bit, it's in the news sometimes. Fucking neos getting ballsier
every year. And all the, like, violence and stuff.” And fucked-up sexual mores.
“What do you know about violence.”
“I don't. You're right. And, we've never really talked about this. It sounds
like, maybe we should.”
“Well. For one thing. I wouldn't walk down the street holding your hand.”
"Yeah, I kinda got that impression."
“That's not the reason we moved though. I mean, it kind of is, but.”
“What's the reason?” he asked, cautiously.
Taren took a deep breath.
“The last straw for my parents was, my sister's friend Jira. She didn't want to
get married. She wanted to finish civic school.”
“Finish? How old was she?”
“Sixteen. About when most girls drop out and get married.”
"What is that in standard years?"
Taren just stared at him darkly. 
“What the fuck man, why've I've never heard that fucking banthashit before! I
mean, I knew it was a backwards-ass planet, but seriously?”
Taren breathed deeply. Checked his pulse with his fingers.
“She might have been able to finish school somehow. But. She met a boy. Not who
her family wanted her to marry.”
   Shit.
Poe thought he probably knew how this story ended. They wrote operas about this
kind of thing.
“As far as I know, all they ever did was kiss. But."
 
It was as much as he was going to say. “It changed the ... atmosphere, in our
whole neighborhood. A lot of girls dropped out, even girls on Uni track. Some,”
his voice cracked, “Some boys, too.
"The city attourney. He was a holdover. He probably thought she had it coming.
But they had to show they were - in control, you know? So they sent up this one
kid. He didn't have anything to do with it, he was just a, a pain in their ass,
you know? Two birds, one bolt." He breathed deep and shaky, in, out. "He, um."
Taren fell silent, staring through his surroundings.
Poe was transfixed; he felt like a stone gargoyle.
"So. Yeah. We left. So my sister could finish school. And stuff."
Stuff meaning: not living in terror.
"I don't think they realized they were protecting me too. I mean, they do now.”
He squeezed Poe's hand. Poe, whose own heart was racing, whose every muscle
screamed to go beat the everloving shit out of anyone who'd ever threatened
Taren or anyone he knew or cared for.
 
“I'm sorry, Poe.”
“Whut - what? Don't say that!”
“I don't really think you're wrong. I just - it would be wrong for me.”
“Oh, Force, Taren, don't even - just forget I said anything, please, fuck, I'm
the one who should be sorry. I mean, I am sorry. I'm so sorry."
   Kriffing kill me, this is the most selfish, thoughtless thing I think I've
ever done, and I did it to this sweet boy that I love. Gods I wish I could undo
this.
“I understand, if, you know, you don't want to, um,”
“What, be with you?!” Poe's eyes were half-out of his head.
“Yeah, I mean...”
 
What do you even say to that? When you're eighteen, and righteous, and don't
have much experience hearing No to begin with? All he could do was to wrap
himself around Taren, and kiss his hair, and tell him he loved him, and that he
wasn't going anywhere.
And when minutes later Taren whispered I'm sorry once more, with a note of
finality that would brook no reply, Poe was helpless, just rubbed his
boyfriend's back while inside his head a storm raged. He saw red, literally. He
saw himself storming the streets of Nurra City, hunting down bullies and bigots
and rapists, blasters blazing, a fucking lightsaber is what he wanted, an orgy
of castration and decapitation inflicted by his hands until the streets ran red
with blood.
 
===============================================================================
 
It was embarrassing to be shown how narcissistic he'd been at that age. But it
also broke his heart to know that planets like that were now allied with the
First Order.
“You wanted to hurt them.”
“Wouldn't you?”
“The power for revenge comes from the Dark side.”
   Of course it does.
“It's not revenge, exactly.”
“Setting an example?”
“Maybe.”
   Bullshit, it's totally revenge.
Seeing it again, as an adult, watching Taren apologize for his own trauma, had
his blood boiling all over again.
“Would you like to set an example here?”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.” Kylo nodded toward the wall that separated them from the first
cell Poe had been taken to.
 
He grasped what was being proposed. He felt his heart swell in his chest, his
arteries sing with iron and oxygen.
But murdering the guards that had taken advantageof him wouldn't liberate any
planets, wouldn't bring the Order down from the inside, wouldn't do anything
but satisfy his own irresponsible bloodlust. Just the thought was doing
something for him. His body felt warmer and stronger than it had since he'd
been taken, almost whole again. 
   What are you doing to me?
Poe didn't really believe, in his heart, in the Dark side. He believed in the
Force, and that some people used it to evil ends. But any tool in the wrong
hands could be put to evil use. It was useful to talk about Light and Dark, but
he had a hard time believing that the Force itself was something binary. He
wouldn't have sworn to this belief, but it was generally how he saw it.
What was happening now - this sense of strength flowing through him, almost
like he could flex his arms and rip them out of the restraints - was clearly an
illusion. Ben wanted him to believe, not just that Dark side was real, but that
it was in him and was good for him. He wasn't going to fall for it, no matter
how good it felt.  
 
But the underlying desire - an orgy of castration and decapitation - was
absolutely real. 
His lips pulled back, tugging at the stinging wounds, as he met Ben's eyes. 
"What do you want from me," he rasped.
“Show me how you meditate, and I will show you the power of the Dark side.”
Poe's kneejerk response - What're you saying, you wanna, like, rule the galaxy
together or something?  - flitted across his mind and came nowhere near his
mouth. This was the second time Ben had asked. Apparently, he meant it.
 
 
 
***** Ben *****
Chapter Summary
     The first of Poe's labors.
===============================================================================
 
All the red flags were raised. Alarms were going off, barely audible under the
bloodlust singing in his veins.
He shook his head, tried to make his mouth say No.
But Ben's words seemed to offer the prospect of survival, like he might be the
right person that Lando had told him years ago to look for. The thought was
almost as seductive as the illusion of strength coursing through his body,
making him desperate to Get out Let me out, when just hours ago he'd been
resigned, even eager for death to come and come soon.
He tried to get back to that dutiful, sacrificial attitude, to tell himself it
had to be a trap, not to cooperate with anything being asked of him. But it was
hard to care when it all seemed so small and far away, like the galactic war in
the making was just a game, just an elaborate dejarik set that wasn't worth his
one and only life.
The best he could do was to consider Ben's motives with objective curiosity. He
knew, for example, that plenty of powerful people got off on being brought
down. Ben wasn't interested in getting off, or so he said, but of course there
was more to it than that, sometimes. Those powerful people - senators, tycoons;
dark lords, maybe? - some of them needed dommes in their lives because they
were so arrogant in their own power and so immersed in their corrupt spheres
that there was no one left around them to admire. And admiration, in Poe's
opinion, was a profound psychic need. From what he'd seen, it was likely vacant
in Ben's life. He bookmarked the latter thought.
Or maybe it was just about him; maybe Ben wanted to learn how to manipulate him
better. Not that he needed to; he'd already shown he could take anything he
wanted.
Or perhaps to manipulate other people? To use Poe as the key to a cipher, to
find a route to that rare and tenuous hall-of-mirrors space where obedience was
bold and transgressive, and resistance was a form of weakness. In order to
exploit it for demagogic purposes, maybe, or to get his hooks into some of
those decadent senators.
But the simplest answer was the most likely one: that Kylo had seen some
unfamiliar joy in his thoughts, and wished to possess it for himself.
 
Not that anything seemed likely to ever be joyful again. 
The thing was, Poe realized, what he had done was kind of fucked up. He'd used
his sexuality as a shield; against pain, against fear, against everything in
this cold, dead, unsentimental place. If he'd had the slightest confidence in
his own survival, he might have used a different tactic, gone to a different
happy place.
[He'd figured out a long time ago that, for him at least, that thing that
people called subspace was not entirely different than other kinds of
dissociated states. He had a pretty good theoretical understanding of the
latter: people dissociated in response to uncounterable threats, untreatable
pain, utter helplessness. His training had been about anticipating and
controlling that response. His private life had, often, been about seeking out
helplessness on his own terms.]
He could already feel regret tearing at him, like he'd given up too much of
himself without even realizing he was doing it. It felt dirty. It was going to
fucking whallop him if he ever actually sat down to think about it.
At any rate, he was pretty sure he wasn't the one to be teaching anyone about
protecting themselves. And he shouldn't be teaching Ben anything, regardless
how esoteric it seemed. Ben clearly had some kind of goal in mind. Just because
he couldn't imagine the consequences of the proposed exchange, didn't mean
there wouldn't be any.
"You're afraid I'm going to hurt your friends."
"Of course I am."
"Hm."
"And, you know, the rest of the galaxy. Not just the ones who were my friends."
"Still married to the cause, then."
Poe shook his head.
"I may be dead to them. I may not live to fight again. But I'm still on their
side."
Ben looked hurt. 
   Stow that bullshit.
Ben closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. And then - 
Dropped to one knee, one hand on his saber, one fist on his knee, in what Poe
recognized as some ancient gesture of fealty.
   No no no wait no
What did Ben think he was going to get out of this? Would it make him stronger?
And against whom? The free and peace-loving people of the galaxy? Against the
First Order, which he clearly despised? Against their mutual Master, or in
service of him?
    Only in the service of my own freedom.
Poe just had time to think, 
   Freedom?? You'll take me with you when you go, right? 
before the restraints were falling away.
 
He stared at them, almost wishing them shut again. Almost. He stretched slowly,
experimentally. It lit up every joint with the grey fire of pins and needles.
Within a minute his fingers were throbbing with the return of blood. He eased
himself down to the floor on weak knees and ankles. 
Ben didn't move.
Poe took a few weak steps. He hobbled to the nearest wall and leaned against
it. He started to slide down it and caught himself just in time; he rolled away
just before his ass hit the floor. 
    Shit.
He hadn't actually said yes, had he? He hadn't agreed to this yet. Maybe he
would have, with more time to think it over. In fact he probably would have.
But he hadn't, yet; he needed more time to think it through.
And, he realized, Ben could probably hear everything he was thinking. Which
kind of undermined whatever authority  he was supposed to have in this
situation. Which, again, he had not agreed to.
"Do you even know the meaning of consent?"
"The most stable form of allegiance. Not as valuable as an alliance, nor as
volatile. Not as liable as outright surrender."
    You are fucking ill.
He staggered back to his feet, addressing Kylo from the side, like a drill
instructor.
"I'm not talking about planets! Or factions! I'm talking about people.About
me."
He paced slowly around the cell, letting circulation return.
"You will NOT enter my mind again without my express permission, understand?"
He half expected to be thrown against a wall for his impudence, but the knight
just answered, "Understood, Master."
A fresh headache erupted at that. He'd said he wasn't interested in sex. What
the hell was he doing watching cheezy S/M porn, or wherever he'd picked that
up?
"Why did you call me that?"
"I am your student."
Right, Poe sighed. The guy had probably called every teacher he'd ever
had Master.
"Well, I'd rather you didn't. I'm not into, formalities."
"As you wish," There was a distinct empty space at the end of the sentence.
"Right. So. No more going into my head," he glared.
Ben nodded.
"And yeah I know, I dream loud, I probably think loud, too. Can you, like,
block it out or something? They teach you to do that?"
"I will."
"And don't speak into my head, either." Compunction forced him to reluctantly
grit out, "Unless it's, like, an emergency or something. Understand?"
"I understand."
He paused to rest his forehead against the cool metal wall for a moment.
 
... 

The only way he could imagine approaching this was academically. He
pictured himself as the alternate-timeline forty-plus instructor.
"Look at me." He nodded at the stool Ben had occupied earlier. "Have a seat."
  Today, we're going to talk about altered states of consciousness.
He allowed himself another lap around the cell.
"When sentient beings experience an existential threat, our minds and bodies
react to protect ourselves from that threat," he addressed the small classroom
in his mind.
"You're familiar with the adrenal response." At least, the soldiers in his mind
were. "Commonly known as fight or flight. When all hope of either is exhausted,
the mind often finds a refuge of last resort within itself."
He was practically reading out of a manual. He could do this.
"For example, soldiers," like yourselves, "sometimes experience religious
ecstasies on the battlefield, in their last moments, or moments they believe to
be their last. Feeling the Force for the first time, or meeting one's ancestral
gods."
Ben squinted at him suspiciously. Poe didn't know it, but he was thinking of
the rumors surrounding Vader's death.
 
"It's not just threats to the body that can trigger this response. The psyche,
a sentient's core understanding of itself, also reacts to existential threats.
In response to the loss, or imminent loss, of things like agency or identity."
He heard Ben inhale sharply, and pretended not to notice.
   Interesting.
"For example, prisoners held in solitary confinement. Sometimes experience
delusions or even hallucinations."
He finally allowed himself to look at Ben again. Ben's face was softer. He felt
a tickle run through him that felt like pleading.
"Does that sound like... anything you've experienced?"
Ben shut down immediately, his face hardening, his touch receding.
Poe took that as a yes, and placed another bookmark. Pressing on directly would
just shut Ben down even more. He needed to circle around, find another, less
sensitive angle.
 
"When -"
I? We? One? People?
Submit? Surrender? Do? Experience?
Ben had called it meditation.
 
"When we practice this kind of meditation ...
"What we are doing is ..."
Imagining? Pretending? Simulating?
"... simulating that kind of threat. How we choose to simulate it, tends to be
unique to the individual. For example ..."
He tried to think of an example far from Ben's apparent soft spot. It wasn't
hard. He remembered, treasured, every time he'd come to under Rold's care with
bacta strips tightening across his back.
"... some people use physical pain as a stimulus."
 
Ben's eyes actually lit up a little at that.
"Great power comes from the mastery of pain."
That wasn't quite the way Poe would have put it, but it was something.
"Right... you know, that's actually not too far off base. You kind of
understand. But, here's the thing: I'm not going to hurt you. Physically. I
don't know you well enough. And... honestly, I'm afraid of you. What you might
do to me if I hurt you."
Ben smirked at him a little, and then waved his hand dismissively. 
"I don't think that's what you want from me anyway. But the larger point is: I
can't promise you anything. I can't, just, make you feel something you don't -
that you've never felt before. You have to want to go there."
"You describe all forms of meditation."
Poe knew fuck-all about that, but it sounded like it was probably true. The one
thing he knew for sure was that this conversation should be a lot longer. But
he was afraid of losing Ben if he kept talking, and losing Ben would be losing
his only chance of dying somewhere that wasn't a godsdamned Star Destroyer.
 
"Okay, then. Is this really what you want?"
"Yes," and the space was back again.
Poe took a long, deep breath.
"Stand up."
Ben did. Poe stood in front of him. Fuck, he was tall.
"Kneel. Like before."
Ben took his knee again in the old-fashioned formal posture. Poe had meant it
when he'd said he wasn't one for formalities, but he was intrigued by the one-
hand-on-the-saber bit. He held out his hand experimentally, and tried not to
act shocked when Ben handed it to him. He clipped it to his belt before he
could drop it in his amazement and turned away.
 
