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The resistance pilot looked back as the screams of the villagers drowned under the wave of blaster fire, his face contorting with grief and rage, "No! No, no--"
He struggled with the guards, his voice lost in the thunder of sound. FN-2187 half-turned from the slaughter, his swapped blaster lowering, just as one of the Stormtroopers bashed the pilot in the head with the stock of a blaster.
The pilot pitched sideways, sprawling onto the angled ramp of the transport, a bright rivulet appearing on his face with sickening speed. He groaned, his hands grasping reflexively at the rubberized treads. The Stormtroopers wrenched him upright and dragged him forward, the pilot still trying weakly to fight as they disappeared into the cold light of the transport.
The blaster fire's thunder pattered out into short bursts, like the last few drops of rain, until behind them, in the windswept desert, there was only silence.
#
FN-2187 watched the pilot as they recalled back to the destroyer. They'd cuffed him to the floor between the benches. FN-2187 had never really noticed the inset latch bars of the storage compartments before. He'd had no reason to think they were anything but handles, but now he saw they'd been designed for this. To put prisoners deliberately on their knees, to ensure they were kicked and their fingers crushed under boots as the troopers filed in and out of the cramped transport.
There was no slack in the cuffs, so the resistance pilot knelt, hunched over his wrists, his head hanging. Blood matted the hair over his ear, an ugly contrast to the rest of his thick, shiny curls. FN-2187 found himself marveling at the care the man had taken in his appearance, before he'd been caught in the inexorable grind of the First Order, all his life, his pride, reduced to this; a once bright spark waiting to be ground out under an iron heel.
FN-2187's stomach clenched as the pilot took a deep breath and raised his head, sweeping the Stormtroopers with a gaze of such hatred that he couldn't help but stare openly, hungrily, at the life that blazed in the man's eyes.
"So fellas," the pilot said, the lightness in his voice a contrast to what FN-2187 had seen in his eyes, "any chance you could drop me off at the next planet? Doesn't have to be anything special, hell, a moon would do just fine--"
"Shut up," one of the nearer troopers said.
"Come on, don't be like that." The pilot grinned. "Grub's better in the resistance. You lot are looking a little scrawny. Come on over to the rebellion and I can personally guarantee you three squares a day. After all, in prison, even murderers get fed."
The trooper who'd spoken before got to his feet. He held onto one of the hand-straps that swung from the ceiling. Set a boot onto the back of the pilot's neck. Forced him down. The pilot grunted and clenched his teeth against the pressure. His body hunched awkwardly, bridged across his trapped wrists.
The trooper repositioned his boot, pressing harder, until the pilot's cheek grated against the ridged tread of the floor. The pilot's dark eyes slid across the faceless masks of the Stormtroopers on the benches. FN-2187 wasn't sure there was a name for the question the pilot asked with that look.
"I told you," the trooper snarled, jamming the muzzle of his blaster into the pilot's ear, "to shut up."
The pilot made a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh, a huffing, pained exhalation against the floor. The trooper nodded, satisfied, and withdrew back to his place on the bench. The pilot closed his eyes, his silence mute accusation, as the transport continued its relentless rise into the dark.
#
When they reached the destroyer, FN-2187 watched as the squad leader pulled the pilot out and handed him off to a subordinate. The pilot muttered, "All right, all right," as he was manhandled roughly down the ramp, but he seemed dazed, wincing in the bright lights and cacophony of the main hanger bay.
As the remains of his troop filed out, their once-white armor smoke-stained and dirty, FN-2187 took several trembling breaths. The scent of burning flesh seemed to cling to him, seeping through the filters and pervading his helmet with a strangely sweet smell, a half-remembered memory of... somewhere before… a child-self watching a roast spin round and round over a fire.
He took a deep breath, recoiled, and ripped the helmet off, shuddering. His stomach churned. He heard the pilot's voice, dripping with scorn, even murderers get fed.
His shoulders shook. He turned away, trying to catch his breath, regain a little control.
"FN-2187."
His head shot up. Phasma's inscrutable armor reflected his own face back at him.
"Submit your blaster for inspection."
He stared up at her, hoping she couldn't see the fear in his eyes as clearly as it blazed back at him from his distorted reflection. "Yes, Captain."
