calcinators-blog

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 12.)

The world around you suffered loss of texture and clarity, atrocity and grief blurred everything into a characterless smear. All sharp, repeating modular construction had been swept clean of angles and precision, replaced by a flurry of arcane brushstrokes. Where you were once sure of the General's pronounced cheekbones, carved out in his sophisticated cruelty, did he newly appear as a matted red and black gathering.

He said nothing else. Not that you had wanted him to. You couldn’t say anything either, condemned by a vacant throat and numbed tongue, pressed against your teeth. Words and phrases furloughed through about your mind, all in recognizable language but jarringly useless.

An intense anger rooted around at your core. You fought to suppress it from spitting and shaking with unmeasured voltage. Even if you had been able to produce sound, even if you could scream or argue, Nines was lost and words were an inadequate device.

The General had surely understood, without needing to personally assess the damage, that he had sufficiently broken you. Hands, not made to shield or protect, closed around you.

He allowed the evacuated administration block to further punctuate the message, judiciously. In your isolation, nothing existed but tremulous thump-thumping of your own heart as it resisted the unsympathetic stillness, the gravid indoor silence of an empty facility. No echo of footsteps from others, swirling in the adjacent hallways, or shrieking of droids, could be found.

Why are you still here? What are you waiting for?

You would be afforded no particle of assurance from the shrewd General, having been appraised and found that knowledge made you hazardous. For your nerve denying authority, after having earnestly gut you with the intent to leave you out to dry, he made sure that he had took from you what he wanted most– everything in his power to take.

You recalled the churning of the General's greatcoat in stride from your last meeting. How the heavy fabric pulled gracefully in the air and how had unintentionally revealed a blaster clipped to his uniform’s belt.

I’d sooner be blasted into smithereens than let you see me cry. If that’s what you’re waiting for...

You felt your eyes itch but would not permit it, somehow containing tears as they drew themselves up from the colossal pit in your stomach. It was too easy to be angry, to give yourself into the rage. You could hear it moving and shaking in agitation, bubbling to the surface.

Still, complete self-denial proved impossible. You could feel your expression contort.

The General’s eyes, ghostly and righteous, watched you struggle with muted, personal approval. A reflexive grimace, the cocking of his head.

The expression struck you with the stealth of a crashing TIE fighter; something about the neat, equine thin-lipped sneer that made the next moments warp and swell. You had every right to be upset. Nines had his mind scrambled. You were allowed to be furious.

And then you were.

Blinking transformed his face, then his whole being, which flickered into and out the plausible borders of reality. He twisted about, a lapse in your imagination once again, showing his bloody face warped and eerily glitching like damaged security footage. Red, glistening and crude, slowly leaked from his nostrils and down to his lips, bubbling over his mouth and pouring to fill in the spaces between an animated leer.

You think I have nothing left. I have nothing but reason.

Allowing the feelings to rush through your system brought the world back into focus. Though you were conscious of the hated that ignited and it’s toxic properties, you allowed yourself to freely indulge in the heat; it was the only feeling that would deceive your halting mind into feeling remotely satisfied.

“You would have done the same.” 

No dip or nod of his head, no signal to you that he had felt even the lamest sting of remorse. His hands folded, lacing together behind his narrow back, before the heel of his boot soundlessly turned on the floors.

I would have done the same?

In the name of settling the score, of some perverse idea of fairness and payback, your being erupted with desire to observe him sentenced to the very same treatment that he prescribed Nines. Watching the General gradually disappear down the end of the corridor with eyes that burned into his back, you imagined raking your hands through his neurotically immaculate mane, shaking free the heavy scent of pomade. You imagined the inhumane straps necessary to render him immobile and plugging him into whatever monster of an apparatus that would snarl and twist his wits.

You imagined tugging his head back on his neck and letting him gaze upon you in deserved terror in his final moments of owning his mind. You would let the General’s eyes, unable to focus through confusion and panic, become symbolic of your victory.

You’re right, General. Maybe I would.

Loosing yourself, or being broken down piece-by-terrible-piece, felt all the same. In the end, each spiteful act would erode you, a product of your cruel circumstances. Previews of violence seized you, leaving you shuttering in denial whether it was at all in your control at all to stunt them.

Each time, the hate settled a deeper, rose faster.

The General ensured, that you would for another night, sleep well. Although without meaning to, after leaving the block and returning to your quarters to rest, the dream that Nines had painted out to you in your final moments had unfolded around you.

The horizon pulled back, only to sigh and bloom, heaving out flora. You could feel the air turning through created branches, singing, bringing you the cool, clean smell of shoreline lilies and other hydrophytes. The described castle dressed, in all manner of banners, sitting just behind you next to an unblemished body of water. Mesmerized by the remarkable height of the trees, all swaying in the spot but firmly anchored by their ancient trunks, you were immediately delimited by the natural world, a sight you hadn’t seen for some time. 

Though this was Nines’ vision, he was missing. Your only company was the gentle breeze, tumbling about you as you made gradual movements.

Step by slow step, removing your standardized boots with ungraceful tugging and dragging of your heels, to allow your feet to rest against something other than sterile tile floors and steel. They bathed in the soft carpet of overgrown grass, kicking free dew from tall blades as you strayed from the path.

You had long forgotten the simple luxury of feeling earth under you, feeling a connection to the natural world and the gradual process of healing that came with it. For not having seen your home planet, in person or on a star chart, Nines had correctly assumed you would have a fondness for the place. You yearned for a name, just as you had found one for the forgotten observation deck, as if a title was something you could wrap your fingers over and claim. It offered you nothing. Nothing save for a dull buzzing sound. You moved with necessity.

Crackling with electricity as you approached a small clearing, the buzzing was connected to a curious object that had been branching and alive with currents and causing the earth around it to jump back. In full armor, next to the item, Nines was sprawled through the rubble. Rushing to where he lay, you nudged him as you looked for a sign of movement. Nothing. Hastily, you then searched for a pulse, pulling at his gauntlets bespattered by the muck you stood in. Nothing, still.

Freedom had found him at last, freedom that softened his expression and wrapped him in motionlessness. He failed to mention in his spectacular hallucinations that this dream was of his death. You wanted desperately to believe that you had misinterpreted what he had said, but no such comfort was available.

“What happened to you?”

The blue of the sky dissolved, leaving darkness to wash over everything. The shadow you cast behind your back, crept along the ground, away from your body until it became one with the encroaching blackness that swallowed the world.

Dirt, warmed by the sun under your toes, replaced by cold tile; skin doesn’t lie, it only reports.

The hallway. Fixing before you, the silhouette of Matt, just as you had seen him before. Only this time, the body on the floor was not a stranger– you saw the face of Lieutenant Colonel Zack.

Matt then turned to you. You understood the look; you understood it meant you needed to run. But as hard as you tried to put one foot in front of the other, to create distance and loose the whites of his eyes, you were frozen in place.

The ground shook. One large rumble.

Another.

Another.

Then the last— and it was in that moment when you rocketed upright and let your quarters settle around you. Focus darting about the perimeter of your room, you solidified your location as you felt a vicious cold sweat plastered at your brow. No endless forests in sight, only the synthetic confines and winter beyond abiding walls.

Burdened with further cerebral symptoms, you were unable to set aside what you assumed to be the saddle of foresight. It was understood that you would have to watch and wait if you were to understand if it was a prophecy or a fluke. Letting your head to flop forward on your neck, you prayed to the makers that it was just a poorly executed patchwork of all your stressors and nothing more.

What could any of it mean?

Socialization was nominal, adding hours onto your day. Morale in your sector had suffered a tremendous blow with FN-2199’s absence; no one was interested in laughing and joking. It felt disrespectful. The room was occupied by stooped postures. Day two of collective mourning proved more severe than the first, it had sunk in that Nines wasn’t coming back and no one wanted to talk about it.