He paced while he tried to straighten his thoughts, tried to get into the right
headspace.
    Ok. You're in charge, here. Stay calm.
The thing with the weapon - it didn't mean anything. It's not like he could use
it. Ben could rip it out of his hand from across the room with just a thought.
It was symbolic, ritualistic. But still, damn.

And what did he have to work with, here? What ingredients were going into this
mess? He pulled up his bookmarks:
   I saw how you protected yourself.
   How you healed yourself.
   You needn't be alone.
   Admiration. Agency. Identity. Freedom.
Pretty big stuff. But also, pretty vague stuff.
 
He thought about his voice. He could pull off a reasonable dom voice, with the
right person. He didn't think he could do it here. He felt good about his
teaching voice, though. He didn't do the hokey, twangy grizzled-vet persona
when he taught. His teaching voice was actually very gentle, and people
listened.
 
He took a nice, slow breath, and approached Ben, from the side again.
"I want both knees on the ground."
He complied.
"Thank you. Now face me."
Poe dropped on one knee to his level, so focused in the moment that he didn't
even notice how they mirrored their first encounter on Jakku.
 
"What happened, Ben? How did you get here?" His voice was gentle, but his eyes
were cool and steady on Ben's.
"I know your family. I know your community. I know you were every bit as loved
as I was. How is it that you're so alone, now?"
Ben turned away, eyes low. Poe felt the gears clicking into place.
"Tell me about love, Ben. You just told me, that's why you're here. Because you
didn't think the Light would allow love in your life. So here you are. Who is
it that you love? Tell me about them."
Even after what had been done to him, this kind of cruelty didn't come easily.
And this wasn't his favorite role under the best of circumstances, with
a healthy  partner. This? Tearing Kylo Ren apart? He couldn't have imagined
anything more odious, but here he was, and it was clicking; it was gonna fly,
he had this.
"You can talk to me. I know how it is. It feels so good to love someone. To be
loved. It's so beautiful... so powerful."
He saw anger flash across the knight's face.
"And to trust. It feels so good to trust. To be safe. Right, Ben? No armor, no
weapon can compete with trust."
Ben's eyes flicked up at Poe from the floor and back again. The scowl on his
face said back the fuck off, but if he thought Poe was going to go easy on him
just because he could strangle him with a thought, he hadn't been paying
attention.
 
"Surely there's someone in this galaxy you trust, Ben."
The knight winced again and Poe realized it wasn't just his innocently cruel
words, but the name itself that stung. He made his move, laying one palm across
a collarbone and grasping a fistful of hair with the other.
He whispered harshly, "I don't care what your new friends in the First Order
call you. When you're with me, your name is Ben. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good," Poe said, gentle again, sliding his hand to the base of Ben's throat.
"Now tell me about your friends. Big war machine like this? Full of generals
and admirals? I'm sure plenty of people here would love," he squeezed gently,
"to give you what you need. So tell me. Is there no one here you trust? Or just
no one that you like?"
Ben glared, hurt, knowing that Poe knew the answer was neither.
"What about your knights, then? So mysterious, so powerful, such a secret.
Surely... you trust one another with your lives?"
Poe's hand slid yet higher, squeezing a little more. Ben closed his eyes,
realizing he was defeated. He kept his promise to stay away from Poe's
thoughts, but couldn't resist a little taste of his mood, expecting to be stung
by vicious gloating.
Instead he tasted sadness and irony and something like a reflection of
himself. He saw that Poe had been truly reluctant; but now that he was here, he
was really, fully here, and reading him with all the alacrity a force-mute
could muster. Taking no pleasure from it, doing it only for Ben, because it was
what he needed. Most people, in his position, would have recognized the feeling
as gratitude.
 
"So. That leaves only your Master. That's what you call him, right? The Supreme
Leader? Your Master?"
Ben shivered, felt pinpricks at his eyes.
"Of course. He's the one. The only soul in this galaxy you trust. Right? You
must. After all, you've given him everything."
Ben shook his head, but the only words he could make were, "He takes."
It was a damn good thing, Poe thought, that he had a role to inhabit, lines to
anticipate. If he'd been himself, he would have snapped back, Banthashit, don't
tell me about taking; I've seen what *you* take. Instead he fell forward, his
knees on Ben's thighs, pushing him back on his haunches.
 
"Who, then? Who in all the worlds do you trust, Ben?"
The calm, steady eye contact was scaring Ben, he could see it. He felt his hand
go numb, frozen, keeping him from squeezing any tighter. Poe narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not asking you who you can trust. I'm not asking who you ought  to trust.
I'm asking you who you do  trust. It's your choice, Ben."
 
After a tense moment he felt the flesh of Ben's throat yield again under his
fingertips.
"Put your hand on my wrist."
Ben did.
"Hold it. Hold my wrist. If you need me to stop, just let go. Just drop your
hand and I'll stop. Try it."
Ben dropped his hand, and Poe opened his palm at once.
"Okay?"
Ben nodded. Poe curled his hand around Ben's throat again.
"We were talking about trust. How good it feels. How much you need it. That
it's a choice you make."
He moved his other hand lower, to the base of Ben's skull, encircling his neck
in his hands.
"It's your choice."
He felt Ben breathing. Swallowing. Breathing.
"It's your choice, Ben."
 
"I trust you," Ben whispered, "I trust you. No one else," his trust truly
blind, not knowing if Poe would try to snap his neck. Not that he couldn't stop
him from doing so, but such a betrayal would be devastating.
Instead Poe loosened his grip ever so slightly, closed his eyes and inhaled.
When he opened his eyes again he looked... proud.
"Thank you, Ben. I know that was hard for you to say."
Ben was blindsided by the amount of pleasure the praise brought him.
"How do you feel?"
The word blossomed in Ben's mind, the thing he'd seen and envied in
Poe. Obedient. He hesitated a moment to savor it. It was both a thrill and a
relief at once.
All his life, he'd been coerced and compelled to obey, and had done so with
shades of reluctance and resentment. None of the force wielders that had
controlled his life had ever inspired this feeling, and he was sure that no-one
else ever would again.
It was beautiful, and it hurt, because there was nothing Poe wanted with him.
Nothing he wanted from him but his freedom. If they ever met again, in the
galaxy he hoped to turn upside down, everything would be different; there would
never be any happiness for either of them, certainly not together.
But he had this moment, and it did give him power against Snoke, because it was
his; it was theirs. It was something Snoke would never promise and could never
give.
How did he feel?
"Grateful." He looked up into Poe's eyes. "Thank you."
"Do you want me to stop?"
"Would you stop? If it were you?"
"No," Poe answered truthfully. He felt Ben swallow.
"Please."
So Poe continued, just like he would with anyone else, slowly increasing the
pressure on the other man's throat, never taking his eyes off of Ben's. He
watched his eyelids flutter, catching Poe's own gaze and darting away again,
his face tensing and calming in waves while Poe spoke to him, gentle and
confident and rewarding...
... until the waves ebbed, pulled him down into soft, warm, calm; like the
place he'd seen before in Poe's mind, but his own. It was so... nice.
Ben's hand dropped involuntarily, and Poe pulled his hands away to Ben's
shoulders. He felt his cheek with the back of his hand.
"I'm here. You're okay, Ben. You stay here as long as you want, okay?"
Ben was aware of Poe speaking to him and helping him down into something like a
meditation posture, and it was fine that the posture wasn't quite right. In
fact, it was all wrong; it was ridiculous, but it was fine, because Poe was
being so good to him. His voice was soft, hushing and soothing and telling him,
where we are,right here, right now, you can come here whenever you need to.
I'll be here, you can always come here...
 
===============================================================================
 
Poe moved around, inspecting all the panels and consoles in the room, looking
for one that might dispense water, trying not to speculate on the possible
consequences of his actions. He finally discovered a panel that opened to a
tiny fresher, praise the Force. He drank and drank, and then stood absently
trying to figure out how long it'd been since he'd pissed and how worried he
should be about it. Eventually he just sat on the unit, not to use it but
because it was more comfortable than either the floor or the rack.
He should have been scared. He didn't know what Ben's freedom entailed, but it
had to be better than dying here, right? He didn't know where Ben intended to
go or whether he intended to keep fighting, or for what, or if he just wanted
to disappear, like Poe wanted to. How long he intended to keep Poe with him - a
little while? Not at all? Forever? He had no idea.
He spaced out for a few minutes, waking to a sharp pain in his back that he
recognized as an abortive bowel movement. It jolted him back to where he was
and what he was supposed to be doing, namely: murdering a pair of rapists and
the squad that abetted them. And then, hopefully, escaping a star destroyer
with the help of the Master of the Knights of Ren.
Now that is a fucking story, he thought, even managing to chuckle a little,
before chuckling made him puke up some of the water he'd drunk too fast.
 
 
***** FD-1881 *****
Chapter Summary
     The bloodletting begins gently.
===============================================================================
 
The first thing 1881 saw was Lord Ren, and for a few anxious seconds that was
all he could see. Then he saw the prisoner, unrestrained, leaning against a
wall.
"Lord Ren! Do you require assistance with the prisoner?"
"Nah," answered the rebel, "It's actually the prisoner who requires your
assistance."
1881 looked between them, fingers twitching toward his blaster. The prisoner
tutted and batted his hand away with some kind of - holy shit is that a
lightsaber?
"Specifically, I need credits, to start my new life," he smiled and gestured
expansively, "wherever the fuck that may be. I heard you came into some
recently. Credits."
1881 flinched at that, and stuttered, "I'm sorry! I wasn't - I mean, I
didn't..."
"I know; I know who you are," he said. "You're the one they sent out. I know.
You shoulda heard the shit they said behind your back."
He gave 1881 a hard look, and 1881 found himself caught in the eye contact,
even through the helmet.
"That's not the kinda nickname you get from your friends. It's why I'm giving
you a second chance, here."
"Sir?" 1881 asked. He couldn't think of anything else to call the guy.
"You don't belong here any more than I do. Come with us. Away. We can stick
together for a while til you get on your feet."
1881 gaped at Lord Ren inside his helmet.
"He's right, you know. You don't belong here. But escape doesn't mean safety.
It doesn't mean peace. It means," Ren struggled with the distasteful word,
finally gesturing to Poe and spitting out, "hustling for a living in the sordid
underbelly of the galaxy. And you, 1881, are a timid creature. You reek of
fear. Even with a companion, I give you a week before you're enslaved, or
killed, or have turned yourself back in, begging forgiveness. Which will not be
granted."
1881's cheeks flushed as he realized Lord Ren was correct.
"If you wish to have a short, filthy, terrifying adventure before you die, by
all means, go with him. But if you're ready now, I promise you it will be
quick. The last thing you will hear will be kind words from this man."
1881 was blinking rapidly inside his helmet.
"Let's take some of that stuff off, huh buddy?" Poe stepped closer. "Lemme take
that blaster off your hands."
Whatever was going on here, 1881 wasn't sure it extended to allowing his weapon
to be confiscated. The guy could do that after he was dead, right? He turned
again to Lord Ren, who nodded and gestured toward the rebel. 
"It's okay, Eighty-one," he said, slipping the weapon into his belt, "You're
not gonna get in trouble for this. Let's have that helmet, hm, let you breathe
a little easier?"
1881 removed and handed over the helmet.
"Do you like this thing?"
1881 shook his head, wiping a tear away.
"Me neither," said Poe and tossed it across the room. "Can I tell you a
secret?" 1881 nodded. Poe whispered in his ear, "My flight helmet looks like
it's too big for me. It's not, it's supposed to be big, protect all the
bullshit up here," he tapped his skull. "But I always felt like a dork in it.
That's the real reason I'm not going back." He smiled. His smile was really
nice, and 1881 felt his lips twisting a little, too.
"You're nice," he said.
"Well, I don't have much to go on, but seems like you mighta been nice too if
you hadn't landed here. Helluva lot nicer than your buddies, anyway."
"They're not my buddies."
"Oh, of course they're not," the prisoner murmured apologetically, and hugged
him. He asked, "Can I tell you something else?" and stepped back, and 1881
nodded.
"When I get to them, it's not gonna be quick; it's gonna hurt, and the last
things they hear are not gonna be nice. So - is there anything you want me to
say to them? For you?"
"No... no, I, just, I don't want to think about it."
"Okay, of course, okay." The prisoner took his hands. "You're done with them,
forever. But there's something important I want to talk to you about."
"Yessir."
"What do you know about the Force?"
1881 flinched and tried not to look at Ren.
"No, no, the Force isn't just some magic Ben uses to abuse his subordinates."
He squeezed the trooper's hands, held his eyes.
"The Force is in every living thing, Eighty-one. It's in me, and it's in you.
It flows through and around us, and binds us together..."
Poe drew the trooper close and wrapped one arm snug around his shoulder. He
kept talking softly while he kneaded the back of his neck, like he was soothing
a pitten. He felt where the spine met the hollow in the base of the skull,
spread his fingers out on the lobes on either side, pressing his middle finger
to the lateral target that would vaporize Eighty-one's consciousness in a
painless instant.
 
1881 could feel the man's right arm moving; he knew that it was raising the
blaster. His voice was so soothing, though; if 81 just listened and didn't try
to think, he could almost feel the energy the man was talking about, an aspect
of the Force that had nothing to do with choking or throwing people, but seemed
to wrap around them and hold them together.
He felt the muzzle replace the man's fingertip on his skull, felt the hand
withdraw to his shoulder. The man pulled back to look him in the eye, and 81
could see all of him: the stoic, handsome bravado in the face of humiliation;
the silent, futile pleas that had haunted him til the narcs kicked in; the hard
assessment of 81's own unhappiness; the offer that he never expected 81 to
accept; the reassuring smile as he disarmed him. The traitors, he wondered,
were they all like this?
"The Force is with you, Eighty-one."
 
... 
 
"You used the blaster."
"You promised him it would be quick. You saw what happened with this thing."
The first time Poe had tried the lightsaber, it had thrown him halfway across
the room. It had felt heavy and wild, and it had taken all his might and
concentration to struggle through a few basic katas. He suspected that it was
only with Ben's assistance that he'd even gotten that far without cutting his
own leg off.
"I wouldn't put a rat through that kind of a death."
"You are the most sickeningly merciful person I've ever met."
Poe shook his head. "I'm not. I don't mind the rest of them suffering. But
honestly? I'll probably just embarrass myself. Can't even hold the thing
still." He held the hilt out to Ben. "Thanks but, maybe this was a dumb idea."
"I promise you, you will find the power when you need it."
 