Her voice was soft, dangerous. "And who gave you permission to remove that helmet?"
"I'm sorry, Captain," he said, feeling his heart pound in his chest. He swallowed. Tried to keep his breathing steady.
"Report to my division at once."
#
Poe knew it was coming.
Had known as soon as they'd kicked him, dropped him to his knees before that black-robed murderer. Had known even when he'd taken the mission, when the general had pulled him quietly aside. "No rescue will be authorized. If you fail--"
"I won't," he'd said. And he hadn't, not yet. Not if he could goad them into killing him before they'd been able to extract what they wanted.
Maybe it hadn't been his smartest move, but when he'd seen his chance to kill that murdering bastard, he'd taken it. He'd shot from open ground. No chance of cover, no possibility of escape. He'd been ready for the hornet's nest. Ready to go out in a blaze of glory as the Stormtroopers returned fire. His aim had been perfect. He'd known, when he squeezed the trigger, that the bolt would hit center mass. He'd envisioned the black robe rippling outward from the shot, the way the murderer would crumple onto the sand beside his victim. Justice. And a high-value target downed for the resistance, with only himself on the other side of the scale.
He'd seen it all, the second after the red blade had split the air and swept downward, cutting, cruel, instant. He'd seen it, reacted, and then--
Then--
There was an ear-splitting crack. The air snarled with sound.
The bolt froze.
His arm was wrenched from the blaster, the flare of pain lost in incredulous disbelief. He fought against the unseen force. Tried to pull his arm back, teeth clenched, straining. It made no difference. He could feel the approach of the Stormtroopers, his eyes darting frantically from his traitorous hand to the trigger. The bolt hung midair, pulsating, its blue glow reflecting off the troopers' armor as two of them sprinted past it, making straight for him. He saw the subtle shift in stride as the first closed on him. His body tightened uselessly, tried to brace for the coming blow. He had to--
The blaster butt smashed into his unprotected stomach. There was no preparing for the sickening wave that exploded outward from its impact. He crumpled inward, groaning, the force that had confined him releasing him just as suddenly into the none-to-gentle hands of the Stormtroopers. He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, his body still trying to curl around the pain in his gut as the troopers hauled him upright.
He hadn't known the Force could be used like that, twisted, tendrils of wire cutting deep. Invisible cords, pulsing with trapped blood as they tightened around him, the lines aching like bruises. He could still feel the deep throb of them under his skin as he stood in the corridor of the star destroyer, surrounded by the same Stormtroopers, tasting the same bile in the back of his throat.
"Name and designation," one of the troopers demanded, and Poe--cuffed and searched and photographed and processed--a droid had floated away with a vial of his blood, for testing, or, or what… he didn't know--knew it was coming.
But they were looking for an excuse, the leather of their black gloves creaking as their fists clenched in anticipation, so he said, "I'm the best pilot in the resistance," and they began.
#
FN-2187 rounded the corner and stopped short.
The resistance pilot, the one from the surface, was trying to get up. Around him, Phasma's troop, the squad leader distinctive in his bright orange shoulder armor, was waiting. The pilot's cuffed hands slipped in a smear of crimson as he braced against the polished plastoid tiles, trying to get his legs under him.
He coughed. "I already told you," he said, as he finally pulled himself into a kneeling position, his wide grin showing bloodsmeared teeth above a busted lip, "I'm the best. If you were even half as good--"
A trooper punched him; a cruel, cutting blow, just above the ear. It was the same place they'd struck him on Jakku. Fresh blood bloomed against dried, and the pilot went down hard, his head impacting the smooth floor with an audible thud.
FN-2187 winced, sickened.
The squad leader held up a hand. "Hey, easy, Lord Ren wants him alive. Probably conscious, too."
The pilot's mouth tightened from his place on the floor. "Yeah," he rasped, rolling weakly onto his back, his voice not quite so steady as it has been. "You better go easy on me. It'd be a shame to disappoint."
FN-2187 willed the pilot to stop. Stop making it worse. Don't give them any more reason to--
The squad leader waved the trooper away. The pilot's taunt trailed off as the squad leader stepped over him, then went to his knees, straddling him. The pilot glared up, his cuffed hands, trapped against his chest, instinctively inching upward as he recoiled from the Stormtrooper looming over him.