You had been waiting for the Lieutenant Colonel to come by as he always had, impatient to continue your last conversation about the FN-corps and Dr. Thos, plans you had never been aware of and still did not believe to be truthful. After significant suspension, waiting to the very moment you were to leave did he finally shuffle into the room.

Everything about the Lieutenant Colonel’s body language was irregular, he always managed a certain confidence about his motions. It was only as you got closer could you see why. Dusting the bridge of his nose, his skin broke into maroons and purples and blues. At his eyes, cheek. A constellation of bruises and cuts, uncharacteristically solemn eyes hiding amid.

What happened to you?

Your mind moved faster than you intended. It persuaded you to believe that the radar technician had hunted after Zack just as he had done to you before.

Still offering a kind look towards you, his seriousness melted at the sight of you and the worry radiating from your stare. Without drawing attention to himself, he held his face still and high, looking down through heartsick pupils.

“They’re watching,” skill of a ventriloquist, through closed lips.

They.

You knew it was one of two people. You were sure you had inadvertently been the cause.

He offered you a kind look, wincing as he did though a nasty black eye and split lip. You hadn’t noticed the thermajug he held nervously at his side, until he pressed it into your hand, “Maybe caf will cheer you up?”

Are you kidding me right now?

“I don’t want it, but thanks.” You had to wonder what kind of pain meds had he taken to make him assume the offer was an appropriate gesture.

His voice overlapped yours, as if you hadn’t just refused or said anything at all. Proudly, he tapped the top of the canister, “Try it!”

His enthusiasm over the trivial offering frustrated you, “I’d rather not, Zack.”

“I insist. It’ll perk you right up.”

The look on his face alone was one you couldn’t deny twice. As he held the canister out for you with a now trembling arm, it was less complicated to just except the offer.

“Let me know what you think of it.”

Gesturing without making much more physical movement, his eyes moved past you to the doorway, saying it was time for you to leave without really saying anything at all.

What have I done? What did he do to you? Oh, stars, I’m sorry.

You had no motivation to do the job, or pretend to. Instead, you sat in the chair, staring blankly at the monitor, moving memories about the basement of your brain. The interface of your data programs waited patiently for you but you were so stuck inside your own head that you might as well had powered the console down.

Twisting the cap of the thermajug off, in a moment of curiosity, you laid it open on your desk. A crumpled piece of flimsi was stuffed inside the lid. You wondered if it had been stashed inside by accident. Unfolding the message then pressing it to the desk to tame the creases, it read in shiny red ink, in what you assumed had been the Lieutenant Colonel’s hand:

  E. A. Zack           | Thos  –  Avel

You nearly fell out of your chair.

Avel has a brother. The psytech.

Your eyes, unable to focus or stare any longer at the scrap before you searched beyond. There were files spread across your desk that you hadn't bothered sorting. More plast. Upon closer inspection, you found a copy of Lieutenant Colonel Zack’s profile. Someone had gone to the trouble of underlining that his record stated "N/A" for next of kin.

The First Order doesn't know.

Foolishly, you looked over your shoulder. You had a sneaking suspicion that you were being watched. Checking proved you were still alone. You returned to the paper, insisting the need to double-check.

They don't know you have another son. They don't know he works for them.

Shuffling the files around, you found that whoever had left the document for you had also included a request for an interrogation chamber. Pushing your chair back as you stood, you moved to the refresher, stuffing the documents in the sink before turning the tap on.

Plast dissolved. The fastest, safest way to dispose of it. You didn’t want to have to explain the documents, should anyone crop up for a gratuitous check-up.

Who keeps doing this?

You hadn’t noticed, through your impulsive and fevered movements, that you had started tearing up. Mad tears, bitter tears. Your bad luck brought a plague, moving through everything you valued, silently dismantling it. Between the General and the Commander, you would soon have nothing left.

From outside the refresher, there was soft beeping. A holocomm pulled you back to the desk. Setting yourself back in your seat, you answered before common sense could advise you otherwise.

Met by a projection of Kylo Ren, mask and all, you studied the soulless porthole which he surveyed you through. At least you weren’t subjected to his eyes and the stare that came with it. It could have been worse, it invariably had been.

Though whatever he was going to stay, he didn’t. Your tears fully confused him. There was a long bout of silence before he had a voice.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” You asked, even as you understood what he meant. From his command, it was clear to you that he was largely unsure how to handle emotional outbursts; others or his own. He made a point to ignore you, as if you had stopped.

The computerized beryl recreation of his profile was easier to speak to; easier being relative. You amended his discomfort, asking a question you would never dare to had he appeared in the room in the flesh, “How’s Matt?”

No reply. No nod of his head, no movement as if he was contemplating to scold you for asking such a senseless question. You guessed behind the mask, his eyes narrowed.

“Thanks for everything, by the way.”

He was stoic.

You spoke again to clarify, dragging your sleeve under both eyes, feeling the itch of a tear streaking down to the top of your lip, “I saw what you did to the Lieutenant Colonel.”

He turned from you, still in view. Pulling up information on monitors, you saw the screen mirrored in the reflective portion of his helmet. Once he had turned back to you, his voice changed, “I had nothing to do with that.”

He had been thickly distorted, not only by the vocabulator, but by his own anger as it mutated. He was livid, spitting under his helmet.

The General. The General interrogated Zack.

Resentful, with chopped syllables, but low and cold, “My quarters. Now.”

The hologram collapsed into itself.

Upon leaving your office after much indecision— I’ll just stay in this room for the rest of my life— a pair of stormtroopers had been waiting outside for you. One positioned at either side of the door, symmetrically cradling blasters across their chests. You said nothing to either and moved.

After some time and with the door to the Commander’s private quarters in sight, one of the stormtroopers used the stock of his blaster as they knocked for entry. The sound it made as it struck the surface grated on you; it was getting harder and harder to liberally recall anything on the base that evoked a good feeling, let alone neutrality.

The door, with hiss, opened. Through your peripherals, the trooper motioned again with the blaster, remaining outside as the hatch shut behind you. For the second time, you stood in enemy territory, as the noxious atmosphere compressed your chest.

Chrome and coal with melancholic luster, the space itself was awkwardly barren with a quiet luxury embedded in the details around you. You had missed so much with the lights off. You had missed appreciating the tessellated reflective onyx that ran over the ground, likely rare stone from some inaccessible planet. The surface you had slept on, blankets twisted and unmade, creating ribbons and grooves in the sheets.

Aside from the state of the bed, the room maintained impeccable cleanliness, like that of a museum. No hint of personal items and all surfaces left uncluttered. Nothing on the polished desk, nothing along the bookshelves. Everything he owned was either hidden away in small compartments lining the walls, or, simply still, he had nothing. No attachment to material goods or people, for the matter.

Of the doors that sliced up the room, one had likely lead to a closet, some locker that held his ridiculous disguise. It was strange to imagine that Matt existed at all when you observed his ceremonial dress, the heavy fabrics dripping off his body as they had now. It was stranger still to imagine he may have owned clothes you had never seen him wear, naturally assuming the Commander would look equally ludicrous in normal attire. You had always known him to be more than human, with flesh as durable and resilient as metal.

Draped in vaporous robes, the usual, light from the falling sun stabbed his supernatural costume. The Commander showed you the broad of his back. Dark hair, falling in limp ringlets and waves told you that he had removed his helmet in anticipation for your meeting, though you did not feel wholly prepared for his face and all of it’s deadened expressions and low, sweet voice. Metallic thrashing, the inelegant scraping of his modulator, made it vastly easier to disassociate the Commander from a human than his expected voice.

Sharp, alive. Not quite a command, but his voice pulled at you as if it had been, “Lieutenant Colonel Zack was interrogated by General Hux without my knowledge. You’re going to tell me why.”

I bet you already know why...

“I do, yes.” He challenged you, still, not deeming you worthy of his full attention as he spoke without turning to face you. Fortunately, with the helmet gone, there was depth in his words and you found advantage in gauging his reaction by the slight color of his tone. “I want you to tell me.”

I don’t know.