***** FD-1151 *****
Chapter Summary
     Our hero's descent continues.
Chapter Notes
     First course: Succotash with a side of ham.
     Second course: Something small and limp in a paper bag labelled
     Graphic Depiction of Violence. Probably not a sandwich.
===============================================================================
 
Poe adjusted the rack to a somewhat chair-like position and sat in it, doing
his best to appear to be lounging comfortably, 1881's blaster in his lap, the
lightsaber clipped to his belt. 3070, the one running the holocorder, was
called in. He wilted at the sight of Ren, hardly noticing Poe until he spoke.
"Seventy, right? The director? Great to see you again. I've actually got a
commission for you, a holo. Swan song kinda thing, you're gonna love it."
The trooper stared blankly.
"But first, we gotta talk numbers. I believe you owe me royalties."
3070 appeared frozen.
"You know, money? Credits? For my appearance in your holo?" He held his hand
out and twitched his fingers in the give it heremotion. 3070 looked back and
forth between the two men, and the blaster. When Ren remained impassive behind
his mask, and Poe's stare went unbroken, he reached into a pouch and held out a
credit stick.
"Great, this is from yesterday? This is a great start, thanks. As far as
residuals: I know all the numbers aren't in yet, but I'm kind of in a hurry,
here. I'll settle for all of it."
"All of...?"
"Your money. Where do you keep it? Hard storage? Commissary account?"
"Um. You mean. My piece account?"
"Whatever you call it. I need access to it."
"N-no," 70 said, even as his hand moved to his belt and pulled out a small
reader. He swore under his breath as he handed the thing to Poe.
"Thank you. I hope you don't mind Lord Ren helping you out with this. How do I
get into this? You have an access code?"
"Just, the transponder," 70 said thickly. He snapped a button off his chest and
handed that to Poe, too. 
"Thank you, Seventy. This helps me out a lot. And, you know, it's not like
you'regonna need it."
At that, Kylo began to lift the mental fog that had been screening the room.
3070 saw the blood splatter on the wall; his eyes followed the thin trickle of
blood to 1881's body, laid out in the back of the cell. He began to sweat. This
- this was fucked up.Poe followed his gaze.
"Edgy, right? I mean, he was practically innocent. But I hear that's what the
boys are into these days. Dark themes, ambiguous morals, that kinda stuff. I'm
telling ya, Seventy, this is gonna be big; it's gonna blow all your previous
work outta the sky. Here's why I brought you in: there's gonna be a lot of
action, here; we need a deep field, and I know how tricky that is with these
cheap corders. Think you can give me that?"
 "Uhkay," 3070 answered dully, and then seemed to gather his wits to answer,
"Yes, sirs, okay. I've got it. I can do that."
 "Good. So: you record, I - do my thing, and Lord Ren uses the Force to keep
your hands from shaking. Sound cool?"
 Poe sat back in the rack, smiling. "Hey, Seventy. It's great to be working
with you again."
 
===============================================================================
 
"Hey Ben. I need to talk to you."
    Remember how I said Don't speak into my head? I think I need to modify
that. I think - I'm actually going to need help with this.
 
===============================================================================
 
He really was lounging, now; he'd gotten the rack adjusted just right and taken
Kylo's cape and cowl to cushion it. He cultivated and projected the belief that
it was some kind of throne, sprawling and spreading his legs. He'd clipped the
lightsaber so it hung heavy in his groin. It felt good. He reclined and ordered
the next victim to enter.
1151 knew nothing good awaited him. He took one look in the cell and realized
how badly they'd fucked up.
The corps was full of rumors and pet theories about Lord Ren's sexuality, or
lack thereof. Whether he was celibate or not, by choice or by the Supreme
Leader's command, how this related to his violent freakouts. A popular theory
was that the Supreme Leader had castrated him, and the artificial baritone of
his vocoder was meant to disguise this.
1151, personally, was of the belief that Ren fucked his subordinates all the
time and just wiped their memories afterwards. So his reaction to the two men
waiting for him in the cell was of course. Of course Ren would want to keep the
painfully attractive prisoner for himself. And keep him well, by the looks of
him, reclining arrogantly on Ren's own cloak. He saw himself, his squad,
sharing the halls of the ship with a spoiled concubine, and thought, No, any
hell but that, no.
The tantrums, he thought, bloody hell, the tantrums, any time someone looked at
the guy the wrong way. 1151 looked at the prisoner's face: the red and purple
bruises, the lump in his nose, the scabbed-over black slashes across his pretty
lips. 1151 was a dead man - they all were. He wondered how their deaths would
affect the holo they'd made. He imagined it would become legendary.
 
    What's he making of this?
    He thinks I've taken you as a consort, and that I am about to kill him.
    Ha. For hurting me, or for damaging me?
    The latter, I'm afraid.
 
"Good guess, asshole, but no. Try again."
"Are you - talking to me?"
"I said asshole, didn't I?"
"How did you - "
"Let's see if that intellectually malnourished little nut-brain of yours can
figure out what's going on, here." Poe grinned so wide the scabs pulled and
stung; he licked at them.
1151 wasn't used to being made fun of or being called stupid. He was usually
the one doing the fun-making, usually believed he was the smartest guy in the
room, if only because people let him think so. And he wasn't actually stupid -
if he hadn't been indoctrinated at the tender age of 4, he might have had a
decent career in the underground economy.
He watched as Poe licked at his split lips, as he sucked one lip into his
mouth, as he slowly, unblinkingly, scraped his teeth over one of the wounds,
let the blood stain his teeth and trickle down his chin.
"Refresh your memory?"
That's funny, he hadn't seemed  like a psychopath before. Cocky, yes, once he'd
found his tongue. And funny, too, in a way 51 could respect. They'd warned him
about the knight, and he'd just joked about it, like he wasn't scared at all.
He's someone important, Fo had said. Shit.
He couldn't be an envoy; they'd picked him up in civvies in a squalid camp on a
junkyard planet. If a vintage jacket from another generation's war counted as
civvies.
"You're a time traveler from the Civil War," he said, deadpan.
"Nice one," the guy smiled. "Getting warmer."
Was he a spy? 1151 felt his pulse race. Shit, he had to be. 1151 watched a lot
of spy holos. He knew they were mostly bullshit. On two points, though, they
generally concurred: spies were irresistibly attractive, and they were arrogant
little shits who spat in the face of danger. Holy fuck, he had fucked a spy. He
suddenly regretted that he wasn't going to live to brag about this.
"You're not really with the Resistance, are you?"
"Ha ha! No. No I'm not," Poe laughed. It felt so good to say out loud, almost
gleeful, like a weight had fallen off his shoulders, that it hardly even
occurred to him to add Not anymore.
"We didn't know, Sir, I swear. We never would have let any harm come to you,
Sir. If we'd known."
"That's not really the point, asshole."
"Sir?"
"Ben here is gonna walk us through a little after-action review."
"Sir."
"Let's talk about what went wrong back there."
   [Feelings  came with the familiar words slipping from his mouth. Talking
about what went wrong back there  had meant keeping his pilots sober long
enough to objectively review a mission and its losses. Lessons learned  meant
finding some real tactical insight, while avoiding the kind of blame-laying
that would tear the survivors apart with resentment, or eat them alive with
guilt.]
"Seventy, you probably have some input here, too."
"The fuck?" Alf spun around; he hadn't seen the other trooper, hadn't realized
he was being recorded.
"So as I recall, before this asshole showed up, we were making some kind of...
porn? How exactly was that  supposed to work?"
"I was only cording from the waist up, Sir."
"I could see that. What I'm asking is why."
"We didn't want to hurt you, Sir."
He fired three quick shots, each missing 70 by inches.
"I recall something about time constraints."
"Yessir, that too, sir. Yes."
"Who was gonna watch it?"
"Anyone who would pay for it, Sir."
"Was it going to be used for propaganda?"
"Sir?"
"Dissemination. Was anyone besides other troopers going to see it?"
"No! Shit, no, I don't know what the penalties for this are like where you come
from, but -"
"Penalties for what? Distributing contraband or rape?"
"I didn't -" 
Poe fired at him again.
"It looked like I was supposed to be... enjoying myself, somehow. What's that
all about?"
"Well, that's what, you know."
"What."
"What people want to see."
"Not  prisoners being assaulted? Really?"
"N-not, uh, not most people."
Poe shot a pointed glare at 1151.
"So what the fuck was I enjoying? I mean," I'm into some pretty heavy shit,
but, "that stun baton ain't anybody's idea of a good time."
"The story is that, uh, FD-1881," 3070 nodded toward the body.
"I know Eighty-one. We had a nice talk."
"Uh. Well. The story is. That he was blowing you. Sir."
1151 barked out a laugh. "Why didn't you just make him do it! You know he would
have!"
Poe fired past 1151's head. "Shut up, we're talking." He turned back to the
other guard. "But seriously, that's bullshit."
"They don't have to believe it. They just want a story. And, it sells copies.
They hear the rumor; they want to judge for themselves."
Poe had to concede that that was kinda how people worked. He'd loaded enough
notoriety porn in his time, maybe a third of which had the redeeming quality of
at least being a little bit hot, and much more of which left him kicking
himself afterward.
"Did he know this? Eighty-one?"
"Nossir, of course not."
"What... did you think he was going to do? When he found out?"
"Get pissed? I don't know."
 
Poe closed his eyes, in exasperation at first, til he found himself blinking
away tears of relief, knowing that they hadn't broadcast him across the galaxy.
He took a moment to breathe, to let the relief sink in. Then he turned to Alf.
 
"And then you  showed up. You fucking prick."
"We didn't know, Sir, I swear, we thought you were Resistance scum, I mean how
would we -"
"Alf. It's what you did, not who you did it to."
That sounded a lot like something resistance scum  would say, and he suddenly
felt very exposed.
"Let's, fucking, get this thing in the air. Ben?"
 
Ben probed Alf's memory, just as he'd done to Poe. Poe received only  a trace
of it; he was still here in the cell, in the present, but he could kind of
dimly see what Alf was experiencing. He saw himself, crouched and manacled,
felt the clicks as Alf's thumbs unlatched the groin plate of his armor.
He raised the blaster.
"Do it."
And 1151 did it, dropped the piece to the floor.
"You should know, you'll bleed out faster if you actually get turned on by
this. Hands up, trooper. Like this - y'know, stick-em-up."
1151 complied.
He could dimly see Fo kneeling behind him, but Alf's attention was all on his
face, flex-armored thumb at the corner of his clamped lips, fingers clawing,
thumb twisting, tearing ...
   *Blam!*
He fired, blowing the thumb clean off.
An index finger followed, prying his lips apart, he was bleeding already.
   *Blam!*
Middle fingers, hooked behind his molars, tugging while he grit with all his
strength. A knee to the chin jostled him enough to get between his jaws.
   *Blam! * Blam! * Blam!*
Finger, finger, knee.
1151 yelped and fell, all his weight on the intact knee. He was groaning. He
should have been fucking screaming.
 
Six flex-armored fingers, pink with his blood, jacking his mouth open.
   *Blam! * Blam! * Blam! * Blam!*
Open -
 
He'd been steady up to this moment, but now he was sweating, blood pounding. He
jumped out of the rack and closed on 1151.
"Take it off! That fucking helmet, take it off!"
1151 had one thumb and two pinkies left, and he scraped uselessly at the
helmet. Poe tried to wrest it off himself; it wouldn't go, because there
was some latch, or maybe just because he was flipping out and uncoordinated.
1151 managed to snap the latch with a pinky and Poe stumbled backward, dropping
the helmet.
 
1151 glared at Poe through narrow eyes. Showing anyone who could see that he
was pissed, not scared. So much like Poe's own comportment, yesterday.
Maybe this guy was faking it, too. He had to be. That, or he was on some high-
test stims.
Poe tried, without much dedication, to shove the blaster muzzle into Alf's
mouth. He managed to draw a bit of blood, not nearly as much as he'd lost,
before the trooper jerked his head away. He saw himself, for a second,
battering Alf's mouth until his teeth were shattered and the blaster was deep
in his gullet. But before he could do that, something else took over, and he
was grabbing the guard's head and shoving it into his crotch. He was shoving,
and grinding, and pounding himself against his assailant's face. 
It felt So. Fucking. Good.
For like a minute.
Then he panicked. He pushed himself away, panting.
    Oh fuck, Ben, I'm sorry. I don't know what that was. I don't know - I'm
sorry.
 
He found himself standing half behind the rack and breathing way too fast.
Needing the weight of the thing between himself and the defiant trooper. He
didn't remember holstering the blaster. He was clutching the lightsaber hilt in
front of his crotch, like it could protect him somehow.
Why was he so afraid? Ben was on his side, Alf was mutilated and kneeling and
not long for this world. He had a lightsaber. And blasters. And he was still
afraid.
   The guard could still tackle him, shove one bloody stump of a hand into his
mouth, two fingers to tear at his trousers...
   Breathe. Slower.
His hands ached to light the weapon. He needed it. Craved it.
He stepped back out in the open. Stepped toward the guard, staying out of arm's
reach. Nearly panicked again as he lifted the weapon, exposing himself.
"Do you know what this is? Yeah you do. This is how you're going to die, Alf."
His voice sounded horribly high and trembly, not at all dark and threatening.
"The boys are gonna love it. It'll be a cool holo. I mean, I hope it will. I'm
not very good with it. Hell, I can't even use the Force."
"Being a little ----- probably doesn't help, either," Alf sneered.
Poe elided the ugly comment, knowing on some level the guy was trying to
provoke him into killing him quickly. He nodded at the burn marks on the walls
from his fumbling practice and looked back at Alf, allowing a hateful grin to
spread across his face.
"This might take a while."
The plasma leapt forward. It shook and bounced in his hand, but it didn't throw
him. If anything, the low vibrations soothed the shaking in his own hands.
 
    Do you feel it?   
    I feel. Things.
    You're afraid of him.
    I am. I know it's irrational, but. I really am.
    And the lightsaber?
    It feels good, better than before, it's ... wait.
    Find your anger. I've seen it. It's powerful.
    Are you saying ... all that stuff from Jedi lore? That stuff Master Yoda
said? 
    I told you. It would be there when you needed it. Now find your anger and
take the power that it gives you.
But everything was out of control, he couldn't feel anything besides fear.
    Let me show you, then.
And then, before he could agree, he was there in that meadow again, with
Taren's thousand-yard stare and his own impotent rage. Blood was in his eyes
again. They had this coming. And he would be the one do it, to bring justice to
these bastards. The weapon was light and steady in his hands.
    I can do this.
    Do you want him to suffer?
    I don't care. I've got this.
    FD-1881 suffered. Surely there were more.
"Were there?" he snarled, forgetting that Alf hadn't heard any of that. "How
many? Besides Eighty-one, how many others were there?"
"Eighty-one? That ------? You know he woulda fucked you too if he wasn't such a
little -----."
Every time he hadn't punched someone in the face when he should have rushed
into his head at once. Fear, anger, hate. The saber was light as a feather.
 