"What'd you do with the map?" The squad leader said, reasonably. He took the pilot's chin in one gloved hand, turning the man's head side to side to look over his troop's handiwork. The pilot's eyes narrowed, his breathing quickening.
The squad leader leaned in, close, until the blank curve of his helmet was nearly touching the pilot's forehead. "Well?" he said, his hands sliding lower, the black lines of his gloved fingers circling the pilot's pale throat.
FN-2187 saw the pilot take a last, steadying breath. "Oh, you mean the map to my--"
The squad leader's hands clenched, choking, unbearable. The pilot's pupils blew wide. He arched, trying to throw the trooper off of him, his shoulder blades digging into the floor. His mouth opened soundlessly, frantic to escape the crushing pressure. He writhed, his cuffed hands clutching at the trooper's wrists, his boots kicking dark streaks onto the glossy floor. Rubber screeched against plastic.
FN-2187 stood in the doorway, transfixed. Had he made a sound? He didn't know. But the pilot's eyes shifted, his desperate gaze piercing the void of FN-2187's helmet, as if he could see straight through the visor. The pilot's eyes were dark, ringed with white; an unexplored planet backlit by the hidden fire of its sun.
The squad leader, as if sensing something in the look, turned his head curiously over his shoulder. His fingers loosened slightly, but he kept most of his weight on the pilot's airway. "What do you need, trooper?"
FN-2187 tore his gaze away from the pilot's. He looked steadily at the squad leader. "Captain Phasma sent for me, sir."
The pilot was making short, tight, rasping gasps as he fought for breath. FN-2187 waited, feeling the air trapped in his own lungs growing heavier, darker.
"I see," the squad leader said. He smiled and leaned harder onto the pilot's throat. The pilot's struggles grew weaker, his lips darkening to blue, his eyelids fluttering. "She's cooking up something special with General Hux. Heard a rumor that we've got some entertainment planned."
"Yes, sir." FN-2187 said carefully.
At last, the squad leader released his grip and settled back onto his heels. Under him, the pilot drew in a heaving lungful of air, coughing, choking out the exhale and curling into himself. The squad leader got up, straightening his helmet. FN-2187 kept his eyes on the squad leader as the officer came over to him, not daring to look down. Small clinks of fragmented sound stuttered oddly in the confines of the room. It took FN-2187 a moment to place it: the pilot's hands, shaking in the cuffs, the metal rattling brittlely against itself. The squad leader paid no attention. He stepped over the pilot as if he wasn't even there.
"Come with me, son," the squad leader said, then added over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought, "Take the prisoner to his next appointment. It's time to teach him what his resistance is worth."
#
FN-2187 followed Captain Phasma back to the main hall, the tech's voice echoing in his mind: Six shots. One hit to an organic lifeform.
The corridor was strangely empty.
"You will join your squad in 81-C," Phasma said, her voice betraying nothing of her thoughts. "No doubt you will find it instructive."
"Sir," FN-2187 said.
He made his way alone, taking the elevator down to the lower level. There was a strange hum in the air, a pulse, like machinery. FN-2187 didn't remember hearing it before. It grew as he approached the doors of the main hall. Anxiety twisted up through his body. Had he missed something? Did they know? Had they just been toying with him, like a sand cat with a mouse?
He pushed the door open. The noise hit him before he could fully process what he saw. Several squads were jammed into the room, all of them yelling, all of them focused on something in the middle of the crowd, a small circle of cleared space in the center. FN-2187 couldn't see over the press of armored bodies.
There was a ripple in the crowd, a rising wave of sound. He caught of glimpse of a familiar jacket, and FN-2187's mind slowed, ice forming at the edges. He began pushing his way forward, into the shadow of a catwalk above the fray.
Finally, he made it to the edge of the cleared circle. In it, the pilot stood panting, his nose bloody, his clothes disheveled. His hands were still cuffed in front of him. There was a fresh bruise forming on his forehead. A Stormtrooper, fully armored, twitching, was sprawled on the floor at his feet.
"Well, well, well," a voice said above them, "I'd hoped for something more interesting. After all, I've heard so much about this one."