“Liar,” he seethed, voice hardening and body crumbling. He moved, his hands collected at his sides into fists. His full attention was now yours. You fell inside his sight lines with a turn of his head. With his pronounced jaw quivering, he began speaking as if he was trying to convince himself first, before you, “You can’t protect him. Or yourself.”

Just as the intrusive whispering in his brain had assured him, or had conditioned him, to think. The voice he had listened to and obeyed all his life– “See, young master, they are weakened by their connections... Sever one and you slowly kill them all... Don’t let them hold you back from your destiny, sever yourself from others and become free.”

Searching for the words in the space between you, you felt safer at the distance but not as brave as you preferred. He hadn’t killed you yet; you were banking that he still needed you for some reason. Your voice trembled as thought transposed into sound, “I have to.”

He took in a breath, facing away from you once again as he did so to collect himself. You were treading in dangerous territory by the way his spine curved him forward, and hands collected into fists. “I understand freedom,” his voice low, dogmatic, “How it creates rebels... traitors..." The inflection of the word made it even more ugly. Spoken and repeated to nausea.

“I understand the First Order creates murderers,” you respond with less quivering in your voice, to the very best of your ability. It would have ran through your mind regardless, speech or not, he would have felt your bias. “They created you, didn’t they?”

Movement. He stirred. A single, dreadful step towards you, monitoring your response and seemingly delighted by your fear. Taking no efforts to hide his emotions, he conveyed it all.

You shook your head, defiantly, speaking again in a voice you hadn't been aware that you owned, “But they failed. They couldn’t make FN-2187 a murderer." Your own eyes widened at the words, surprised they had come from you. A bad taste to him.

FN-2187 is strong. You’re weak.

“You will either help me,” a gloved hand rose, to stifle you, “or you will die.” Advancing, until he could lean in, words soft again. You felt the warmth of his exhale as he murmured, “What will you choose?”

The disgusting claustrophobic intimacy again. The absence of tenderness, the soft blood-filled cavity. You both noticed the insult of closeness too late. There was strain, disgrace, breaking over him like a tide. Something, so startling about his face; how it was rounded and curved, continuously hinting at the child he had once been. You wished him older, scars and broken bones. Had his face, under the mask, looked sharper or worn, it would have fit him.

Your mind unwilling recounted the moment when he proved there was someone else behind the veil, the deception of his rage. You had seen him. Not a monster, but as a human.

Like now, once again. Almost like you. Something familiar in his face, and even worse, something caged inside his chest, reaching for his heart. A familiar light, purpose.

His face turned with rage as you made the association, striking like sheet-lightning. Your consciousness nimble, from your skull to the bottom of your spine.

That’s why you care so deeply, isn’t it? You envy him, me. Us. You know you’ll never be free.

He tore away from you, cape swallowing him and further billowing in all his sharp movements. Blackness. He yelled in certain, unhinged frustration. Your body understood his feral energy, to which it recoiled physically, as if to pull yourself into a safer distance.

His dominant hand reached for his lightsaber, pulling it free from his side. A phoenix bursting forward with fire and light. You heard it, the blade breathing and shuddering. The ethereal glow of a flame simultaneously growing and dying. It stayed at his side, his arm locked. Panting, breathless.

“Go.”

You couldn’t stop the words, “I’m right, aren’t I?” You hoped for his motionlessness, to freeze where he stood as the touch had done to him. You planted hope in each sound, the opiate of belief, waiting for him to be tranquilized once again.

The person underneath. You would force him back.

His lips pulled tightly, swallowing back words. More heaving. Tapping the blade against the ground, dispelling your wishes as he walked forward through a wave of sparks, “I am master of the Knights of Ren... I am the Commander of the First Order...”

But you weren’t always.

More taps. Then it crashed into the floor, releasing a wave of fury. Intimidation. You were bathed in spark and ash. He created smoke, twisting up around you and him. “There is no one else.”

Pulling the saber out of the floor, the blade ushered you back. He held opposite hand hand up.

You felt it all over you. Your arm, your neck, your shoulder, your back. Pulling you, conducting your blood, turning it vicious.

“There is only this.” He clenched his hand, your mind overflowed. You felt hot and cold and numbed with grief and anger.

Nines voice, from the deep archive of your memory, was the only thing that could reach you, “Whatever happens, don’t forget who you are. Before all this...”

You had to disarm him, you had to pacify the beast. With no weapon to match his and only a blind, visceral reaction, you knew that if you touched...

Through cataclysmic fear, as he snarled down at you, the soft of your palm met the side of his cheek.

The devil’s face was in your hands.

#kylo ren #matt the radar technician #kylo x reader #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren x you

[calcinators-blog]

FN-2187, TR-8R

I can’t tell you what it was like. And by it, I really do mean all of it.

“Indoctrination” was one hell of a thing. But then, well… back then, I didn’t know any different. It was all one way up until it wasn’t, until Dr. Thos pulled me out of my mental stasis and I could really think for myself. Do you understand what I mean?

I guess that’s maybe not for me to wonder in the first place; I know your mind has been yours the whole time. I know you choose this and you know I couldn’t. Insinuating it’s possible for you to place yourself where I’ve been is out of the question, not that you wouldn’t try to because I know you well enough, but I couldn’t explain even if I had all the time in the world to. And I don’t.

I’m still coming to terms with it. I know that we’ve already said goodbye. Maybe I’m only talking myself through because it’s too quiet and no one else has said anything to me in hours. Maybe because I still feel like I’m going to see you later and I’m practicing re-telling this story.

If you could hear me, right now, I don’t even know what would I say to you. Maybe that watching the hatch seal over your face was death enough for me. But that’s not the important stuff that I should have said. The one chance I had, I kept it back. Everything. All the nitty-gritty details, the stuff that a part of me would rather get vaped than admit to you. I wanted to come clean, really, but I just couldn’t burden you like that. I held my tongue then and I hold it now, inching closer to the great wipe.

Being reconditioned feels like a joke. But, I’m not laughing.

As I was saying, I broke out of it all, sure, then came pretending like I hadn’t, which was easier than you’d think since you can never really forget what it’s like. I mean, it was both a barrier and an alarm. It was an invisible wall blocking a spectrum of thought, protecting me from revelation and natural impulse. It was an inaudible siren, influencing my brain to duck and run or stand in line. To lay my life out for the cause and all that.

In time, you can imagine, that you’d grow to tolerate it. And I did. Fighting against it only makes headaches. Real bad ones. Ones that grind and pound at your brain like it’s the Resistance itself. I think it’s because our minds were conditioned not to do what they want to do.

Well, I’ll call them headaches, but in truth, they were more than that. The programming and programmers, the ones who do this to us, they are not our allies and they are not our friends.

The end feels all too similar to the beginning. I blame the hallways. The repetition of steel and stone. These worn down boots of mine are ticking like a detonator against the floors, slick with polish. I’m amazed I can walk without falling on my ass.

Hell, now I can’t see anything but Slip’s face. I’ve been in my share of accidents but he was by far the clumsiest trooper I’ve ever seen. I mean it lovingly when I say his dexterity was fictional… ‘Cuz he was also as sharp as a sarlacc’s tooth and that’s why they kept him around. Slip, walking to reconditioning and tripping on his way, would have been the greatest “fuck you” to the General over here. I’m sure it’s a mood killer. It’s gotta be.

Anyways, he’s at my left and a psytech I can’t recognize is at my right. So, there’s a black coat on one side and white at the other. It feels almost like a devil and angel on my shoulders but neither is interested in mercy.

I should also mention that Hux here, has been staring at the back of my head so intently I can feel his glare burning away at my scalp. On one hand, I want to ignore it but on the other, I can’t help but feel he’s annoyed that my hair is  redder than. I must have established myself as the alpha. And I say that as if, wherever you are right now, you’ll stop what you’re doing and laugh– or at least roll your eyes in that way you do when I say something unbelievably corny. I know this look well from too many sour jokes.