That didn't mean he could actually aim it. 1151's armor was scored with
glancing misses before he finally hit flesh. The guard's scream was like music
to his ears, and watching him finally react, trying helplessly to shield
himself, was a relief. He was human, after all, mortal, and he was about to
die.
When he first made contact with his target, it was just a sideswipe. 1151's
limp penis wiggled away from the plasma, burned but intact, on a puff of steam.
But the next blow struck home, severing the thing and slashing across the
guard's pelvis and abdomen, flesh too soft and wet for any cauterization to
hold. Blood and fluids poured out. Alf collapsed, screaming, curled up and
clutching himself.
Poe stood over him. His mouth was locked open in his screams, even after his
breath had failed and he was just convulsing silently. Poe could feel  the toe
of his boot shoving into the man's mouth, feel it pressing in and down,
dislocating and splintering the jawbone, blood and drool pooling around his
boot. He could feel it. But. He was so tired. So tired, so gone.
So he left 1151 there bleeding out, and stumbled to the corner next to Ben and
collapsed.
 
***** The Proselyte *****
Chapter Summary
     Our hero is tempted.
 
===============================================================================
 
He awoke in Ben's lap, knowing that he was a bad, bad, bad, bad person. But for
the first time in recent memory, he didn't feel sorry for anything.
Ben shifted and helped him up to sit, beside him.
"How did it feel?"
"To kill that asshole? I don't know. Good. Bad. I don't know."
"I mean, to wield the Force."
"Tsh. That's not even funny, man."
"It wasn't meant to be."
"You don't know what it's like, Ben, knowing there's this whole thing out there
that people like you can see that the rest of us can't. I mean ..." he shook
his head. "It's just, nothing to tease about."
"You said yourself, to FD-1881. The Force is in every living thing."
"But we can't use it, the rest of us. Maybe it uses me sometimes. I'd like to
think so."
Ben snorted. "For what? You think the Force is interested in your affairs? If
that's what you want to believe, find yourself a deity to believe in. The only
intention the Force has is to find balance in itself."
That ... sounded like it was true.
"The Force is ours to use, like any resource."
"No," Poe shook his head. "Don't do this."
"You felt it, Poe. I was there. You held it in your hands; you felt it!"
"I felt you helping me."
"I helped you to find the source of your power. But the power is yours."
"Gods, Ben, don't do this."
"Of course some of us are strong in the Force. Dangerously so. But the Force is
in every being, every worm and beetle, every leaf and awn. Your privilege as a
sentient is to know it. That knowledge is as incomprehensible to the beetle as
my power is to you. I see things, know things, do things that you understand as
well as a beetle understands a landspeeder. But the Force moves in you, and you
move in it."
Poe just shook his head. He tried to let the words wash over him and not lodge
anywhere.
"Half the sentients in the galaxy don't even believe it exits. Most of those
that do, think it's something like luck. Those like you, that truly believe in
it, have been taught for generations that you have no power to use it."
Unfair, it seemed, when Ben put it like that.
"The Light? My mother, my uncle? They don't want to liberate you. They want you
to worship them. If they had their way, the whole galaxy would live like those
brain-dead wretches in Tuanul. You saw them. Hollow, mindless shells."
He remembered rehearsing the slow gait and serene greetings.
"They prefer to live like the beetles, rather than as sentients. And if y-" He
clenched his jaw. "If my. mother. has her way, the whole galaxy will crawl like
blind damned beetles at her feet."
It was true - wasn't that what he himself had dreamed of just hours ago?
Crawling at her feet?
"There were survivors, Poe. A handful. And what do you think they did? Do you
think they mourned the dead? Do you think they wept and sang and told stories?"
No?
"No. They removed the bodies like any other litter and returned to their
meditation. To their worship."
Poe could see it, the survivors dragging the bodies to unmarked graves in the
shifting dunes, dry-eyed and efficient. He shivered and curled into Ben's
shoulder.
"It is cold in the Light," Ben agreed. He wrapped his arms and legs around Poe,
and floated his cloak over to wrap him in.
It was cold in the Light. But it was warm here. There were things, buzzing
around in his head, things he needed to examine, but he couldn't catch them and
they wouldn't land.
Maybe later, after some more sleep, he could catch them. Using the Dark side
was stunningly exhausting. Like, he usually slept well after a good fight,
sure. But this felt like a deficit he could never recover, like maybe he would
have to die a little sooner to make up for it.
...
[One of the things flitting out of his grasp was that no one had actually ever
lied to him about the Force. From his earliest flight lessons, his mother had
told him that the Force was with him, to trust his feelings. His dad had said
the same, teaching him to swim.
Curled up on the couch, watching the Restorationtrilogy, they'd explained that
some people, (like Ben's family, but it didn't always run in families), some
people were just especially strong with the Force. It really wasn't factually
any different than what Ben had said with his beetle analogy. But Ben had made
him feel cheated, lied to, unfairly blinded to the beauty of the universe and
the power of the Force.
Another buzzing thing was that the Light wasn't the cold, heartless place Ben
said it was. Everyone he'd ever loved, and everyone who'd ever loved him, were
devoted, on some level, to the Light; even those who didn't really believe in
the Force still knew which side they were on. Their love was absolutely real,
and that love was the warmest place in the galaxy. If he was cold now, it was
because he was without it, and he was without it because that's where Ben
wanted him to be.
And Leia. If anything she downplayed the extent of her power in the Force. It
worried her when people admired her too much. The only person allowed to
worship her was her husband. Ben's father. And he'd run off years ago.
The suggestion that she didn't believe in mourning, coming from the one person
in the galaxy whom she'd mourned as much as all of Alderaan, was beyond absurd.
Poe knew far too well that she did indeed sing and weep and tell stories to
remember the dead. He knew because they'd done it together too many times.]
 
===============================================================================
 
Leia had felt his distress, when he'd confronted 1151. A spike of fear, much
sharper than the others she'd been feeling, something like terror. She'd
excused herself to her quarters, worrying as hate jabbed into the spot in her
heart that belonged to Poe. She sank into meditation, burrowed in and looked
for him, but he was so far away, so indistinct, she couldn't see what was
happening with him, just that it was dark and frightening.
She'd centered, found herself, found her love and her strength. Once sure in
it, she'd sent it all out to him: love, strength, courage, confidence. It had
been hours, now. All she could tell from this distance was that he was alive
and that one crisis, at least, had passed. She couldn't make out anything else.
She had no way of knowing that he was, at the same moment, curled in her son's
lap, asleep, half-convinced that she'd lied to him and used him and had never
really cared about him at all.
 
 
 
***** Of Course You Are *****
Chapter Summary
     If he thought he was crashing now, the comedown he had to look
     forward to was going to be brutal. But he was ready to go through
     anything to know what the truth was, again. To be free again.
===============================================================================
 
It was different, when he woke up. The sunset behind him, the blood around him,
the weapon, or the image of it, before him: they'd all melded together at the
seams, a veil of red obscuring his perception, if not his physical vision.
He knew it wasn't right. There were pieces still missing, buzzing around
inside. But the need to get away, out of this sterile, grey steel prison, was
powerful. He needed to be alive and warm and free again. If only the Dark side
could offer that? He could face what that meant, exactly, on its own, after
they were off this godsforsaken ship.
 
And he was tired, too. He just wanted to blast the remaining guards without
further conversation, but he knew there were still questions he would regret
not asking. He just had to figure out what they were. At any rate, there was
none of the smug playfulness that he'd used before to mask his fear. He wasn't
afraid of them, 4144 and 3070. He was afraid of something, but it wasn't them. 
 
He didn't have a plan; he trusted in his instincts. Fortunately, 4144 was not
remotely defiant, and not at all bright. He was a walking illustration of weak-
mindedness. It was no wonder he'd caved to 1151 so easily.
He tried not to hurt 44 too badly as he stripped the armor away with
increasingly confident strokes of plasma. He did his best to aim carefully and
leave a minimum of visibly wounded flesh, in a parody of the way he'd been
treated with the stun baton. But there was no one else there to hold Fo up when
he fell to his knees begging, then to all fours, and curled in on himself
whimpering.
Poe was going to miss the weapon. He recoiled from using the word lightsaber in
his head; it sounded embarrassingly hubristic, something he didn't deserve. If
he could have a few years of practice with it, he might be able to sling it
with half the accuracy of a blaster.
Fo was curled up, his underalls in tatters, his back exposed. Perfect, really.
Like he was asking for it. Poe ripped the remaining shreds of black away. He
tapped lightly at the spots Fo had found on his own body, the ones that had
made an erotic marionette of him. He made an effort to keep the wounds
superficial, proud of the control he had over the weapon, and a little
surprised, too; he didn't feel fear, or rage, or much of anything toward the
trooper.
He looked at the wet burns from the saber, parallel streaks across the
trooper's back, and smiled, delighted. He hadn't even planned this; instinct
must have guided him. They looked like his own scars. In their placement, at
least, although they were thick and graceless, unlike his own.
"When you were -"
   Nope, start over.
"Before. You saw the scars. On my back. What did you make of them?"
"Sir?"
"You heard me."
"Permission to speak freely, Sir?," the trooper gasped.
"Course. That's why I asked."
"Sir," he whined.
"Mm-hmm."
"I thought you might have been a slave, Sir."
"Mmm," Poe nodded, unsurprised. "And what does that mean, to you? Did you see
an object, rather than a sentient being? Did you think you had a right to do
what you did?"
"I, don't know, Sir," 44 moaned.
"You don't know what you thought?"
"I don't know what you're asking!"
"What thoughts," Poe enunciated, slow and patronizing, "Were in your brain.
When you looked at my body. And saw a slave."
"We - we thought you were with the traitors, Sir." The words came out as an
agonized groan. "My apologies, Sir."
Poe took a deep and frustrated breath. All the more frustrated because he was
sure 44 wasn't playing dumb. He just was dumb.
"I tell ya what, Fo. I'm sure the traitor scum are hypocritical in all kinds of
ways, but you don't really think they keep slaves, do you?"
"No Sir," the trooper gasped. "They're known to take contraband into their
ranks, Sir!"
 
...
 
One of the buzzing things landed.
 
And then like birds lighting in a fresh mown field, more landed.
 
He turned to look at Ben, and saw him again like he had the first time. Kylo
Ren. In his monastically ratty black kit, steel and leather obscuring his face.
 
Had he been lying, or did he believe his own rancor shit about the Light being
the real evil?
 
Did it matter?
 
...
 
"They do, don't they," he said, almost to himself. "That's true. They take all
kinds into their ranks. You know what, Fo? That's why they're going to win.
Someday."
"Undoubtably, Sir!"
Fo's voice was a strangled, anguished groan. He really was in pain. So Poe put
him out of his misery.
 
He looked up again at Ben, not hiding the bitterness on his face. Fo had
inadvertently spoken a truth he'd needed to hear. But who would be there next
time?
 
 
===============================================================================
                                        
3070 was still catatonic under the shelf onto which the holocorder had been
levitated hours ago. Poe turned to him wearily.
   Why did I have to leave you? Godsfuckingdammit.
Right, he'd left him because he had only watched, before, so Poe had made him
watch, now. And he was going to have him unlock the holo - this one - so it
could be distributed. But it didn't really matter anymore. Not now that he knew
the original wouldn't go far.
Not now that this had gotten so far out of his control.
This was supposed to be a response, this was supposed to be a cautionary
example. But instead it had recorded his own sins. That brief, psychotic moment
when he'd enjoyed assaulting 1151. Him curling close with the knight. Ben's
proselytizing sermon, and him believing it. There was nothing there that would
do anyone any good to see.
He swung the saber through the unit, sending a shower of sparks and shrapnel
over 3070. The trooper gasped as he realized that this bloodthirsty madman,
this apparent friend of Lord Ren had just destroyed the only thing keeping him
alive.
"No! No, no!"
"Yeah. I broke your toy."
"I can fix it! Or, I mean, recover the data, maybe! Put it on a new machine,
good as new, I can salvage it, it'll just take some time, okay?"
"It wasn't an accident, Seventy. You wanna take your helmet off or leave it
on?"
"Why! No, fuck, why? All I did was hold the corder! I didn't even want them to
hurt you!"
"Really? 'cause I was there, and I didn't hear you say that."
"You're not really gonna kill me for that? Don't you poeple believe in
fairness? How is this fair?"
"Weren't you listening? I'm not actually one of those people."
"Of course you are!"
Poe stared at him.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you are, it's obvious. You are."
 
Poe felt something nauseating open up somewhere down in his guts. He felt the
weapon flare light, almost buoyant in his hand and - 
   Oh. There it is.
That's where all the hate had been hiding. That's why the blade had been so
steady in his hand.
 
"What else is obvious to you, Seventy?" 
He could hear the low, deadly hatred in his voice. 
"What else do you think you know about me?"
 
He could still hear, still feel, 70's voice, giving him orders, unlocking him,
praising him when his body cooperated.
His body, he tried to remind himself. Spasming against his will. He hadn't
cooperated with anything.
But still. For a second. He'd wanted to.
 
Had 70 seen that? Seen willing, wanting flicker across his face before he
crushed it? Had 70 fucking smelled him coming, thought he had him pegged,
thought maybe he wouldn't fight back? And if 70 had seen that, who else had?
He suddenly felt like he might have been walking around his whole life with a
sign on his back that said it was okay to abuse him. Like every orgasm in his
life might have been a lie, every relationship a pile of lies. Like none of his
partners had ever been worthy of his trust, even the ones he thought had loved
him. Not to mention the friends that let it happen.
He shook his head violently to pull himself out of the spiral.
   You know what this is, buddy. Don't believe this.
He knew mission drop when he felt it, the repeated adrenaline spikes and
minimal sleep leading to paranoia. Couldn't count the number of times he'd
sat through debrief obsessively smoothing his hair and straightening his
clothes and checking them for stray snot, as if that would explain why everyone
seemed to be staring at him.
And if this particular paranoia was especially devastating, it was just in
proportion to what he'd been through.
Not stress. Trauma.
But reason and experience were pale flames against the utter blackness, the
existential horror carving him out. Not a single person he'd ever loved had
loved him back; they'd done nothing but use and take and hurt and laugh behind
his back because he liked it. He felt like turning the saber on himself,
stabbing into his filthy cumstained guts and slicing right up through his
stupid whore throat. If the blade had been shorter he well might have.
 
He thought about his own death a lot. Usually it brought him calm and courage.
This was different. He cut the plasma, afraid he was really going to hurt
himself with it. 
   C'mon buddy, finish the job and then you can freak out all you want. 
If he dropped at all, it usually didn't hit til his feet were on the ground.
But sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel was enough, and that was
almost certainly what was happening now. He had to finish 70 off and get this
over with. Had to finish this, and then. Then.
Then what, he could let Ben comfort him again? Soothe him with a blanket of
lies?
   Yes.
   No.
   No. 
He wouldn't be able to hold out forever. Hell, he hadn't even been able to hold
out a few hours. He may not have considered himself part of the Resistance
anymore, but he'd be damned if he'd be turned against them. He really would
slash his guts out, if that was the alternative.
 