There was a note of smugness in the words, and FN-2187 clawed his way up from the ice in his mind, and looked up at the man who'd entered above them. General Hux stood on the catwalk beside Lord Ren.
"That can be arranged."
Ren flicked a gloved finger, and there was a click as the handcuffs unlatched. The pilot was startled only for a moment. He shook the cuffs off. They clattered onto the floor. The troopers around him tensed as the pilot's gaze flicked around the room, calculating, not his odds, but how much more damage he could do before they took him down.
From above, Ren's voice dripped sarcasm. "I hear you're the best pilot in the resistance," FN-2187 can hear the smirk in Lord Ren's voice. "So, go ahead. Resist."
The pilot didn't hesitate. He swung on the trooper nearest him, aiming an uppercut into the vulnerable place just under the chin, the gap where the base of the helmet just covered the throat.
The trooper blocked the blow and, like dogfighting, the pilot changed tacks in an instant. He surged forward, crowding, his knuckles skidding across the trooper's armor, leaving bloody streaks as he scrabbles for purchase. He's got the trooper pinned against the press of several others who are crammed up against the wall, and he's doing well. He's holding onto of the edge of the trooper's chestplate, the fingers of one hand jammed beneath the armor, and with the other he delivers a series of short, sharp jabs to the trooper's ribs underneath.
FN-2187 is yelling encouragement, his voice just one in the boiling crowd. He has time to think, with satisfaction, that's gonna bruise, and then there's an electric crackling, familiar, and the pit of FN-2187's stomach drops.
The pilot's arm is wrenched back, mid blow. He's fighting it. Of course he is. Making the same sounds he'd made on the surface, straining, desperate, vibrating with fury and frustration and hopeless anger.
The trooper he'd been hitting lurches away, lost in the crowd, and a new one steps up in front of the captive pilot. His helmet swivels around the room, sharing the moment with his audience. The crowd roars anticipation.
The trooper draws back, takes his time, draws it out, then lets fly with an armored fist. It's a powerful, roundhouse strike. The pilot's head snaps to the side. He makes a low moan, and sags in the empty air, his body loosening.
Ren holds the pilot up for a moment, his head hanging, a bloody line of drool leaking from his mouth, then lets him drop.
FN-2187 steps out slightly from the shadow of the catwalk, and looks up. Lord Ren isn't looking at the pilot. His attention isn't even on the circle. There's an upward tilt to the dark mask that suggests that perhaps under it, his eyes are closed, and he's just bathing in the bloodlust he's stirred up, the raw, collective hatred of the crowd.
General Hux is looking down, and it's only chance that FN-2187 sees the instant his expression changes. The tenor of the crowd changes too. FN-2187 whirls.
The pilot is staggering back to his feet. His nose and mouth are a bloody ruin, scarlet sheeting down his throat, but his gaze is fixed on FN-2187, standing a pace apart from the rest of the Stormtroopers.
The pilot puts his fists up, grimly. His knuckles are bleeding. He doesn't look up.
FN-2187 is frozen, staring. The noise of the crowd swells again. Someone yells, "Hit him!" and "Take him out!" and "Come on." FN-2187 knows that they're watching him. That everyone is watching him. That he has to--
The strike comes out of nowhere. He doesn't even register it as a punch. He just drops like a droid whose control module has shorted out. He sinks into the floor, the collective jeering of the crowd, and feels the shame, the relief, burn across his skin.
The pilot dances closer. How is he still standing? FN-2187 is on his hands and knees. His head is spinning. His helmet feels like its filled with smoke, metallic, hard to breathe. The pilot draws back to kick him in the side, to finish it, put him down all the way, but again the electric force crackles down through the air.
In the pause, FN-2187 gets slowly to his feet.
The pilot is a pace away, immobilized, seething.
"This is what your rebellion is, Poe Dameron," Ren says, over the clamor of troopers crowding the edges of the room. "Futility."
"Amusing futility," Hux adds, grinning.
Ren releases his hold. Poe makes a sound, a strained yell, and he twists, and seizes FN-2187's helmet in both hands. FN-2187's hands come up instinctively, under his chin, and he ducks away, still holding the edge of the helmet as it's yanked off him. He looks up, and for a moment, he's face to face with the pilot.