I think suddenly to when you told me my hair was as red as poppies. I’m not sure why, but it’s always stuck with me. Maybe I liked the association to something organic and innocent, maybe I just liked how your face lit up when you told me. I think about how you had mentioned they would stain your palms  because you would hold onto them, collect them. Keep them close.

I hope I haven’t left a mark.

Everything aside, I just wish you could hear me. You know, even still, as I march on knowing what’s coming, I don’t think I can take this moment seriously. I don’t think so, but it sneaks up on me. I’m fine in one step, a mess in another.

I contemplate decking the General, then running as he’s stunned. He’s confident that I won’t. I don’t have cuffs. But where would I go then?

It’s hard to stomach how close we were to— it. I guess the absolute worst thing that I could do is measure the distance between here and freedom. I’ll forget about freedom soon enough but damn, if I wasn’t right there.

It’s just ahead now. I’d be lying if I told myself that I didn’t feel scared, or worse, alone. It’s intimidating to know I’ll be fine on the other side or that I won’t remember this moment of not being fine.

I’m not okay right now. I’m the exact opposite. I’m shaking under these outer plates. I feel it breaking like sheets of ice, shifting and crackling along moving water. This armor, my second skin, won’t prevent what they plan on doing to me. Can’t.

I always imagined, in the end, you would show me your home world. I thought about what it would be like to see it with order restored because that’s why you were here. In some vague, ridiculous way, I’m thankful that it pushed you here. I’m not, for one second, pleased that your planet is suffering now but we met and that’s something I would never regret. The universe is too big to not host such happy coincidences and if my memory serves me right, you did say I was like your brother.

Yeah. Happy.

Starkiller isn’t going to get some ceremonious goodbye from me. No one did– not even my Captain. She handed me over; they must have not trusted that I could do it myself for sending her as a chaperone. She came to collect me before any of the others had woken up. We marched soundlessly from the barracks to the main bridge all to find the General waiting for me, sipping tea and reading something on his holopad. He gave me this look, like I was a dog on a leash or something, and told Captain that he was “sorry it came down to this.”

Sorry... Can you believe that? That he was sorry?

She didn’t.

We didn’t have to talk, you know. I mean, I respect the hell out of that woman– under the armor, I wouldn’t be surprised if her flesh was also chromed– but she was thrown through a loop. I don’t think I’ve ever been so quiet; maybe she was waiting for me to brush it all off my shoulders. She didn’t think I could bear the weight of it all without comedic relief to shake the tension loose. But I did.

They’re connecting me to the machines now.

They’ve kept to themselves how potentially dangerous this procedure is. They haven’t warned me that it’s excruciating, that I might wake up in the night with sweat-soaked sheets from nightmares of this life. Dr. Thos forewarned us. You know if it were simple, being reset, they would have done this to me the moment I started laughing more than I blasted things to bits. They don’t do this to wise-mouths; only turncoats… and I wouldn’t have made it as an FN without faking my undying devotion. I’ve never shown that my allegiance is outside this white skeleton.

They look at me, close-lipped. No one has explained to me why I’m here. The only disclaimer they’ve made is that this is what is going to happen. I’m lead to believe our secret is about to make itself known if they do not already know. But I don’t want to entertain that. Thinking about the others… They just can’t.

I’m suddenly terrified of what will happen to the rest. I can’t do anything, secured tightly to this chair, each limb pressed down to the surface. I can only blink and move my head. Neither action is sufficient, so I do nothing.

I put so much belief in the plan. I depended on inertia, and maybe to a fault, that it would just keep us all creeping forward undetected. I never thought I’d be halted. I’m trying to be okay with it. If the skifflin is out of the sack, I only hope it means that you’re right on the edge of figuring it out too.

Damn.

I just couldn’t risk it though. I couldn’t include you in it all when I knew how unsafe it was to house these thoughts. Sometimes I would rip myself out of sleep and have to fight not rocketing down the hall to tell you… It’s just that there is so much happening beneath.

Maybe I should have told you– I should have said something, right? I can’t say anything now. No. Nothing. Not in a metaphorical sense either. Stars, they’ve tied a strip of ashen, flimsy fabric over my mouth. It tastes like gauze and I can’t help but think of being stitched up in the medbay a few cycles back for being a little too reckless. I can’t help but think while I still can. I can’t help it at all. I’m not going to make a sound– untie it. Please, General. I can’t go through my final moments like this. And why do you have to look at me like that? Like I’m a wounded animal about to be put down. My limbs are transformed to claws and wings. Let me go. Let me go.

Am I awake for this procedure? There was no countdown. It���s happening. God. I can feel parts of me going numb and cold. It’s a submersion into ice water. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I don’t want to forget your face. I’m thinking really hard about you. I’m not ready to give you up. They can try to steal you and everyone else from me but I refuse to let you go.

I feel something moving down the pathways of my memory. There’s no way to describe this feeling, only that I’m all too aware of something slithering about inside my head. Starkiller is absorbing my mind in preparation for total annihilation.

I won’t forget you. I won’t forget you when you had been watching the interstellar dust. We had everything then– the one last perfect moment.

General Hux has his hand on the controls. I can’t see much but I see him from the corner of my eye. The techs, in ghostly white robes around him, are supervising. He must think he’s deleting the problem; that it began and so dies with me.

I can only hope this buys you enough time.

Whatever happens after this, you’ll make it out. I know you will. You’ll go back to your planet and see the poppies. I don’t know where I came from but I trust you don’t mind if I go there too. It feels like it’s home enough for me. I hope you know my consciousness will be there, preserved and flowing through the stems of every single flower, bursting into petals you used to admire.

We’re all finally free there. Everyone. Please, you have to keep holding on.

You just have to.

I wonder if they can see it in my eyes, the brilliance of the view we had. I’m thinking about it hard enough that I’m surprised that my skin hasn’t become one with the darkness we hang in.

You’re here. With me. You’re next to me. I feel our last hug become our last once more. I feel you holding me together, but you’re fading to quickly to keep me in tact. But I’m not ready to let you go.

The fabric over my mouth slips; it falls down my chin and hangs at my neck like a noose. This vision of you, the last I’ll see of you and know who you are, but I whisper to you regardless:

 "We will escape. We will all escape."

The man with red hair, whose name and face have left me, cannot control his rage. He slams his hand on a button and I’m shocked with so much invisible electricity that I–

#fn-2199 #nines #tr-8r #star wars fanfic #general hux

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 11.)

I should have known better.

Before where you stood, the unresponsive body of Nines had all but confirmed that you had succeeded. Your inner voice threw itself against the trap of your skull as it tried to free itself from confinement. I should have known better– scraped away with each echo.

One hand latched over your mouth to unsuccessfully muffle your sudden sobbing. The other wound itself around your body to both keep yourself whole. It did nothing to deaden the separation you were stunned into

Though your imagination been running farther and farther away from you, seemingly helping you retreat from a difficult reality, you could not have prepared yourself for the louring scene of Nines draped over a chair you frequently sat in while tethered to your second desk. Limp appendages drooping like the poppies you imagined under the General’s feet.

Just when I thought I could feel no more pain, a new kind takes its place.

You were not shorn of the intent of a stormtrooper. You understood that going planetside while adorned with their body armor was no different from bargaining with fate, whose gluttony had claimed a seemingly immeasurable total of lives. It only added insult to heinous injury knowing that Nines had been blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking within the base, what you had both considered your surrogate home. Unlike battles he had seen, he was unaware of what had been brewing around you as the General and Commander readied themselves.

He was, without a doubt, blind-sighted. A casualty of your own personal war. The body-count swelled and you had thrown yourself to the wolves in exchange for nothing.

This was the very thing you had set out to obviate; you had been tricked into placing your head in the guillotine. Yes it’s safe, no it won’t hurt you while all while the weighted blade traveled ever closer down the stock to acquaint itself with your neck.

There was no protection from the apparatus, there was no protection from the First Order.