He turned around again.
"What happens after this?" His voice was weak. "How are we getting out of here?
Where are we going?"
"Not we."
Poe's heart stopped.
   He wouldn't.
Wouldn't fucking leave him here, after all of this. After all they'd
shared. Panic began to wind itself up.
"You," Ben clarified, with a tiny nod in Poe's direction.
   Me?
"Me?"
Poe cocked his head incredulously.
"There is an aspiring deserter aboard. He saw you earlier; he is praying you
are still alive. He has already bribed a detention trooper to trade assignments
with him. He will be here for you in about three hours."
There were a lot of things that would have been reasonable for him to feel, in
that moment. Joy. Relief. Suspicion. But Poe felt numb. The facts of his
universe had rearranged themselves one too many times, and he didn't know what
to believe anymore.
 
"What about - your freedom? I thought that's what ..." he gestured helplessly
around at the abattoir in which they stood, at the floor between them where Ben
had knelt and submitted so gratefully.
"It's going to be ... complicated. It's going to take time."
He could hear something like amusement in Ben's voice. Of course it was going
to be complicated. How ignorant did he have to be to think otherwise. Idiot.
"And you're just gonna, let me ..."
"I know how much I owe you."
Poe didn't know if it could ever compare to what he'd lost, but he wasn't going
to argue; he had to keep his eyes on the prize. Out out out out
"Okay," he nodded. "Will I see you again?"
"I don't know."
"Okay."
He couldn't think of anything else to say.
 
Poe turned back to 70, on his own, now. Kriff, if he thought he was crashing
now, the comedown he had to look forward to was going to be brutal. But he was
ready to go through anything to know what the truth was, again. To be free
again.
At least the shock had pulled him back a bit from the very brink, if not
entirely out of the deadly spiral of paranoid thinking. The doubt and self-
loathing ebbed, but still clung about him a bit, and Ben's news dovetailed with
it uncannily. Minutes ago he'd been afraid of Ben's plans for him; now he felt
perversely rejected, almost bereft. Ben had seen everything. He'd taken
everything, and now he was leaving, too. Leaving Poe alone. Really alone. He
had been lonely at times; who hasn't. Misunderstood, alienated, sometimes by
what seemed to be his own design. But he'd never been literally alone in the
galaxy. Without family, friends or allies.
But then, he supposed, he wouldn't be. He'd have this deserter. For a while, at
least. He could only picture Eighty-one in his mind. Whoever this guy was, Poe
doubted he wanted to run off to Mos Eisley, to end up blind drunk under tables,
getting dragged away half-conscious and waking up dead.
Maybe, the kind of person who came up with a plan like this could take care of
themselves and wouldn't need him. In fact, the paranoia had some comments about
a guy who took one look at him and decided to follow him down to the detention
block. But he couldn't help but think of Ben's cold assessment of 81's chances.
He felt his already weary shoulders slump further. He leaned against the wall
again, cold steel against his forehead.
He could do it. For a little while. If he had to. Something respectable, if not
completely above ground. Run spice or parts or data. Til the guy was on his
feet, set up somewhere reasonably safe. Hell, maybe they could even supply
parts to the Resistance. Far enough up the chain that he'd never run into
anyone he knew.
A few weeks, he thought. A few weeks, get the guy set up. Then he could retire.
He could do the right thing one more fucking time.
 
 
And that's what it was, wasn't it?
 
"You were right the first time," he said to 70. It was out of the blue, to 70,
who had no idea what he was talking about.
Of course he was one of those people. He just was; it was obvious.
If there was sign on his back, it said that he was a good person with a fierce
conscience. That he'd always try to do the right thing. That he would take
terrible risks to do the right thing.
It was a curse; it was in his blood just as much as Ben's Force abilities were
in his. People did use him. People did take advantage of him. And the galaxy
was probably a marginally better place because of it.
 
Well, if Yoda and Obi-Wan could run off to meditate for twenty years while the
Empire hardened around them, then Poe could damn well self-destruct as an ex-
pilot. He could find what had been waiting for him, down the fucking drain. He
was so close; it was too late, really, he was past the event horizon.
Six weeks, he'd give the guy.
 
70 was asking hopefully if what he'd been right about was trying to recover the
holo. When Poe lit the saber again it was steady, but so heavy in his hands. It
wasn't fear or rage fueling it, but utter, exhausted resentment.
"You know you're just as guilty as they are."
"I didn't -"
"You did," Poe assured him.
 
He stabbed 3070 right through one of his eye lenses, through the back of his
skull. Just north of the medulla, the operations center of the body, the
precious nugget he'd taken care to vaporize when he killed 1881.
3070 would remain conscious for a few more minutes. Left to his own, he'd die
in a couple of days. If someone cared to, they could keep him alive in a semi-
vegetative state for years. Instead, he would receive the coup de grace from
Sgt Numbers, when he arrived tomorrow with a new squad, detailed with removing
the bodies.
Poe saw all of this as clearly as if it had already happened.
 
He looked at the weapon in his hand for a moment. Cut the blade, and fondled
the hilt for a moment more. He turned to Ben.
"You want this back?"
Ben tilted his head.
"Come."
Ben took a step toward him.
"No," Poe shook his head. His eyes tilted down to the floor, then rose again to
meet the mask.
The last thing 3070 ever saw was the Master of the Knights of Ren, murderous
wraith, terror of the galaxy, nightmare of troopers and civilians alike,
kneeling before the staggering, blood-splattered rebel.
 
***** Where I'm Going, You Can't Follow *****
Chapter Summary
     It helped if he didn't think of Finn as a trooper but as another
     prisoner. One that had been there a lot longer than he had.
===============================================================================
 
He refused to sit in the rack again, even with the restraints sliced off. He
had more blasters than he could hold, now. There was no place to hide the
bodies and nothing with which to mop up the blood, so there was no point
pretending he was doing anything but waiting for his gunner. If anyone else
showed up, they'd join the dead.
He sat on the vac again, with the door open, taking the time to hydrate and
quiet his mind, trying to quell the paranoia enough that he wouldn't kill his
new buddy when he showed up.
...
 
He heard the door open, and the steps of a trooper picking their way around the
cell. Avoiding stepping in blood, if this guy was half as smart as Poe hoped
he'd be. The footsteps came up to the fresher, and a vocoded voice asked, "Are
you the Resistance pilot?"
   I was, yeah.
"That's me. Who are you?"
There was a pause.
"Listen carefully. You do exactly as I say, I can get you out of here."
"Right. Can you tell a TIE/sf from the old models? On sight?
"Of course. We gotta get far, and fast. Can you fly one?"
...
 
He didn't know if Ben would even try to help to shield their escape, but he
wasn't surprised when they were noticed. There were dozens of techs on the
bridge, and dozens more troopers at conning stations scattered around the hull
of the massive ship. Not even Ben's kind of power could blind that many minds
at once. If he was even trying.
The firefight was exhilarating, the SF twirling at his fingertips and the
trooper hollering as he blew away every obstacle he could get in his sights.
Poe felt his heart leap light and joyful as they hit hyperspace, only to be
clouded with a sullen kind of wariness as they settled into the quiet. Flying
felt like being tugged back up into the Light, and he didn't want to go.
 
"Holy shit, we did it. We did it!"
"Not yet, buddy, we still gotta ditch this plane. But we got a coupla hours
before we gotta worry about that."
"Right, right. We look like First Order in this thing. Shit."
   Interesting way to put that.
"I'm Poe. What's your name?"
"FN-2187, Sir."
"FN, huh? All the guys I met were FD's."
   Met. Also an interesting choice.
"Yeah, 'cause you were detained. D is for Detention."
"Makes sense. So what's N stand for?"
"Nothing. Or maybe Nobody."
"Gotcha. You don't have to tell me anything, bud."
"Not hiding anything, Sir. No one knows what N is for. Just that it's cadre
track. The joke is that it stands for Nobody because no one wants to be friends
with a future officer."
This seemed like the kind of cultural arcana that would be absolutely
fascinating over a few drinks.
"No, like, nickname?"
"Eighty-seven, to my squad."
   Nope.
   Eff-En. Fan Fen Fin Fon Fun Fyn.
"Can I call you Finn, maybe? For now? I - have some kinda recent and unpleasant
associations with - all the numbers."
"Finn. Yeah, I like that."
"Well, pleased to meet you, Finn."
"Likewise, Sir."
"Yeah, no. Call me Poe. Please."
"Really? Is that really how you guys address each other?"
"Us guys? You mean the rest of the galaxy, outside the First Order? How long
you been in, man?"
"Uh, well, my whole life. At least that I can remember."
   Your whole life? How does a child enlist in a fascist army that's only even
been around for - wait, how old is this kid? And - shit - is this where all
those kids went???? Holy fuck.
"And I don't mean civilization, in general. I mean the Resistance. I assume I'm
gonna have to start at the bottom. And you're an officer, right? I'm just -
more comfortable with Sir, for now. If that's alright."
   What.
"You. Want to join the Resistance?"
"Yeah... wait, will they let me?"
"Yeah, man... of course. Yeah. That's ... awesome. Wow."
 
Okay, there was a lot of stuff they had to talk about, and he was not up to it
right now. Right now, they had to come up with a plan for disappearing. He'd
punched in coordinates for Takodana, because it was really the only place in
the SF's range where they could land safely and find new transport.
He'd stopped there on his way out, but they weren't heading back to that port.
For one thing, there was a chance they might get shot down. For another, if he
went back there, he would probably end up dragging himself back to D'Qar, a
prisoner of his own conscience.
But there were a couple of other big pirate havens on the planet. The largest
was very large, a city, really. It had once had a proper name of its own, but
no one remembered it anymore, so entrenched was the nickname Little Shaddaa.
The Order was hated there, but not as much as credits were loved. It was the
kind of place where a stormtrooper and a bloody mess of a human being, seen
together, might not be completely out of place; it was just that normally
they'd be seen leaving the planet, not arriving there.
And now that he was thinking about about the place, he could practically smell
the smoke of street meat mingling with spice and alcoholic vapors, and his
stomach was answering, and the last fucking dregs of adrenaline were
dissipating, and he really didn't have time to crash now.
His stomach must have been loud, because Finn exclaimed, "Oh, hey, I brought
you food!" He felt something against his shoulder and he looked back, expecting
to see a ration bar in Finn's hand. But holy mother of all suns it was fucking
field rations. He had to be fucking dreaming.
"Aha, Finn, you brilliant bastard! Which parts you got dibs on?"
"No, Sir, that's all for you. I just came on. Just, don't eat too fast, if it's
been a while."
   Don't hafta tell me, kid.
STEW, NERF. The sweetest four syllables in Basic. If he ever had a kid he was
gonna name it after Meal 04. He tore open the corner and inhaled the absolute
nothing that met his nostrils. Squeezed a small blob into his mouth and tasted
nothing but salt and everfruit and something vaguely brown. Went through the
motion of chewing, even though the ears and ass that made up the meat were
ground finer than the porridge comma multi that he never even bothered chewing.
There was a little sob in his voice as he thanked Finn for industry's perfect
food.
"Are you okay, Sir?"
   Not at all, buddy.
"Yeah. Thank you."
...
 
As the food revived him, he played with the TIE's nav, and names started to
bubble back up in his memory. There had to be someplace better than Takodana,
some other neutral planet they could get to from here. Someplace they wouldn't
get shot down, someplace Finn could ditch his armor, someplace they could blend
in and get new clothes. 
There was that little ag planet nearby, what was it called. He'd never been
there, but the fruit crates pictured fields laced with streams and dotted with
patches of woods, perfect for hiding a plane behind. There had to be a few big
ag ports, they could walk to one, stealing fruit from orchards along the way...
Finn could wear his jacket over his underoos and look fairly normal, and Poe
could scrub his clothes in a stream, and lay out naked in the sun while they
dried...
 
Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! 
He gasped awake to the proximity sensor. Fuck. Dammit. So much for paradise.
Li'l Shady it was, then.
"Okay, buddy, so here's the problem. I feel like I should do most of the
talking, here, but as long as we're together and you're in that armor, I can't
really do anything but keep my head down and my mouth shut. You have any
ideas?"
"I - take the armor off? I mean, that's kind of a priority for me anyway."
"Yeah, but where?"
"Here? Once you disembark, I can throw my shit in your seat."
   Duh. What is wrong with my head?
   Where to begin.
"Holy shit, Finn, you're a fucking genius. Also, disembark?"
"What?"
...
 
This was gonna be fine. Without a stormtrooper at his side, being a bloody mess
of a human being was no big deal. Maybe even for the best, as it looked like
he'd been rolled once already. Everything was gonna be just fine. He wiped the
worst of the blood splatters off his jacket with spit while he waited for Finn
to disembark.
When he did, well. Speaking of things being fine. He'd gotten a little glimpse
over his shoulder in hyperspace, but. Good heavens. Poe held out his jacket.
"This will help you blend in a little, I think."
"Thank you. What now?"
"Walk casual, like we're just here on a lark," Poe answered, setting off to the
south. "But also fast. Like it's a lark we're super excited about. Smile. Look
back and forth at each other like we're having a fun conversation."
"Alright. Can I tell you something that might actually make you laugh?"
"Hit me, pal."
"I think this might actually be the funnest conversation I've ever had."
The urge to stop in his tracks and grab Finn by the shoulders was so strong,
Poe nearly tripped. He managed to choke out a superficial laugh, and pat Finn
on the shoulder.
"Thought you said make me laugh, not make me cry."
"Seriously. I thought a lark was a kind of bird?"
"Ohmigod."
 
They finally made it to the edge of the tarmac, skipping right past the mooring
reg and into the street. When no one yelled at them to come back, Poe felt his
heart lift a little. They were actually fucking doing this, they might actually
get away.
They passed plenty of clothing stalls, most of them catering to scenes they
didn't need to be associated with. They finally found some sturdy, neutral
workwear and a couple of unflattering hats. Poe fought back a brief wave of
nausea as he paid with one of the chips he'd lifted off the troopers. Bags in
hand, they checked into a cleanish looking inn. He was prepared with a story
about getting mugged to explain his appearance, but of course, no one asked.
Once the door to their room was shut and locked behind them, he sagged against
a wall and finally, finally, let himself go, shaking and laughing and crying.
"I think we did it, man. I think we made it."
Finn's posture didn't change, but his face went through a number of
expressions. Poe held out his hands in the universal request for a hug. Well,
nearly universal: Finn looked back and forth between them, and concluded, "Oh!
You want your jacket back."
"No, dummy. Come here." Finn did, and Poe pulled him in tight and felt his
tears against the impervious leather of his father's old jacket. It hurt,
suddenly, that this piece of him was there to witness what had happened, what
he'd done. He pulled the collar aside to press his wet face against Finn's
shirt.
But Finn wasn't wearing a shirt, just his tight synthetic stormtrooper
underalls, just like they all wore, and Poe jerked away like his face was
burnt. He was against the wall and hit his head and fuck everything, will
nothing ever be nice ever again?
 