FN-2187 thinks: Poe.
The helmet is between them, trapped in a tug of war. They're both breathing hard. Poe's eyes are clear, wild, furious. The look is like nothing FN-2187 has ever seen. His gaze bores into FN-2187, as if Poe could see everything, straight into the vault he keeps at the deepest part of himself. The pure fire of will that courses through Poe's gaze hits FN-2187 like a gutpunch.
He'll never give up, FN-2187 thinks, incredulously, ecstatically. He gasps. Falters. His nerveless fingers fall away from the helmet. They can't win, because he won't let them--
All at once he's aware of Lord Ren's expressionless stare. His black gloves are locked onto the railing of the catwalk, and he's leaning out, his head cocked to one side as if to fix FN-2187 into his mind, or… or get into it. FN-2187's blood runs cold. He can feel the tendrils of something, something that is trying to worm its way into his mind. Seeking. Scenting around FN-2187's thoughts for the merest whiff of treason.
Beside him, Poe draws the helmet back, then hurls it upward with incredible force and near-impossible aim. FN-2187 is frozen, terror stiffening his limbs, only his eyes still obey him, and he watches the arc of his helmet hurtle upward.
Suddenly, the freezing sensation snaps off, as cleanly as breaking a twig, and Ren throws a hand out, flicks the helmet aside just in time. It clangs off the railing and clatters away on the catwalk. Hux flinches at the sound, cows down a little to avoid the projectile. An inch higher, and it would've hit.
Poe laughs in triumph, and when Hux comes back up, blue eyes blazing, and the Stormtroopers break the perimeter and begin clubbing at Poe with blasters instead of fists, he just keeps on laughing and laughing until they knock him senseless with one well-placed blow.
#
The first time, Poe comes to in an interrogation room. He doesn't know how long it's been since the troopers strapped him against the metal rack and left him to the torture droid. Its mechanical questions swirl in his head, repeating endlessly, maddeningly--the map, the droid, the rebels--mixing with his sarcastic replies, then the convulsing jolts--until finally he'd stopped answering at all. The droid eventually grew tired of tasing him--or maybe its protocols had just prevented it from killing him when his vitals got too erratic.
It's still lurking in one shadowed corner of the cell, its low hum like a constant growl, and he can't look directly at the two piercing blue lights on either side of its polished, ominous shell without feeling them stab like needles into his retinas. He drifts, twitching with aftershocks, in and out of the fog. His whole self is awash in pain. It's hard to think clearly.
An indeterminate time later, Ren's voice trickles into Poe's awareness. "I had no idea we had the best pilot in the resistance on board."
Poe slowly brings his head up, tries to squint past the pounding headache hazing his vision. He swallows. His mouth is dry.
"Comfortable?" Pleasant, jeering, Ren's solicitous tone, his feigned unawareness of Poe's defiance in the ring, is somehow more cutting than anything else he's endured.
He's not sure which words form in his mind, which ones come out of his mouth: will not be intimidated; and, goad him; something about technique; and, what is he doing--
And then Ren's voice is-- something is--
It's inside his head.
He chokes on it. Feels the words twist, insidious, the tendrils writhing in his mind, prising him open: "Where… is it?"
He screams, and wrongness swallows him.
#
Next time, he wakes up in a bacta tank. And, Force help him, for a moment he thinks he's been rescued, that against all odds he's back on D'Qar, and whatever reckless stick-jockey injuries he'd acquired this time, well, he'd soon be healed up and flying again.
Then he sees the Stormtroopers standing guard outside the tank, and he remembers… and knows that if he's woken up here, after the interrogation, no good would come from the First Order's efforts to keep him alive.
He struggles in the bacta, manages to rip out the monitoring probe in his wrist, and then he's being hauled out, dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, and having a med tech shine a flashlight into his eyes.
"Good enough," the tech says. "Get him out of here."
The troopers were taking no chances. They cuffed his hands, behind his back this time, then blindfolded him for good measure.
He stumbled forward between the two guards. The bacta hadn't run the full cycle, so he still limped on the knee some bastard had blown out in the ring with a vicious kick to the side of the kneecap.