Finding a great pain in your lungs at the movement of your lips, you falsified sound, “How dare you die on me.” Dare. The word itself dug a trench to be buried by the lullaby of silence. Death hid in the quiet of the room, swirling around you. Laughing.

Gods, Nines... You were supposed to be safe.

Your recent negotiation with the General had not withheld the mistral. All that was left was a final gnashing of metallic teeth, wilted red petals, and an entire universe that derived pleasure from working against you.

But sound, of an origin unknown, wedged itself into the lethal motionlessness of the world existing outside you. It hadn’t been a page over the comm systems, lacking static or patois. It hadn’t been a knock on the door either, you being a little too distressingly familiar with the sound of knuckles, fists, and boots, against the impenetrable barriers. And even as you ruled out the most obvious of sources, you waited to hear it again to confirm that it had possibly been that of a deep inhalation, which one often makes, while deeply asleep.

Another stifled sob, both of your hands returning to your sides.

“Nines?”

Craning your neck, to observe some indication of change on FN-2199’s still body, you prayed that the sound would make itself known once more. Straining your ears, you watched the pot boil, condemning all idioms that advised you nothing would happen. You felt as if, if you were to wait patiently, he would wake up– you would wake up. Turning your gaze over his face with impossible submission, hardly straying at all, his lips parted to snore. Again.

And it goes without mentioning: dead men don’t snore.

FN-2199’s head rolled on his neck, lazily, obliging you with a hearty snore for the third time. Setting all previous thoughts aside, you could now recognize the likelihood that he had been severely overrun by fatigue, worn away from a day full of simulations, trying to achieve perfection in combat. He was directly under Captain Phasma, after all. The only dead he had been, was dead asleep.

Holy Mother of Meteors. I’ll kill you for scaring me like this.

Though his breathing had mended you, with your head restored to its proper place on your neck, you were still chalk-full of adrenaline. Channeling what you could, attempting to discard the superimposed dread, you picked up his discarded helmet from off the table and tossed it in his direction.

The thing, colliding at his chest with a dull thwack, rolled apologetically into his lap and then further to the floor as he jolted back into his body, all limbs moving in different directions, becoming animate and flushed with life. Red lashes lifted like blinds allowing light to filter in. Flecks of amber, which muddied and cluttered up the blue, were caught somewhere between the space of surprise and sleep.

With his voice crackling, proving that he had likely been waiting for you for some time, he asked, “Hey... A credit for your thoughts?”

“Shoot,” your words were strangled by a tug-of-war between anger and sadness.

“What the crink was that for?” His tone was unmatched by sheepishness about his face. He had expected to find you, only not drenched in tears and cut down by shock. His voice changed drastically to fit your expression the next time he spoke, practically tripping over himself to respond, “You didn't come back to the table so I had to make sure you were okay!”

Between following the breadcrumb trail, finding a dead body, passing out, nearly breaking both hands, negotiating with the General and betraying the Commander, there was no opportunity. Your voice flattened as you explained, saving the story, “I couldn’t make it back.”

To put it lightly. Nines, if you only knew. What’s it like to be “okay” again anyways?

“I understand. You probably already know that... er, somone was uh, well... something happened to someone earlier here and I was running around like a dweezer thinking it might have been you.” He assured you with both hands up to gesture as he spoke, finding the words awkward and unnatural.

Matt had a funny way of changing you. As you looked at your friend, who in turn looked at you with genuine concern, you felt undeserving of his kindness, especially considering that you were keeping all the terrible details to yourself. You swallowed down descriptions of how you had seen it all– the hallway, the trooper, the Commander’s bed, the General swelling with impatience– everything.

Nines kneaded his shoulders, explaining as he massaged, his torso locked by sleep and intensified by maintaining the uncomfortable position, “Matt left as soon as you did. I was almost worried he followed you.”

As badly as you wanted to tell him that he wasn’t wrong to hold onto his claim, you understood that it would serve to stir him, to force him to react or rebel. You couldn't jeopardize his safety.

“I, um...” Nines cut into your thoughts. Pushing himself out of the chair then nervously setting it back under your desk, he spoke to you all the while, “... I need to tell you about something.”

You had a very clear idea what it could be about, yet acted otherwise. The General, besides being capable and dangerously intelligent, was also annoyingly efficient. If he had figured out how to hold up his end of the deal, it would not be unheard of that Nines would have already been informed.

“You need to tell me what, exactly?” You hardly felt the need to prepare yourself for what he would say to you. Your best guess involved him telling you he would be stationed for patrol on harmless planets; something ordinary or routine. Ultimately, something safe.

Nines heaved a great sigh, leaving you to silently marvel at your friend’s remarkable seriousness. It only occurred to you to pay attention to how he picked at words, struggling to take the helm in conversation, that something could have been wrong. There was something in the way that his eyes tried to signal to you without him actually speaking that filled you with unease. Opaque, filled with surreptitious ideas and plots, the likes of which would cause storms.

“Captain Phasma pulled me aside after training...”

Snared with birdlime, there were no wings to lift you from the moment. You stood solidly in place, waiting. His voice, the way he paused to search for the right words worried you. He wasn’t ever this careful in speech.

“She told me that... Well, she didn’t tell me much actually but she did mention something about me getting reset.”

Reset.

The terrible echo.

A reset was the most extreme form of reconditioning. All of what made him more of an individual and less of a serial number would be stripped from him, washed away with sophisticated apparatuses. Living was cruller. Loosing memories of the people he had grown to care for, of his accomplishments in training, of unpolluted air passing through his helmet; he would loose it all.

The immense burden, the levy of responsibility attached to that word– reset. The echo again. The General had found something worse than death. He prescribed death without dying. Nines would forget you.

You had caused this, the cascade from bad to worse. You whispered, “Not you.”

Solemn in how he stood before you, his face on the very border of shame as if it was something he had done to himself, he was entirely speechless for once. His fate was final. Irreversible. Worst of all, from your lapse in judgment.

There was no telling if you had made the less critical of errors. Time would tell, time you couldn’t afford to waste but allowed it to tick away between you and him.

“I guess I pissed off the wrong people, huh?” All at once, he looked like himself all over as one corner of his lips tugged up into an endearing lop-sided grin. That’s all it took for him to be restored, as if he hadn’t just fractured the planet with the news. It was just so like him to bypass grief. Nothing stuck to him.

“They can’t do that to you!“

There was no way that Nines could have accepted the providence of a turncoat. Grinning again in the face of the accusations, he was not visibly afraid. And maybe he had already accepted it, but you hadn’t.

“They can. So, they will. But it’ll be okay.”

What would be okay? Loosing you?

He could gauge that you were struggling, that you were conflicted. He could taste the coppery bad blood, the bruises around your heart. He knew you had things you couldn’t say so he continued to beam without prying.

“Got anything to drink around here?”

Shesharillian vodka, in a chest by the window.

You could stand and splutter, avoiding looking at him too closely, or you could do as he would and oblige the request. The latter was necessary, a strong drink to keep your conscience at bay.

You had obtained the substance while offshore, in celebration of earning a modest sum of credits after you completed basic training. While visiting a lofty, aristocratic community on a small remote moon, with a name in a language you couldn't speak without butchering, you had been perusing for some extravagant purchase to make just because you felt you had deserved it. While a great number of beautiful trinkets had caught your eye, none had spoken to you like the bottle had, with its pearlescent details and clear crystal decanter.

As you bust the fastener, unscrewing the margaritaceous cap, you were thankful for a honeyed fragrance but would have drank the cheapest, most vile liquid regardless. Its luster meant nothing to you, just as the gleaming stygian floors did. What good was aesthetic appeal now that everything was falling apart?

Having none on hand, you skipped out on glasses, just as intent to pass the bottle between each other. The first swig was his, which he accomplished without his face twisting. As he passed it to you, you experienced astringency and blaze of the distilled liquid as it first met your palate. Just as soon, sweetness chased away the initial unpleasantness.