"Are you okay, Sir?" Finn's voice was startlingly gentle.
"No! Of course not! And don't call me that."
Kriff, he'd been called Sir more times in the last day than in his entire time
with the Resistance, and by the men whose blood was staining the clothes he was
still wearing.
"Please. I wish you'd call me Poe. But. You can call me Dameron, you can call
me asshole, you can even call me late to dinner, just," he shook his head,
"Please."
"Okay. I gotcha," Finn nodded, as he pulled Poe back against his chest. "It's
okay, Poe. It's gonna be okay."
"I'm sorry."
"No. Don't be."
  Okay.
...
 
He had a good long hot-water shower. He hadn't wanted to let go of Finn. He
wondered if everything that had happened had twisted him somehow, and his
attitude toward fucking stormtroopers. 
   Fucking stormtroopers, get it?
   Oh hell, even my trauma thinks it's a fucking comedian.
It helped if he didn't think of Finn as a trooper but as another prisoner. One
that had been there a lot longer than he had.
He was great. He was super sharp, and he was so nice; he'd brought him food. Or
maybe, that wasn't a big deal, maybe they always carried rations ... had
hissquad been carrying them? He scanned the plasteel pockets and pouches in his
memory ... and then he was speculating about their meal schedules, their
downtime ... what they did in the barracks of an evening ... how many copies of
the holo had gotten out ... and then he was asking himself, again, what he
could've done differently, what he should've done differently, if he hadn't
wanted the guards looking at him like that.
It didn't take long to figure out that almost any stray thought, allowed to
wander freely, would lead him there. Like a fucking grav beam.
   That's normal. There's nothing wrong with me. That's gonna happen for a
while.
He was okay. A little tense, definitely not panicking. On the other hand, he
had no idea how long he'd been standing in the shower.
 
Finn was looking out the window at the lights and signs and vehicles, but
closed the shade as Poe stepped out of the fresher.
"Sorry I hogged it for so long. That was..."
   What? The fuck you apologizing for?
"Sorry."
He curled under the barely adequate blankets. Finn sat at the small table.
"Right, I guess you haven't actually been up long."
"No, but you have. Sleep. I'll be good for at least twelve hours."
"Twelve - Finn, we don't hafta take shifts. We can both sleep. Whenever you get
tired, just, hit the hay. You don't have to wait for me. And you definitely
don't hafta wake me up."
   Sit with me, talk to me. Right here, right next to me. Don't sit silently
three meters away.
It was probably, no, certainly for the best. Shit was complicated enough; they
had a lot to talk about in the morning, and the news about Bee was urgent. The
only reason he was stopping to sleep at all was necessity. He was already
forgetting stuff, spacing out; not all of his decisions had been ideal,
although they were here and safe and that was enough for now. He'd fallen
asleep at the stick - in hyperspace, sure, but on a very a short trip. It had
been a nice dream, though. At least he could have that. Some off-season
pasture, bathing in a stream and laying out in the sun to dry...
 
===============================================================================
 
Poe could've slept for ten hours. Hell, he probably could have slept for days.
He woke after 3 hours, like usual. Usually he would compose lyrics in his head
or masturbate or just think about stuff for a little while and then fall asleep
for another three or four hours. But all he could think was that some of the
tasks ahead of them were extremely time-sensitive.
1.) He had to risk sending a relay transmission to the Resistance. It would
take Finn at least a couple of days to get there, and they needed to start
moving on that intel yesterday. 
2.) They couldn't afford passage for either of them until they washed the four
troopers' piece accounts, and Finn's too, if he had one. Poe expected the take
to be pretty slim, minus the cleaner's cut. He hoped it would be enough for
Finn's passage, at least.
3.) He expected the accounts to be locked once the bodies were found, which
would be soon. 
 
The longer he stayed in bed, the more likely it was he'd have to start his
retirement by hustling to get them off the planet. And that he did not want.
For one thing, he didn't want Finn seeing that. For another, he was still a
fucking mess. The swelling in his nose had gone down a little, but not enough.
He sighed and dragged himself to the edge of the bed. He explained the
situation to Finn, and they trudged together out into the sleepless pirate
city.
 
===============================================================================
 
They returned, takeout and caf in hand, absolutely elated. Finn had known how
much was in his account, but not how much it was worth anywhere else. Poe was
staggered. The troopers' individual life savings weren't piece accounts. They
were peace accounts, nest eggs for the eventual triumph of the First Order,
when the war machine would be streamlined and the order's subjects expected to
trade the duty of killing for that of producing, procreating, and modelling
upright and loyal behavior for their fellow-subjects.
Finn didn't believe in said peace. He didn't think peace on the First Order's
terms was even possible. And he was certain that if he stayed in he wouldn't
live to see it. The real reason, he said, that frugality was encouraged as a
virtue was that the troopers' savings resolved to the Order when they died. 
It was genius, really. If any New Republic auditors got the idea that the
Order's conscripts were some kind of slaves, they had only to point to the
generous salaries and enviable savings accounts, along with the wise policy of
encouraging their soldiers to plan for peace. And it cost them almost nothing.
Genius, Poe agreed. He'd rewritten his last wishes when he joined the
Resistance, and had wanted to name the organization itself. He was
told absolutely not by an offended clerk. Well, he was about to hand them a
hell of a lot more than was in his own meager account. Or rather, Finn was
about to hand it to them. Poe took for himself just enough to live on for a
year. 
...
 
They laid out their agendas. Finn wanted to join the Resistance, and he'd
assumed that Poe would be the one taking him there. To vouch for him, if
nothing else. But ideally, to help him fit in, too. He was afraid he'd still be
Nobody, but in a different army.
Poe couldn't imagine anyone meeting Finn and seeing nobody, although he could
admit he had good reason to be biased. He knew intel, at least, were going to
sit up and take notice; they would have even without the information Finn would
be delivering for him. Not to mention the credits. Hell, everyone was gonna sit
up and take notice, and he was obliged to do what he could to make sure Finn
attracted the right kind of attention.
 
Poe wanted to disappear. He wouldn't say where or how, anything that Finn could
reveal to anyone else. In fact, he wanted Finn to tell his old comrades he'd
died in the escape:
"I know they won't wanna believe I could crash a functioning plane, so, tell
them I was really fucked up by that Force interrogation. Dizzy spells, that
kind of thing; I wouldn'a been any use to them anymore anyway. Anyway, I fucked
up, we took heavy fire, I hit your eject, didn't give you a choice. You saw me
go down, saw me crash and burn, you were still hanging in your chute at two
thousand meters."
"You were really fucked up by that interrogation. You're fucked up now. I mean,
I didn't know you before, but..."
 
Finn's eyes were so warm and soft and full of concern, it almost hurt to look
at him. Rather, it hurt to look and not have his head on Finn's shoulder and
Finn's arms around him. It wasn't just his looks. Honestly. It was like they'd
been reborn when they'd escaped and they were part of one another now. He'd
only known him a few hours and he was going to miss Finn more than anyone else.
There was no one else. He'd already grieved over everyone else; they were gone.
All these tasks and arrangements were simply going through the motions, tying
up loose ends, the better to forget. Finn was his only friend, his only
acquaintance even, in the whole goddamned galaxy. 
 
"I know you want this. And, I owe you everything. But, Poe. I don't want to
introduce myself to the Resistance, to your friends, by lying to them."
Poe nodded. Really no way around that, was there?
"When you put it that way. I can't ask you to do that."
He scrubbed his scalp, trying to think.
"So. Okay. This is good, this gives me a chance to write some notes. Say
goodbye, good luck, tell people what of my stuff they can have. And how great
you are. You can deliver them; that'll be part of m-my v-vouch. For you." His
voice broke as he made the promise. 
It was one thing to discuss parting ways; it was another to promise. It hurt.
He pulled their clasped hands closer and put his forehead down on Finn's
knuckles.
   Please don't go. Come with me. I'll change my plans, I'll get a regular job,
I'll fly, intrasystem, close to home. I'll fly atmospheric. I'll load crates.
I'll do anything, I'll sell ugly clothes to fugitives, I'll scrub freshers in a
joint like this, in this very one, even, we can just live in this room forever
and never leave.
 
But Finn had to go. For himself, and because it was the surest way to get the
message to Leia about Bee, eir trajectory, and the vital, galaxy-upending data
ey possessed.
Not that Finn wasn't an asset in his own right, but if it was only him, Poe
would try, at least, to talk him into running away together. But the mission
was more important than either of them. And it was Finn's mission, now.
 
His tears were soaking between their clasped fingers. He pulled away,
apologizing. He tried to pull his hands away but Finn tightened his grip.
Finn's gaze was soft but penetrating, and Poe felt caught in it, exposed; it
was almost frightening. 
"One of the things I've heard, about the Resistance, is that they take care of
their people when they're wounded."
"What, the Order doesn't? Doesn't surprise me, I guess." The apparent change of
topic allowed Poe to tear his eyes away, down to his lap.
"It seems to me," Finn said, firm and deliberate, "that you've been wounded. In
the line of duty. And that you deserve to be taken care of, just as much as if
you'd been shot."
"Ha, listen to you."
"You don't think Kylo Ren injured you?"
"Oh, I know he did. Buddy, you are preaching to the high priestess and all the
doves and virgins, right here. I've had to have the brain injury talk with more
people than I care to count. Just - usually I'm the one giving it."
"So... you agree."
"That my head is fucked, yes. That I should go back and take up time and
resources to try to do anything about it?" He shook his head, "I know I'm
entitled to it. But I don't really think it would help. And honestly," he was a
little ashamed to admit, "I don't want it."
"You might feel differently when -"
"Don't. Finn. I'm not changing my mind. And I don't want to fight with you."
"Okay. Poe."
They sat silent for a moment.
 
"You saw me laughing, before? I know I looked crazy. I was kinda, fantasizing.
About asking you to run away with me. Stupid, I know."
"I would, though. If there wasn't a war coming. But I can't just, leave now."
"You're a better soldier than I, Finn."
"No. No! Poe, you've been fighting, look at you! Seriously, look at yourself in
a mirror! You're -" he stopped, frustrated. "You've done your part, maybe. But
I haven't. And I can't walk away."
"I know. I know."
 
 
===============================================================================
                                        
Sometimes, it's the little things. In this case, the things were about 8mm,
growing off his chin, and a shocking number of them were white.
"Get it, Finn? Silver lining?" he asked, grinning eagerly.
Finn regarded him blankly.
   What, they don't have puns in the First Order? Poor kid.
And then, just when he was about to shrug his shoulders, the corner of Finn's
mouth just barely twisted. Holy shit, Finn was giving him the look. A slow
blink, a dismissive fraction of a head shake, sweet mother of moons, where did
he learn to do that?
And Poe was sending him to D'Qar; there would be two of them now, Finn and
Jess. The thought of being caught, strung up on his own words, twisting in the
wind under their twin stares was ... almost too much to resist. Pure, platonic
torture. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought, at least for the
moment.
 
But seriously. The stubble he'd grown in detention would be an asset so long as
he was stuck in the Western Reaches with Finn. He'd rarely been seen with more
than a days' worth of growth. He couldn't have known when it had gotten so
white, or if maybe that had just happened in the past few days.
The new kink in his nose helped camouflage him, too. And it wasn't as bad as he
imagined. It wasn't bad at all. It was sorta handsome, in a rugged, Outer Rim,
grey market kind of way.
Between the nose and the stubble and the hat that he wouldn't want to be caught
dead in, he hardly recognized himself. It was just for a few days, while he
escorted Finn as far as Naboo and a resistance contact there. Naboo would also
give him a chance to buy some real clothes. Some starter jewelry, scented oils,
that kind of thing.
 
Everything was gonna be fine.
 
===============================================================================
 
***** Doe Eyes *****
Chapter Summary
     Twenty months later.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
===============================================================================
 
 
It was noon in the spaceport on the planet below. Shuttles to and from the
station glinted in the sunlight like fingerlings. At night, the atmosphere
blossomed like firey clover as they punched in and out. 
Doe Eyes stopped at the viewport in the morning, whenever morning happened to
be for him, watching the traffic and the weather. If only there were bidgens
cooing around his bench, the illusion of senescence would be complete.
This particular morning he was blissfully un-hungover, the rare consequence of
having been put down hard the night before. A new, generously gifted silk shirt
caressed his flanks. There was tansi on his breath, jasmine oil on his pulse
points, and the prospect of a trip to Ord Bur on his mind. He felt ready to eat
the galaxy.
 
Sadly, there was no galaxy to eat; the salon was like a morgue. Just a handful
of regulars, sitting alone over their drinks or playing halfhearted card games.
Mémé alone at the bar, watching the soaps. He wrapped his arms around her
shoulders and kissed the top of her head. She squirmed away.
"Don't you touch me with that!"
"With what?" he asked innocently.
"Ew! Weren't you just with the Twins?"
"You know they're not really twins," he murmured close in her ear, and licked
her cheek.
"So you say, and I choose to believe it," she said with exaggerated primness.
He sat down and began to trying to signal for a drink. The place might be dead,
but Yul was going to make him wait anyway.
"Please tell me their sonic's running, at least."
"Naw, they gave up on that thing," he lied, just to see her reaction. "Not
worth the effort; who needs it?"
She was like 95% sure he was having her on. She gratified him with a barf face
anyway; the more grossed out she was, the more goddamned pleased with himself
he looked.
"If they can afford nice rooms, they can afford to take it to a real shop."
"Well, Rory says that they're real stubborn about it. They don't like anyone
else touching their rig. It's a pride thing."
"Rory says? What, they don't talk, now, either?"
He laughed out loud.
"No, what I'm saying is, ey's on your side. They're being stubborn."
"Fucking pilots," she huffed. 
"Fucking pilots," he agreed cheerfully, "and their fucking droids, too."
 