His head hurt. He would've killed for a drink, preferably alcohol, something nice and strong to cover all the too-sharp edges of the pain, but hell, he wasn't picky, even water would do.
They stopped. The air was stale. He could hear keys being pressed, and thought distantly, I should try to remember that sequence, and then there was the whoosh of a door and he was shoved forward, still blind, still cuffed, and he fell hard across the extended bed slab.
His stomach roiled. He rolled aside, panting, and shimmied his way off the slab, going to his knees on the cell's floor.
"Hey--" he said, indignant, as the cell door closed again.
There was no one to hear him. He took a careful breath, letting it out slowly, trying to keep his lungs from seizing up with the various twinges and spikes of leftover pain.
The sharp edge of the bed slab was a cold weight against his aching head, the knot of the blindfold a pressure point. He turned his head, trying to find a way to rest his temple on the metal, maybe ease the throb of the place they'd first hit him, down on the surface, on the ramp of the transport.
Something had snapped in him, with that. He's been trying not to think about it. Think about how many people had died, kids even... He'd caught a glimpse of a kid clinging to one of the captive villagers, watching him with wide eyes when the Stormtroopers hauled him up before Ren. He'd been aware of all the eyes on him, so he'd pushed down his fear, and taunted Ren, hoping to keep the First Order's attention on him, hoping that Ren would be eager to get him back to the ship, hoping that in all the chaos, the villagers would be deemed unimportant, forgotten, please... please just let them focus on me...
And then Ren had given the order, and he'd tried-- there was nothing you could do, he told himself, stop thinking about it--fighting as they wrestled him down, his head full of white, ringing, high-pitched sound.
He scrubbed his cheek against the cold metal. Felt the edge of the blindfold catch on some imperfection at the seam. He leaned closer, scraped his eyebrow hard downward, forcing the cloth up over the scabbed-over wound. He felt the tearing, needle-pricked welling of fresh blood underneath, and then the tension of the blindfold was gone. He shook the scrap of cloth off his head, absurdly glad to be rid of it.
Not that there was much to see. It was a standard cell. Gray, hard, featureless. He hadn't been in one before. Hadn't really even imagined being captured before. He'd always assumed he'd get shot out of the sky some day. Wouldn't have been much to worry about after that.
He shivered. It was cold. Someone had taken his jacket while he was unconscious. Probably put it in the incinerator right after. There was an ache to the thought. He missed the smooth comfort of the leather, the smell of it had always made him think of home. Not as a specific place, but a feeling. He didn't remember much about the house he'd lived in, growing up, but he'd made a home for himself in plenty of bunks. Groundside, spaceside, didn't really matter, the feeling he called up, against the chill of the cell, was that old jacket, warm and familiar.
He didn't feel like getting up. It was cold on the floor, but he didn't think it'd be much warmer on the bed slab. Besides, he couldn't get comfortable with his hands cuffed at his back, and his head oozing from removing the blindfold they'd added, just because.
It didn't make sense, that blindfold. He glared at it. What had they thought he was going to see, really? They couldn't just, let his head throb in peace, without adding another layer of discomfort on top? Whose brilliant idea had that been? Tears stung in his eyes at the sheer petty awfulness of it.
Shit, he was pretty far gone.
He crawled his way under the bed slab and leaned up best he could against the wall. It was stupid, how being under it made him feel less exposed, less helpless, but he was past caring.
He'd failed.
He'd fought as hard as he could, but after everything, Ren had simply ripped the information from his mind. It had been over in less than a minute. It had been so fast, so incomprehensible, it was hard to believe it hadn't been a nightmare. The enormity of his failure, of Ren's tearing apart his defenses like so much paper, overpowering him with hardly any effort… the memory of it made his stomach roil.
They would find BB-8, the map, everything, and maybe then they'd decide he'd outlived his usefulness. He could only hope they'd decide to kill him quickly.
His throat closed up. He shut his eyes.
Just get some sleep, he told himself, swallowing hard. Whatever they had planned for him, he'd do his best to face it bravely. Not that what he did mattered anymore, not here. Here, his struggle went unwitnessed, the Stormtroopers unmoved. One day they'd kill him and throw his body into a garbage chute, and what would his resistance have meant?