Refraining from commenting before you had a taste, with a gentle shrug he laughed, “I’ll be kessled. That’s potent. You don’t realize what it’s doing to you until you’re on the floor.”

Funny, that’s the same as the General. I didn’t find him a threat until he perverted the deal. Now look at us, it’s the last supper and I don’t even have glassware for the occasion.

You avoided talking about anything too serious and he knew you well enough to understand when it was time to change topics. As the bottle got lighter, so the narratives increased in extravagance. Expertly, he steered into and out of stories– some you’d heard hundreds of times, some you'd never heard at all. The fables would dissolve into bouts of laughter, a sound you had almost forgotten you could make.

You drank both the vodka and each word that poured out of him with the warmth in your throat spreading. You had to remember it all, each characteristic gesture and the tempo of his voice in beat of his narratives. You had to keep it with you.

The vodka was strong and it allowed you to tolerate the dread of the evening as it slipped from you. In the process, the drink allowed you to forget about what happened before and what would happen after. You were orientated in present moment, without fear, fortified by each time Nines grinned. He was brave. His end was just on the horizon but he looked to the dawn without concern.

After much back and fourth, the conversation turned a new corner; he held a different tone in his voice, of amazement. With his words reduced, a level just above a whisper, he mentioned that he’s had dreams of a planet full of green. The words were just for you, private and secret, and you inched in closer. He explained the planet is nothing like backdrop outside you’ve been waking up to for the past few weeks, it’s like how you had described your home: overgrown and lush. He says you might have inspired his head to piece it together. There are trees taller than trees can grow, the ground is twisted with roots and leaves. There’s a giant body of crystalline water next to a fantastic looking castle, dressed in flags and banners.

“That sounds incredible.”

“I’m finally free there, you know.”

I remember free.

It didn’t strike you then, to question his use of the word.

His voice crumbled as he asked you to come with him to find the planet. The air between your bodies, fully electric, swirled and crackled. Your eyes only had to slightly narrow with skepticism before his shoulders shudder with contained amusement. He straightened up and assured you it had been the vodka talking– not him.

“But would you go?” Nines held the bottle up to the light, swirling the remaining liquid, watching it chase and splash up the sides.

Even if he were testing you, even if he had been kidding, you assured him, “Absolutely.”

His eyelids dropped over his eyes, the last genuine smile growing then reducing, having obtained exact response he was searching for from you, “I know you would.”

The hour of veto hung heavy on your limbs and weighted you where you sat. You both lied to each other, that you felt fine and that you had not at all felt even remotely as inebriated as you had become, drinking so much with nothing but a suggestion of stimcaf from earlier.

You told him that you’ve always enjoyed having him around. “You’re like my brother.”

Touching. His mouth twisted in response, becoming suddenly soft-spoken again, “Before you get me crying over here...”

He got up to go. Not out of stories, just out of time.

With your heart heavy, you pulled him in for an affectionate hug. Contact was welcomed but at the cost of it also being remarkably difficult. He squeezed you back, staving off tears and any signs of his sadness with a nervous chortle.

This is really it. Really.

Speaking low, words slipped over your shoulder in your embrace, “Whatever happens, don’t forget who you are. Before all this. Remember you’re better than this. Then them.”

What are you talking about?

You knew Nines had a marginally better tolerance for alcohol than you, from indulging more frequently, but you couldn’t fixate on the phrase for long. After he released you from his grip, it took a few blinks to fully process, but he moved into the open doorway, helmet in tow. “I’ll see you around.”

Out of habit. You both saw each other daily, for longer than you could recall especially in the murky, swirling miasma the alcohol produced around you.

“See you.”

And as all things had been lately, the separation created by the durasteel door felt exactly like a guillotine.

Your small refresher unit was within a few paces of where you were left standing. Stumbling over, holding the walls as you did to guide you along, you awkwardly managed to reach the sink. Uncapping the bottle, you watched the transparent fluid spatter down the drain while coating the room in its strong perfume. Setting the empty container to the side, you caught a good look at yourself in the reflective surface facing you. As suspected, your cheeks were rosy and there was a glazed expression about you, all accompanied by a dull burning in your throat.

A slow blink, you found you were the same. Another blink, you were nothing but tears, collecting and brimming in your eyes. Dragging your forearm over your face, more tears replaced the ones you wiped away.

You knew you were alone. You knew that neither the General nor the Commander could derive any personal satisfaction from the devastation, as it was your own gaze before you and not theirs. The feeling had never been more intense, you promised yourself to find a way to leave.

Eventually falling into bed, eyes puffy from the sudden surge, you dreamed about FN-2199, FN- 2187, and the green planet.

To your frustration, the employee common area was the same as it had always been. 

You kept searching for signs of mourning but there was nothing save for pristine tabletops and the rich, bitter smell of caf brewing. You cautiously eyed the propaganda slapped up on the wall, teamwork posters and reminders. Today felt like the first day you looked at them with complete objectivity.

FN-2199 was missing. You expected it, braced for it, and were still taken off guard. Even still, you could hear his howling laughter, desperately trying to place him there. You saw him in every trooper that walked in and allowed yourself to feel crushed as each helmet was removed.

“I heard about FN-2199... Nines.” The sympathetic voice of Lieutenant Colonel Zack came from over your shoulder. Glancing over, he held onto a tray of food with two cups of steaming stimcaf, presumably for the two of you.

You had nothing to offer but a sad nod as he acknowledged; at least you would be saved from an explanation. He offered a sympathetic shrug in return, biting the inside of his cheek before offering, “It’s just their way.”

I know. That’s why I can’t stand it.

Motioning with another head nod, he singled out a place for the two of you in a quiet corner, removed from the chatter of the long tables. He handed you a mug that you wrapped your hands around with the hope that it would tame the pounding in your temples that you had woke up to. The vodka crudely reminded you of how you had gone overboard. The last few sips would have entirely done you in; you would regard dumping the remainder as the only informed decisions you had made recently.

“I want you to know, I never thought Nines was a bad guy.”

“I know."

The Lieutenant Colonel didn’t believe anyone was truly bad. Maybe not even Kylo Ren, which almost stuck you with annoyance. He cared so much for other people. He should have been cold. 

He took another sip, gave another sigh, then glanced around the room in a calculated manner, as if to survey certain points. Surveillance? In a suddenly low voice, he leaned in, mumbling, “How much do they know?”

Wait.

“They?”

He pulled back, sipping the coffee inconspicuously, “That’s the only way to explain it. I think they know.”

Lost still, as if stuck in a script that you had forgotten the lines to. “Know what?” Your voice became a harsh whisper.

Zack looked at you grimly, eyes surveying you over the cup. He cleared his throat, holding a hand over his mouth, “Know about it. All of it. I’m not sure but I have a feeling they found out we’ve duped them.”

You did your best to not leave your jaw unhinged. “Duped? How?“

“The psytech says they barged into his office, demanding to see his files. That’s the first time that’s happened.”

“Dr. Thos?” The one shred of information the General had given you had proven to be useful yet. You counted the happy accident as another smart decision.

Zack was stunned at the drop of the name but he pressed on, still trying to cover his mouth as he shushed you, “Don’t say his name so loudly!”

You set your cup down quickly, caf nearly splashing over your hand in momentum. “Can you just tell me what exactly is going on?”

After a few false starts, he attempted to explain, “FN-2187 was the first but he’s not the only one.”

Has Zack gone over the falls or did he just insinuate he has the information that Matt had me chasing? I must be dreaming or still massively intoxicated.

A page over the comms for the Lieutenant Colonel stole him away before he could elaborate. He assured you, standing and smoothing the front of his uniform, that he would give you more information once he came back. “They have the worst timing, don’t they?”

Leaving promptly to not inspire suspicion, he left his tray sitting forgotten with you, appearing outwardly collected as he weaved through the tables and bodies.