===============================================================================
 
(The Bana Twins were a pair of couriers who came through once or twice a month.
They averaged about 50/50 smuggling versus legitimate business, though they
weren't above outright piracy if a decent target presented itself.  They were
more than just a welcome break from the monotony. He'd have felt blessed to
have met them under any circumstances.
Their game had started off innocently enough: licking them clean after sex, a
tame little rule about not speaking until spoken to. Over a year later, now, he
wasn't allowed to use his mouth for anything but cleaning their bodies. No
kissing, no blowjobs, no cunnilingus; he thought there was a good case to be
made for analingus, but of course, he wasn't allowed to make it, because unless
something was really wrong, there was absolutely no talking, on his part. They
even punished him for wordless groans and whimpers.
Sometimes, when Coll really needed it, they rescinded the rules entirely. Other
times, when Doe Eyes really needed it, they expanded them beyond just sex,
to most or all of their visit. Sometimes, in private, they would talk about him
like an object, not addressing him directly; he felt calm and safe when they
did that. But he had yet to convince them to try it in public.
Last night he'd spent well over an hour licking and scrubbing them clean;
they'd spent the rest of the night defiling him. 
Eventually he was on his knees, licking santorum off Coll's cock, the man's
hands gentle in his hair, ready to pull him off and slap him if he tried to
take too much into his mouth at once. Brea tickled the crack of his ass with
her belt, waiting for him to so much as mew so she could whip him. Pet names
had filled his ears: good boy, such a pretty boy, dirty whore, filthy shit-
sucking whore, such a good boy.
When Coll was satisfied, he'd pulled away, stroking himself hard again, and
Brea had pulled Doe Eyes back up against her knees, and Coll towered over him,
the threat in his eyes as hard as he could muster. She'd pulled his head back
into her lap, baring and stretching his throat, and Coll had plunged slowly
down into him, too slow, until his weight was on him, and Doe Eyes' hand was
twitching violently as he tried to stop himself from tapping out. Only after
he'd tapped out three separate times, and his face was flushed and teary, did
he get the vigorous facefucking he wanted.
He'd been ecstatic; there were no words to describe how grateful he was to have
made the right choices in his life, the ones that had brought him to this room
with these people.)
 
===============================================================================
 
Yul finally acknowledged him, pushing a glass of water and a bowl of chips at
him.
"Hey hey! You're coming back with my whisky!"
"You're looking well this morning," the bartender answered dryly.
"This is a space. station."
"In geo.synchrononous. orbit."
"It's past noon! And since when do I hafta give a fuck? Just because you work
in shifts, doesn't mean the rest of us hafta live by your regimented little..."
Yul had heard this rant a hundred times. He walked away and took his sweet time
coming back with a drink.
 
Mémé beamed at him.
“Did I tell you about Jedi guy?”
“Like, recently?” He was pretty sure he'd remember something about a Jedi.
"Like, yesterday. You're gonna love this. One-eighth Jedi, to be exact."
“One-eighth. Is that how that works. I feel so ignorant."
"Yeah, you, me, the rest of the galaxy, and the Force itself."
"Did he try to mind-trick you?"
"What do you think?"
"Psh." He pitied the fool that estimated his Mémé as weak-minded. "Wha'd he try
to get you to do?"
"Bareback, for starters."
"Oh, one of those assholes," he smirked. The smile fell off her face, but she
resisted chiding him. He'd gotten a lot better. 
"I saw that look. It's not with every random asshole, you know. Just some
people I really like."
"Like the Twins?" She wrinkled her nose.
"Exactly. So anyway, this Jedi jerk..."
"Right, fucking hell, this guy. He says." She was so tickled she could hardly
speak. "Get this. He says - his semen -”
“NO!” he roared, eyes wide with delight.
“YES!” she shrieked. “Has regenerative powers!” She threw her head back with
laughter.
"Ah ha, just what you need for your tired old -"
"Watch it, girl."
"Did you save me some? I could use it on my crows' feet."
"Don't you dare! Your crows' feet are adorable."
"I can't believe I've never heard that one before! That's brilliant."
"But listen, this is the best part."
“Better than magic jizz? No way.”
“He pronounced - ah, ha - pronounced it middiklor-eens."
It was impossible to explain just why that was so funny, but Doe Eyes thought
he might pull a muscle laughing.
“Klor-eens!”
Yul was back and looking appalled.
“No one likes being made fun of,” he whispered angrily.
“He's not here!”
“Or thinking they might be made fun of.”
“Dude, there's no one here.”
She nodded around the nearly-empty barroom, populated only by a few regulars
who were just there to drink. A few of them would've appreciated the anecdote
themselves, and none of them gave a flying fuck about two housies having a
giggle fit at the end of the bar. Yul tilted his head in acknowledgment, and
asked them nicely with his eyes to keep it the hell down.
“Three words, Yul.” Doe Eyes grinned up at him, conspiratorially. “Magic. Jedi.
Semen.”
Yul smirked despite himself. Shook his head once and walked away- and made a
beeline for the stockroom.
“He's fucking wetting his pants in there, isn't he?”
“Yeah he is.”
“Klor-eens.”
"Klor-eeeens."
 
===============================================================================
                                        
He was seriously ready to go back to his room for a nap when some prospects
finally showed. A team of miners, fresh out of the field, still in their
Exobaron coveralls. They slogged to a large table and slumped in their seats.
Two of them came up to order for the group and Mémé snagged one by the elbow.
"Where you folks coming from?"
"A very special 1,200 square-k piece of hell in the Sighez belt. It's called
some long-ass buncha numbers. Ever heard of it?"
"No, sounds awful. I'd love to hear more about it."
The miner looked over his shoulder at the rest of the team. The one person
whose eyes were actually open smiled and shrugged, so the four of them carried
over drinks for the whole table. Mémé wedged in next to her new friend.
The foreman stood and offered his seat to Doe Eyes, sizing up his nearly-empty
drink. He frowned at the two gofers.
"I'm sorry. They're very tired right now. They usually have better manners.
What're you having?"
"Whisky soda, why, thank you."
A beefy 20-something was apologizing, "Be honest with ya, girls, I think we're
all pretty shitcanned. Imma be too drunk to fuck in about half an hour."
"That's okay. It's not like there's any action here to miss out on."
"Always this quiet around here?"
"Hell no. Wouldn't be here if it was."
"Well, don't let us keep ya, but as long as we're not, please stay. I mean it,
just lemme, lemme look at ya. Both of ya, fucking angels."
"Not so bad yourself."
Snorts went around the table.
"Tomorrow, now, that's another story," another miner grinned wide and
lascivious.
"Comm me, I'll bring you breakfast."
"Better make it lunch."
"So what's with all the nothing going on here? Is there something happening?
Planetside?"
"Ain't heard nothin."
"No complaints, tho."
"Seriously, quiet's good."
"Ain't up for a party."
"Wouldn't let me into a party, stinking like this."
Doe Eyes caught the opening, "I know y'all are beat, but. I give really good
showers. Massages, too."
It was worth a try. 
 
"Whaddyall do for fun around here?"
"Chat up handsome strangers."
More snorts.
"Why the hell you talking to us then?"
Chuckles.
"How long did y'all say you were out?"
"Eight weeks."
"On a dry fucking rock."
"Not a drop to drink."
"Fourteen hours a day."
"Twelve."
"Plus gear-up."
"Yeah, fourteen."
"Eight weeks."
"Not a drop."
"Cult owns the rock."
"Couldn't have any rations with fish in 'em, either."
"Bright side to every moon."
"Anyway, we're gettin proper fucking drunk."
"Smashed."
"Obliterated."
"But seriously, we'll be around for a coupla days. Believe me, you'll get
enough of these chuckleheads."
 
The foreman returned with fresh drinks. Doe Eyes let his fingertips brush
across the man's knuckles as he accepted. 
"I was just telling your crew. I give the best showers. Legendary. Healing."
The foreman smiled warmly. "Sounds lovely. I'd probably fall asleep in there."
But he allowed him to snuggle up against his side, slipping a thick, muscular
arm around his waist. "Don't let us keep you, if you gotta go. If better
company shows up."
   What a gentleman, kriff.
 
"What about you guys," someone said, "Gats? Roche? You don't even hafta do
anything."
"I mean, you're both gorgeous," answered one obviously female miner, "but I'm,
ah, licked already." Groans of laughter went around the table.
"Yeah, and I've seen her drunk; she's tight with the credits. Better wait for
when she's sober."
"Now Pizo, here, on the other hand."
The youngest-looking member of the team dropped his face into his hands. They
could see the blush through his fingers.
"Guys! That was like a year ago!"
"He met this girl on OMS3."
He felt the foreman stiffen beside him.
"OMS2," someone corrected.
"Right. OMS2. Totally fell for him. Bought him an analog chrono. Near emptied
his account."
"It wasn't that fancy. It wasn't that much money. It was my first time away
from home," Pizo recited, for what sounded like the hundredth time.
 
They went around and around like this, the fond if merciless teasing of people
who have spent far too much time stuck together. They kept the drinks coming,
and the pair of hookers weren't shy about accepting. The miners began to drop
off one by one, with kisses to their knuckles and salutations like goodnight
beautiful and promises to rock their worlds after a few good hours of shuteye.
The foreman released Doe Eyes to let one of his crew, almost as young as Pizo,
nuzzle his face in his hair.
 
"Yr so pretty, sorry m'so drunk," he slurred. "I wanna be with you."
"You wanna pay me just to take a nap with you?"
"Mebbye."
"Good night, Pol."
"Okay. But. Tomorrow tho... how many you girls usually roun' here?"
"Pol. What did we say about that?"
"Aw, he doesn't mind. Do you, sweetheart?"
"What don't I mind?"
"That I call you guys girls. 'S just a habit. 'S not, like, a insult."
"Oh, of course it's not. Hell, when I was a kid, most of my heroes were women."
"Me too!"
"If anything it's a compliment."
"You don't get it," growled the foreman. "If this galaxy has any heroes left,
they're all women. You know: the ones that didn't fuck up, or turn dark, or run
away. It's not an insult to you, kid. It's an insult to them."
 
Well, damn.
 
It sounded like something Commander Dameron would have said. He'd had this kind
of conversation before, had led this conversation, back when he was responsible
for the behavior of his people. His kids, some of them, their first time away
from home, carrying with them all kinds of blind prejudices from their
homeworlds.
 
He looked up at Pol.
"Your boss is right, you know."
"Yeah, I know. 'Sa bad habit. You think I'ma jerk?"
"No, honey."
"Good," Pol nuzzled his hair again and mumbled in his ear, "Cause yr the
hottest thing on two feet, mister. M'gonna give it to you so good, you won'
even remember what species you are."
"Well then," Doe Eyes patted his shoulder. "You should go rest up for that."
 
                                      ...
 
He stumbled, loose and dissatisfied, back to the bar, where Mémé had already
regained her perch. He slouched back next to her in a funk.
"What's wrong, girl? Why so pissy?"
"Don't call me that," he snapped.
"Okay, asshole, why so pissy? They were fun."
He just huffed.
"Boss sure took a shine to you, anyway."
"Yeah, that's why he's up there and I'm down here."
"Oh, you know how those remotes are. Give 'em time to shit, shower and sleep it
off."
"Pfffffff," he answered. All he could hear was the man's indictment echoing
between his ears:
   Fucked up.
   Turned dark.
   Ran away.
 
"Tell me something, Mé. How do people get to be that age and still give a
fuck."
"Fuck if I know, 'wise."
 
===============================================================================
 
Chapter End Notes
     ***** If you're looking for a happy-ish ending to this story, this
     would be a good place to stop reading and skip to another part in the
     series. *****

     -
     Mémé is short for Padme. Fifty years after Queen Amidala's death, her
     name remains popular, albeit for different reasons for different
     generations. In the early days of the New Republic, it evoked both
     nostalgia for the past and hope for the future. Now, with a new civil
     war taking its toll, the galactic mood is cynical. Padme is such a
     common nom du rue for sex workers, it's practically a cliché.
***** High and Small and Bright *****
Chapter Notes
     Sooo, this is the last chapter. If you've read all the warnings, and
     one of them hasn't happened yet, you probably know where this is
     headed.
===============================================================================
 
 
Yul set down what he swore was their last round. Rom nova for Mémé and whiskey
soda for Doe Eyes, who scowled at the weak tint.
“Last one til dinner, kids. Orders.”
Doe Eyes gnashed his teeth obscenely back.
“Let me know when my dinner walks in.” He continued licking his teeth filthily
until the barman rolled his eyes and walked away.
“Parsimonious little fuck.”
“Aw, leave him be,” she chided, “he's just doing his job.”
"Traitor."
“Love you too.”
He bent down and made love to his straw for a few seconds. There was no one
watching; it was just a habit.
 
She nudged his arm.
“Well hello there.”
 
He looked up at the stranger that had just entered. He was fine. That was a
vintage pressure suit he was wearing. Either he was rich enough to wear a
collector's item around, or he was competent enough to keep one running. Either
was attractive. Even more attractive was the physique that it clung to, a hard
ribbon of yes, please, only a little taller than himself. If it was possible
for a rebreather helmet to be handsome, his was; two slim atmo tanks hung
discreetly from his belt.
The stranger ordered a drink and rolled out a little tube, attaching it to the
straw. Doe Eyes turned to him to flirt, dropping one shoulder, batting his
thick lashes. The stranger stiffened. Too much, maybe?He returned to fellating
his straw, while Mémé ran her nails over her nipples.
She was moving to get up and approach the guy, when he pushed away his half-
finished drink and motioned to Yul. A few quiet words, and the bartender nodded
toward the other end of the bar, near the door. He was gonna talk to the boss.
Maybe he was looking for someone else, xeno, maybe, or maybe he wanted
something special.
 
He watched the two negotiate, the little theater of crow and vulture dividing a
carcass. Eventually they settled. She was glaring as she spoke, pointing a
glittering finger for emphasis. After locking eyes with the trick for an
uncomfortably long time, she nodded at Doe Eyes and beckoned.
"That's me then. This looks like fun."
He hopped up and stumbled, catching himself on her shoulder.
"Alright, babe?"
"Yeah yeah. I'll see ya."
He did his best to put on an air of insouciance as he strutted over, half-
consciously assessing the odds on the guy's race and what he had in the tanks.
He wondered if the guy was always into humans, or just when he was with whores.
His shitty mood preferred to think the latter. And his shitty mood didn't have
much time left. Not with Revi holding out a jewel-bedecked arm for him to slide
under.
 
She exuded some kind of pheremone. She had to be right on top of you to really
get the full effect. Staff and customers alike found themselves bashful and
trusting around her. The staff didn't discuss it much; it was kind of
embarrassing. Some actively resented it. When Doe Eyes was younger he might
have resented it too, maybe tried to resist it. But at this point in his life
he couldn't care, even liked it sometimes. Sometimes he wished he could just
crawl into her bosom and suffocate there.
 
She draped her arm around him and kissed his temple.
“How's my baby?”
“I'm good, mama,” he said softly, eyes downcast.
“This is my Doe Eyes.” She sounded like she was proud of him. “Baby, this is
Kim. Say hi.”
He looked shyly at the svelte pilot. “Hi Kim.”
“Kim is going to be in port for a couple of days, and he wants you to keep him
company.”
He blushed. She made it sound like Kim thought he was special. He smiled wide,
feeling grateful, but couldn't make himself look at the man again. He felt like
he was going to start giggling. Revi pulled her arm back a bit, resting her
hand on his shoulder.
“He wants you to stay with him on his ship.”
She'd said a couple of days.
“You mean," he whispered, wide-eyed, "the whole time?”
“Don't worry kid, I won't be too hard on ya. I gotta lotta work to do. You'll
get plenty of rest.”
That wasn't what he was worried about.
“You'll be checking in with me, little one. I want you back here for meals.
Make sure you're getting some real food.”
He smirked, despite himself. Something besides booze and jizz, she meant. He
nearly said it aloud. Instead, he turned to her timidly.
“Um,” he asked.
“Of course, baby.” She released him and stepped to the bar. She produced a
couple of bottles and handed them to the stranger.
“This is going on your bill. Make sure he paces himself.”
“Copy that, ma'am.”
Copy that, ma'am. He sounded so competent, authoritative, even. As Revi took
another step away, he could feel his trust and obedience slipping from her and
attaching itself to the pilot. He was going to be good for Kim. He was sure Kim
would be good to him, too.
“I mean it. You see that face? He comes back with so much as one eyelash out of
place, you're paying for it in organs. You understand?”
“Understood, ma'am.”
She locked eyes with Doe Eyes one last time before slipping back into her
office.
“You. Morning. Here. Food.”
The spell had lifted, and he winked at her, “You got it, boss.”
                                      ...
 