#
"This is your last test," Phasma told him. "You will not fail in it."
FN-2187 took the offered blaster. The same one he'd pulled from under the dead trooper on the surface. The textured handle was an odd color from the blood that had dried on it. "Thank you, sir."
Phasma turned on her heel. FN-2187 followed. The squad leader and his second took up positions behind him. FN-2187 couldn't be sure if the guards were for him, or for the prisoner they were going to execute. Under his armor, the concealed leather of Poe's jacket was smooth against the plastoid shell.
They entered the detention block. Walked down the angular corridor.
"Sir," FN-2187 said, his heart slamming against his ribcage, his voice utterly calm. "Permission to remove my helmet."
The question stopped Phasma in her tracks. She turned to him, her voice cool. "For what purpose?"
"I want the prisoner to know." His voice is hard. Immoveable. He's imitating her. He hoped it wasn't as obvious as it felt. "I want him to see there is no doubt within the First Order."
Phasma paused, considering. Then nodded, a single dip of her helmet. "Acceptable."
The squad leader opened his mouth to protest, but FN-2187 ignored him. He took off the helmet, held it under his arm as Phasma entered the sequence to unlock the correct cell.
The bed slab retracted automatically as the cell door opened. It was designed to disorient, to catch the person atop it off guard, leave them floundering when the guards come in to drag them up, or make it easy to keep them down.
Poe wasn't sleeping on the bed slab. He's leaned up against the wall beneath it, and he looks up wearily as it retracts, then his gaze moves to the Stormtroopers in the doorway. There's no surprise in it, at first, but his eyes widen slightly when he sees FN-2187, helmetless, enter with the others.
Poe tried to get up, to get his leg under him, but faltered, a hiss of pain forced out between his teeth.
FN-2187 took a step forward, put a hand under his arm, got him to his feet.
"Turn around," Phasma said.
Poe seemed to hesitate a moment, then obeyed. The squad leader stepped up behind Poe. FN-2187 wasn't sure if Poe would recognize him, but when the squad leader took hold of the binders, bent Poe forward to uncuff him, he made sure of it.
"I volunteered for this detail," he said, crowding Poe into the wall, his breath too close, hot in the pilot's ear. "And I'm going to enjoy watching you die, rebel scum."
Poe tenses, and FN-2187 can see the effort it takes to make himself stay calm. Poe's hands twist in the cuffs as the squad leader unlatches them, and when he's freed, he rubs one wrist with the other almost unconsciously, steadying himself.
FN-2187 wondered suddenly how many times Poe has made the same gesture in the cockpit of his X-Wing, in the tension before a run, one hand ready on the stick, the other repeating the tender, achingly vulnerable gesture.
FN-2187 knew it was time. "Up against the wall," he said.
The squad leader took up a position beside FN-2187, the second trooper lined up beyond. Captain Phasma stood in the doorway.
Poe turned to face them. He was trembling, but he straightened with a visible effort. He took a careful step back. Raised his chin. Looked at FN-2187.
"I wanted to see the sky again," he said.
FN-2187 met his eyes.
"You will," he said, and shot the squad leader point blank in the side.
Phasma reacted almost instantly, flinging herself backwards, but not fast enough. FN-2187 clipped her, then shot the second trooper as he sprayed blaster fire into the cell, throwing himself down between Poe and the muzzle of the gun. Poe was on the floor, scrambling for the squad leader's dropped blaster. The trooper's burst went high, a bolt zinging past FN-2187's ear, close enough that he heard the sizzle of it, felt its heat as it passed by his cheek.
He felt calm. Serene. It was simple. He'd made a choice that he wouldn't kill for them, but for this, for Poe… it wasn't really a choice at all.
Phasma was crabbing backward. Trying to reach her outflung blaster. FN-2187 leapt forward and kicked it away. She stopped, gripped the place on her thigh that welled dark against the silver of her armor. Then, slowly, she raised her hands.
"How?" was all she asked.
"I swapped my blaster." A slow smile spread on FN-2187's face. "You're asking the wrong question."
He sees understanding dawn in Phasma's eyes.
Behind him, Poe is waiting, and somewhere, out beyond these walls, so is the sky.