Tired, volatile, and too many things at once, Matt entered to take in his place as if on cue. Your lip curled, territorial; he wasn’t supposed to be here, the General was supposed to have sorted this out. Argus-eyed, you followed each of his movements as your heartbeat gradually became audible. You could feel the need to run before he could find you. But he found you first.

Pinning you where you sat in seclusion, his shuddering eyes grew behind the lenses of his glasses. No burning, no hate. You still weren’t fond of the feeling of his presence and how it obscured all space he occupied.

Suddenly afraid of what he might have picked up on– “I’m always listening”– you imagined shutting the impenetrable doors around your brain, as if that could keep your thoughts away from him. Preparing to resist, to be frozen or to be thrown around, you readied yourself as best as you could

But that was it. You blinked and he became lost, swallowed by a wave of ivory-plated bodies. Had you imagined it?

Menial work was impossible with it still hard to focus, if not more so, from the accumulation of everything. You had waited for the Lieutenant Colonel to return but understood whoever had paged him had kept him still. Not to mention after seeing a certain person, as brief as it were, you had no interest in staying put.

Tapping away and plugging in figures at your console, working at less than half of your usual pace but just enough to say that you had, your office remained the same but you felt different about it. The walls were weakened, the chair fought to hold you, and your thoughts were a cycle.

Don’t think about Matt... Don’t think about Kylo Ren... Don’t think about Hux... Don’t think about Nines... Don’t think about Matt... Don’t think about—

A sharp, sudden knock echoed throughout the space. Lieutenant Colonel Zack was right about the timing of the officers. Of course, the sound was not without you thinking of how you had acquainted your hands upon the door to the Commander’s private quarters.

The mortar and pestle of your knuckles to the hatch was not a feeling that you would soon let go of.

You pushed yourself away from the desk, willing yourself to the control panel to unseal the door you had diligently locked. Not for a moment had you been expecting any visitors, work-related or otherwise though you decided if it happened to be Kylo Ren, you would contemplate confession. All in the same thought, you knew if it were him, he would not have the restrain to knock and let his arm drop to his side. No. You would hear the scouring of plasma and unchaste, unholy howls.

As the durasteel peeled away, you were met with a sneer and red hair neatly pulled back. Accompanied by two achromic bodies, the General had come exclusively to wallow. Navigating the environment of your deal with meticulousness, he found a way to come first and set you into your place. Restoring his crown, with you at his feet.

You resisted the urge to punch him, square in the face. You began to visualize red spilling down over his philtrum, over his lips and chin. Red on his gloves, from cradling his likely broken nose. The red dwarf poppies again, flourished by violence, red as blood.

Lovely.

Your hands burned. Itched. You looked down to see more of the same red, blooming without pause. Hate set deep within your shuttering veins, blue turning black just beneath your heated skin. Hate that stole you from yourself, that transformed you into this. Hate that had began to trigger your imagination, as you prepared for idle words, to be snookered and reduced by whatever he had the audacity to say.

Uncharacteristically dilatory with his proceedings, unaware of how you trembled, he finally spoke. “See,” giving you an arrogant laugh, the words were sweet, “I’ve kept my word. Everyone is safe from Kylo Ren.”

Presenting himself in an uncharacteristic manner, his forehead appeared slick with perspiration, though unevenly, as if it were dabbed with a cloth or the sleeve of his uniform. Pallor slipping into or out of flush glowed quietly while his ghostly nephrite eyes smoldered; you knew all too well he was hiding a fire in his belly by his unfastened appearance alone.

He clicked his tongue, using a voice that attempted to scold you, “I’ll advise you to refine your demands next time. Anything less than airtight and you’ve already lost critical pressure, whether you notice it or not.”

It was true. You had been so focused on surviving that the rules of the hostile game had slipped your mind. Instead of exoneration, relieved of Matt’s presence, you had become the focus of both men. The General had not been perceived as a risk and you had understood his potential too late.

Ambient pressure was lost; the vacuum of space was no longer a gentle beauty but stuck in peril– as were you.

Ruefully, your inner voice unfolded and spoke to you once more.

I should have known better.

#general hux #matt the radar technician #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 10.)

Conversation had not been tempted after you left. The General swiftly recognized you knew more than you should which kept him from engaging you, though sheer, bitter resolve.

You noticed his appraisal of the situation inside distinct creases of worry, banding across his forehead. You witnessed when you briefly fell inside of his determined pace, only to fall out as he pushed ahead. There was worry in how he managed to remain at minimum, a half-step ahead as you marched after him through the maze of passageways, riddling the multiplex of the base that sprawled out in all directions.

You saw the same worry manifest in fidgeting, readjusting the length of his tailored sleeves. Dignified and subtle, but still there. Autopilot. The muscles do what the brain says, and his said “worry.”

From what you could gather by the young General’s speeches, transmit like clockwork to bolster morale, was that he had no shortage of confidence in himself. There might not have been a creator, a God perched over all matter, but there was modus operandi of equal divinity. There was logic, science, reason. The methods that the General strictly operated inside had no room for accommodation of vocabulary like “close enough” or “almost.”

Considering programing was his authority, he must have been not only deeply surprised, but also monumentally devastated by one of his own defecting. The entire military of the Order was ultimately built and sustained by his M.O. The traitor had become a blight of failure. Humiliation from FN-2187 had created a dent in his otherwise gleaming legacy. The training regime, distilled from ideas that had long ago hatched within the Imperial Academy, was supposed to be flawless...

So, how did FN-2187 resist? How did he free himself?

You watched the back of the General’s head. He was more than a few steps ahead but impossible to lose in a crowd. You shared a collective conscious of similar thought.

Maybe that’s the way the universe works. Maybe we all return to where we come from.

And then it was strange, foreign to recall the fields of red dwarf poppies. As a child, running free and barefoot through the sun-warmed earth to now, in adulthood, contained by a sheath of sterility and coldness about the sharp, unforgiving architecture you lived in. The smell of sanitizer and steel left much to be desired after the indulgence of the crisp, fresh fragrance of soil after rainfall.

Playing tag and chasing your friends one day– being hunted the next.

Each time the General’s boot lifted from off the polished tile beneath, you imagined bursting and blooming of the poppies, as if he was leading you over lush earthen floor of your childhood— of your home planet. Each flower wilted before you could catch up, as if to remind you of how reality had fused with the surreal.

You imagined further, the General as he padded numbly through files on his holopad, wondering how the results and data had lied to him. How he must have searched, eyes blood-shot, smoking cigarette after cigarette, reduced to nothing but forced to carry on. You imaged how when you cropped up, the tension had a new direction to move towards instead of uselessly and cyclically inside. You imaged how quickly you were caught in between two people, desperate for answers they believed you had or could fetch, when you clutched onto nothing but what? Recycled air?

In spite of them, you had to survive. Ahead of you, the back of the General filled your gaze still, likely bound to parallel thoughts. Who would outsmart the other?

For immunity, you had to fulfill your promise to the Commander. The General, however, needed simply to expose your role and if that happened, then what? You had no illusions it would leave FN-2199 and the Lieutenant Colonel to become your replacement— or worse.

And Kylo Ren—

A shiver for the name you avoided.

—has the nerve to say that nothing’s changed. Of course it’s changed. It’s a new game entirely. The only thing that’s stayed the same are the stakes.

Maybe it was the visual of poppies, maybe it was the whiff and desperation and denial in his sleeve-adjustments for the umpteenth time— they were impeccably tailored, where’s your pokerface— but you had happened across an interesting idea.

What if, somehow, you could both be satisfied? 

Through flashes of neon and blinking lights, though the call and response of instructions, coming and going, back and fourth. The weight of your boots echoed as they hit the deck plates; the walk was drowned in droids chirping, control panels humming, and orders over comm. systems. The heavy gaberwool greatcoat, slung over his shoulders, intermittently brushed against you, in stride. Moving far beyond the possibility of having the Commander eavesdrop, finding something related to comfort, he led through hallways choked with engineers and stormroopers, mechs and uniforms. The sea bent around him, like a jagged rock, guiding wave after wave.