They walked to the hangar in near silence, the trick catching him a couple of
times when he stumbled, mumbling, “Watch it,” and then more harshly “I said
watch it.” Kim pushed him up the ramp and dragged him back to the bunk. Doe
Eyes sank to his knees as soon as they crossed the threshold.
“Stop that, get up.” The stranger seated him on the bunk. “Can you stay right
here for ten minutes?”
“You tell me how long you want it to last,” he said, reaching for the flap of
the pressure suit. The man grasped his wrists firmly.
“Stop. You have to wait.”
“Why you wanna wait for, honey?” he pouted, “ What can I do for you?”
“Right now?”
“Mm-hm.”
“What I really need from you, right now? Is to stay right here for just ten
minutes while I do some business things. Can you do that for me?”
 
He rolled his eyes. Was there something in the fucking air supply? Making
people not-horny? He should have just stayed in bed. He'd jerked off that
morning with Coll's dirty underwear draped over his face. He could've done that
all day. Should've, apparently.
 
“Yeah, leave me one of those bottles, sure.”
“You could hardly walk getting here!”
Kim had seemed so strong and authoritative at first, why was he being such a
prude all of a sudden?
“Listen, mister, it's okay if you don't know exactly what you want. Let me.
I've done this a lot.” He reached for the flap again. “I mean, a lot. You're in
good hands.”
“Fuck,” Kim spoke harshly as he stepped away. “You don't understand. I - I know
exactly what I want.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a bundle of cord. Doe Eyes sucked in a sharp
breath, his face lighting up.
“Oh, wow, is that what you guys were arguing about? How much she charge ya for
that?”
When Kim didn't answer, he whistled low. "Damn, buddy, you got balls. Balls
you're gonna lose if she finds out about this."
"Are you going to tell her?"
"Hell no, I won't say nothing." He looked up sincerely at Kim. "I don't get
much of that around here. Fuck, you just got me so hot, you have no idea."
“Show me - the most comfortable position for you. You might be like that for a
while.”
Doe Eyes lay back, arms parallel behind his back, tucked under his lumbar
spine. He spread his legs wide and bent, soles of his feet touching. Tilted his
head back, jaw loose, looked Kim drowsily in the eye. “Please, mister, I need
your cock. Please.”
Kim froze for a moment before shaking his head.
“Hope you're, fucking well, ready for this. Boy. Roll over.”
Doe Eyes hummed gratefully and started to comply, then realized, “Wait, my
clothes.”
“If I have to cut anything off, I'll buy you two new ones, I promise. Anything
you want, sky's the limit. But, I don't think that's gonna happen. I'm only
interested in one thing.”
“Only way to shut me up, boss,” he grinned, licking his lips.
Kim straightened his legs and pulled them together. “Sorry, I'm gonna do your
legs like this.”
“However you want it, honey.”
Kim snorted. “Kriff, nothing in this galaxy is how I want it.” He tested the
rope with his fingers. "How's that? You comfortable enough?”
“Mmm, yeah.You can ride my face all night like this.”
Kim took two chains out from the drawer and proceeded to chain his purchase,
ankles and waist, to the frame. “So you don't try to come crawling after me.”
“After you? What! You can't leave!”
“Ten minutes.I promise. You just lie here and think about- about what I'm gonna
do to you when I get back, okay?”
 
===============================================================================
                                        
As soon as the door slid shut behind him, Iolo ripped the helmet off and gulped
air into his lungs. He slid to the floor, slumped against the wall, and wiped
the tears from his face.
   Stubborn kriffing sonofabitch.
He fingered the hypo in his pocket regretfully. Plan A had been to tranq Poe
the moment the hatch closed, but he was hammered. It was a long trip, too, back
to base. A long fucking trip.
   Fuck.
When his breath steadied, he got up to begin the preflight sequence.
 
===============================================================================
                                        
In the bunk, the trussed captive rolled his tongue around in his mouth,
daydreaming about what sounded like several hours of facefucking in his near
future. He internalized what he'd seen of Kim's buttons, so far, things he
could provoke the man with. When Kim had finally broken through his hesitancy,
he'd been plenty rough. But it was like pulling teeth to get him there.
He lost track of his thoughts. That happened a lot, now. He heard noises from
the ship, whirrings and clicks. For a moment he pictured the pumps and
actuators and then shook the thought away.
   Pilot stuff. None of my business.
Were they going somewhere? Revi should have told him. Maybe she had, and he'd
just forgotten. That happened sometimes, now, too.
                                     ... 
                                        
By the time Kim got back, he was hot and dreamy and writhing with need. He
opened his mouth and begged with his eyes. Kim sat by his head and stroked his
hair.
“How we doin?”
“Need my daddy.”
“Don't call me that, please.”
“Why not, daddy?”
Kim's fingers tensed. "Please, please don't."
“Uh, that's it, daddy. Pull my hair.”
Kim didn't answer. But it was working; he was vibrating with tension, breathing
heavily through the respirator. Doe Eyes held his tongue for a moment,
listening to the loud breathing.
 
“Anyone ever tell you you sound like Darth Vader?”
Kim stood up abruptly and turned to leave again.
“You know what that means, right? Dark Father.”
“For fuck's sake, man! You have a father, he -"
   Shit.
   Misses you. Was going to be the rest of that sentence. 
 
   What.
“The fuck did you just say.”
   And who.
“The fuck are you. Who was it, you filthy fucking scalp-hunting scum? Was it
him? Was it Leia? Or was it the other side?" 
"No -"
"What am I worth, asshole?” his face twisted into a wild-eyed rictus and he was
screaming, now, “What are you getting for tearing my life apart?!”
“No, no, it's not a bounty!” Iolo pulled the helmet off, gasping. “It's - a
rescue mission. I'm sorry I had to trick you. We didn't think you'd come on
your own.”
Poe gaped at him, betrayal blazing in his eyes.
“Gods-damn right I wouldn't," he snarled. "The only thing I wanted from you
assholes was an honorable fucking execution, and I know force fucking well you
wouldn't give it to me!”
"Oh, no, no, Poe ..." 
Iolo knelt beside him at eye level, saying No-one wants to kill you and
something about getting you the care you need.Poe jerked away from his touch.
“Why! Why couldn't you just leave me! Fuck's sake, leave me here, or fucking
kill me, please Iolo, fuck you, who the fuck asked you to do this!”
“Everyone! When we got a line on you, everyone wanted to volunteer. Everyone,
Poe. We figured I had the least, uh, recognizable body type. Out of all the,
you know, guys. And,” he grimaced, "you know."
   I know what you like.
At that Poe could only wail, “Please, please don't do this.” He rolled into the
corner and smashed his head hard against the bulkhead. It rang him like a bell,
left him dizzy and seeing stars. He did it again, and again.
“Poe, stop, you're going to hurt yourself!”
“You leave this room to fly this ship," he snarled, "you'll come back to find
my fucking brains all over this fucking bunk."
Smash.
Smash.
Iolo straddled Poe and pinned his shoulders; begging him not to hurt himself.
In response Poe started screaming for help. Iolo was acutely aware of the
respectable security presence; he clamped one hand over Poe's mouth.
He wasn't just thinking about paying in organs; he was thinking that if he lost
Poe this time, they'd never get another chance.
Poe began kicking at the bulkhead with the few free inches of chain. Iolo tried
to imagine how loud it would be outside, although any number of maintenance
jobs involved similar banging. And then his heart dove straight into his
guts as he realized there was a pattern to the tattoo. He wasn't as fluent in
binary as Poe, but he could guess pretty well that it was something like HELP.
He panicked.
He slid his knees down around Poe's legs and kicked back at his shins. He
pushed down hard with the hand over Poe's mouth, and reached into his pocket
with the other. Pulled out the hypo and stuck it in Poe's shoulder.
Poe howled through his fingers, “You bastard, I fucking hate you!”
 
Iolo wrapped himself tight around his old friend until the drug kicked in.
   Fucking binary.
He wondered bitterly, and with some pride, whether the unctuous bartender and
the glittering madam had any clue what a fine soldier they'd had in their
midst.
Muffled screams and thrashing gradually gave way to sobbing, and then to
sniffling. He cautiously loosened his hold.
"Hey, Poe, you with me? You okay?"
Poe glared miserably as Iolo wiped his face clean. He stared over the rebel's
shoulder at Ileenium hanging low and red on the bulkhead behind him. He wished
Iolo could see it too, maybe he'd understand, then, why he couldn't do this...
He blinked, each blink longer and heavier than the last.
 
Iolo was still talking to him; it sounded like he was telling a fairy tale.
"Whatever he did to you, Poe, we're gonna fix, we're gonna try. Finn's been
working with a team to develop a deprogramming protocol. For other troopers,
but ... we think maybe it could help you, too. You remember Finn, right? The
man you escaped with?"
Just a fairy tale, like he was putting a child to bed.
   Did to me? Who, Ben? He took - he took a lot. But I'm still me. Who I've
always been. 
   You know it, Iolo, please, if anyone was gonna understand, it'd be you,
right?
The pilot's fingers were on his neck, checking his pulse.
“It's gonna be okay, Poe. We love you,” he murmured, smoothing his hair, and
Poe didn't pull away.
 
   I know you guys think you're doing the right thing. But I can't. It's too
late. He's gone. But this is me, too, and it was always gonna be this way,
can't you see? I know where I belong, and it's not with you. It was, and it was
good, but it's not anymore.
Iolo's hand in his hair felt nice. It wasn't his fault. He didn't know any
better. Poe tried to lift his eyelids to look at him.
 
   I don't hate you. I'm sorry I said that. I don't hate you.
   I know why you're doing this.
   I love you too.
It felt like it was important to say. But his mouth wouldn't form the words,
wouldn't respond; none of his muscles worked, now. He tried to make a kiss, as
shorthand for I love you; it just came out as a little p- sound. He tried
again, and again, and that was going to have to be good enough, because he was
going under fast, crashing, gone.
 
Iolo stayed, stroking Poe's hair the way he'd always liked, watching the
tension drop out of his shoulders, watching his face soften. When he inhaled,
his lips touched and parted with a little pop: p- ... p- ... p- ...
When he was fully out, Iolo released his arms from behind his back and retied
them less suggestively in front. Took his pulse again, whispered We love you
one last time, kissed Poe on the forehead, and rose to take off, away from this
place and back into the arms of the Resistance.
 
                                      ...
                                        
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
                                      ...
 
He was aware, for a little while, of being comfortable. Nothing hurt. He felt a
peace he hadn't felt in years, like the peace he'd found in the jungle as a
child, the ferns swaddling him and the bird chorus lifting to the sky, where
the sun was high and small and bright.
 
He saw the sunlight splotchy through his eyelids. Felt friendly hands at his
wrists, and on his arms and shoulders, guiding him to safety.
 
He felt safe, and happy, and loved, and he followed where they led.
 
 
                                      ...
                                        
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
                                        
                                      ...
 
 
The third time Iolo got up to check on Poe, he couldn't find a pulse. He ripped
out all the slipknots, letting Poe's limbs fall loose. He pinched a pressure
point, harder, nothing. Ground his knuckles into Poe's sternum, still nothing.
He slapped his friend's face, and that was a terrible mistake from which his
heart would never recover. In a split second, fourteen months' worth of
memories from over a decade ago lit up in his brain, of Poe's hot, flushed
cheeks, turning back, defiant, again and again, of sharp breath sucked through
pleading lips, of eyelashes fluttering across dilated pupils, of arching
beneath him, begging for more, more, more... but Poe's body was limp, and his
head was dead weight, flopping to the side and staying there. 
He reached reflexively to his chest, for his crash kit, but it wasn't there. If
he'd been in uniform, he'd have had two adrenaline autojectors at his
fingertips. He raced to the hatch and pulled the med kit off the wall and
found: no adrenaline.
How was that possible? Had it not been restocked at some point? He blew into
his friend's lungs and climbed onto him to begin CPR.
And then he remembered: exo kits. They must have exo kits on this thing. He
ransacked the compartments until he found them, shrinkwrapped. He ripped one
open, unfurled the suit and tore open the crash box, and there, thank the
Force, were two autojectors.
He ripped Poe's shirt open and pressed the first dose into his neck, and began
CPR.
When there was no pulse after five minutes, he gave the second dose. He kept
pumping at Poe's chest until he collapsed. His tears coated his friend's chest
and neck, dripping down and soaking the low collar of his pretty lavendar silk
shirt.
 
===============================================================================
                                        
There was an after-action review. There were lessons learned. Mainly that there
should have been a med-droid, or a copilot, or both. But they had neither to
spare, they were stretched so thin. If they'd waited until they had enough
resources, that time might never have come. Or it might have come too late: The
autopsy showed the subject had survived at least one heart attack and multiple
concussions, in addition to liver scarring and all kinds of inflammations. And:
bizarre brain lesions, inconsistent with any diseases in the literature.
If it was any consolation to Cpt Arana, the autopsy also showed minimal
cortisol in the subject's muscle tissue, despite elevated levels of
hydrocortisol metabolites in the liver. When asked what the fuck that was
supposed to mean, the doctor assured him that Cdr Dameron hadn't died in any
pain, at least.
It was no consolation.
Not with You bastard, I fucking hate you ringing in his ears.
                                      ...
 
He knew how it looked. Like he was following Poe into the bottle. Like he was
taking narcs every night because he was trying to kill himself with the same
combination of poisons he'd killed his friend with. His closest friends knew
his mind didn't work that way. Poe would have known that. He was just taking
what worked. He just wanted the pain to go away.
It wasn't long before he was grounded. That was fine with him, he was leaving
anyway. There was a limit to how many pills he could obtain on base, and it
wasn't near enough. They pleaded with him to stay, to stay in therapy, to get
clean. Things would get better. It sounded a lot like what he'd tried to say to
Poe.
He left. He slept his life away for a few months, until the pills just didn't
work the way they used to. But there was soma. And soma took the pain away.
Eventually it took the pain away forever, on a grimy pallet in a dim shooting
gallery, when his broken heart stopped beating.
 
===============================================================================
 
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