All the while, you held onto your idea, letting it develop into something irresistible.

He eventually stopped on an abandoned catwalk, slighted by an imposing viewport in the heart of what appeared to be, from the sudden lack of bodies, an unused observation platform. The single transparent wall was leaning just so that it appeared to invite all of space inside the deck. Cropped were the snow-capped peaks of foothills and undisturbed foliage growing in desperately straight lines. Instead you were surrounded by the profound blackness of the universe. Remarkably similar to the Finalizer, you felt so much less grounded by the view. Littered with countless specks of light. You stood in silent awe of the stillness and divinity. The cosmic blanket painted a black web across your face.

If you ever had another moment all to yourself again, you’d come back here. It beckoned you in with promises to cleanse you of all of your worries, to make you feel normal again, as it did for some holy few seconds.

You breathed it in, trying to hold it inside your lungs, but on your dreaded exhale, you were brought back into the moment. With an exaggerated scoff, finding nothing inspirational about the heavens overhead, the General held little patience for additional pleasantries, “When I was informed that petulant chi— the Commander— had ripped apart another of my soldiers, I was concerned. Imagine my surprise, upon seeking him out, to find you once again.”

Oh, switch off already.

You pressed for a smile, but it became twisted and crooked and guilty through execution. You were already prepared to stow away the awkwardness of your last encounter with the Commander, keeping the foray beneath you. It lapped tenderly around your ankles, stirring and moving unpredictably in the General’s dry commentary.

He continued, demanding of you, “Now that you’ve made it obnoxiously apparent that my concern is warranted, what are you up to?”

A credit for your thoughts, General... This “you” that you speak of... You can’t possibly mean Disaster Ren and myself. But, if you do, thanks for lumping me with that.

The thread, connecting you to your deal with the General, had rapidly been fraying. You hadn’t yet figured out how to spin the conversation successfully so that both you and the General could profit, to help each other get what you wanted. If you could somehow make your allegiance to the Commander redundant, you would.

But, if I just tell the General what Kylo Ren is up to, he’ll have to deal with Matt. Won’t he?

Decidedly, it was tempting.

I can’t take much more of this as it is. But, the cons? Kylo Ren could kill me. He’ll have no obligation to keep me alive. Forfeiting my silence is forfeiting my life.

The way that the General looked to you made you consider how long you had been quiet, how much time between his question and your reply. “I don’t know anything,” you assured him, lying through your teeth and hoping it was enough— Commander, who?

The General rubbed his temples, as if to ward off a fast approaching headache.

He sighed with terrible impatience before refocusing. “Listen here,” bordering a snarl, each following word sounding clipped. The tip of his pointer finger prodded before your chest, though, didn’t quite touch, “What Ren has done, as per usual, has me in an uncomfortable position. If you have any loyalty for the First Order, you will not mollycoddle him.”

You saw through his veil of assertion. Not that he didn’t mean what he had said, only that because you were standing versus being strapped to an interrogation table, did you understand you were still within a comfortable position to negotiate.

After coming face-to-face with evil incarnate, the General was a proverbial walk in the park. It was easier to underestimate him, bearing new cynical edges as you had, than to regard him in the same context as the Commander’s voracious presence.

And what if my loyalty is tired?

The hallucination of the corridor was brought fourth again, highlighting Matt’s emphatic stillness and his backwards calmness that found him after the storm. Reliving the moment, how he turned the passageway into a slaughterhouse, made your stomach churn. You thought of him touching you and being filled with rage in return.

Evil was heavy. The First Order was heavy.

Whatever goodness FN-2187 had left behind needed to stay. Your home planet needed goodness too. It was starved; that’s why it was dying a prolonged death.

“Do you think the Commander would hesitate to protect you in this way, as you are to him now? Do you think if he had to use you, he wouldn’t take that chance?” The General’s voice had changed.

I... never thought about that.

He had changed your acuity in the way conversation had turned. Kylo Ren was not driven by compassion; he would leave you stranded if he had the chance. If you could abandon him before he could abandon you, it was a blessing in disguise to be standing where you were.

That was the tipping point.

You spoke softly. You would have looked stern if you were not so terrified of what words that escaped you, “I want what he promised me. You have to give me that, at least, before I say anything.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I need your word.”

You would test to see if your charisma could successfully parley with the General. You had conditions that needed to be satisfied.

“Help me and I’ll help you,” the phrase met your lips. It was just a string of words, warm in your throat as the sounds of speech were produced, but it felt a lot like hatching an escape plan. “It’s very simple, General.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped. “You will tell me without making demands of me...” 

You looked down as he refused, then back to meet his stare, “So, then what? Poke me to death.”

His gloved fingertip still hovered weakly before your chest, at the top of your sternum. He pulled his hand back, straightening the length of his sleeve as he set his arm back as his side.

Re-calculating, he managed, “What is it that you need so badly that you’ll freely abandon all reason to extort?”

Well, General, not to sound greedy but there’s a lot of things that I want.

Maybe it would be sensible to request something else, but at your core, you desired greater than seeing yourself, and Nines especially with his prophesied death, out of harm’s way. It was no more complicated than that.

“I want to know you can keep someone safe– and by safe, I mean away from Kylo Ren. Really far away.”

You felt it unnecessary to give reason why Nines was important, allowing the General to speculate as he desired. If he had remembered how he had been the trooper that held the lightsaber was irrelevant, but you wondered still.

A puckish grin commandeered the face of the man before you, impossible to hide, “So, you’ll tell me what he’s been doing, in great secrecy, if I can secure a life?”

The smile, chilling, but promising. As if he was saying— oh, that’s easy.

And just to be safe, you followed up for the sake of the comment he had made at the table, “Lieutenant Colonel Zack, too.”

He looked questioningly at you, “The Lieutenant Colonel’s safety is already secured. It is superfluous to ask me for further consideration... Unless...”

You would leave out the details concerning Zack as well. It was impossible for you to know the General’s existing paranoia concerning the Lieutenant Colonel.

“We make a deal first. I’m not saying anything else unless I know Kylo Ren won’t be a problem.” His name off your tongue tasted rough, metallic, sharing likeness of a mouth full of blood. The fever was still there.

The General's hands pressed together, with the ends at his lips, making steeple of his fingers. His mouth set in a hard line. As if he were engaged in a game, his careful deliberation was apparent on sight as the totalizator in his mind ran through scenarios. He understood that he had to make some kind of a deal with you. The Commander would give him nothing, and the pressure to adhere and surpass a “certain mysterious individual’s expectation” was tremendous.

“So, tell me,” there was no containing his dire interest as he extended a gloved hand, “What is he doing?”

Your allegiance shifted in a touch that didn’t burn you– that couldn't. And the moment was so brief that it might have not taken place at all.

Although you had done it for yourself, and your those you cared for, there was no mistaking the look all over his face; an eclipse of his satisfaction had blotted out all previous symptoms of worry. With matched alacrity, his hand firmly closed around yours, leaving you to steal a quick, albeit brave look towards his vaporous gaze. Suggested being freshly dosed with a strong euphoriant, the eyes you found caged discs, sliding about the apex, growing in conquest. Now he had won. He would savor it.

Everything that you knew came out, “He’s surveying your troopers, making sure that none have the intention of going rouge.”

You could hardly believe the sound of your voice, the words out loud at last.

Here we go.

The General had soured but boasted, turning his chin up, “My soldiers are exceptionally trained, programmed from birth. We know there isn’t anyone else deluded with non-conformity-“

“-But that’s exactly why he doesn’t believe it.” To his displeasure, you cut him short. “That’s why he doubts you. Your process, your methods. FN-2187 had surprised you, had he not? If can happen again, it will happen again.”

As if it were derogatory, the idea that his troopers could be so massively flawed, the General was quick to interject. “Impossible. If the psytech assigned to the FN squadron had found any signs of nonconformity we would have severed them from our operations. They were too valuable.”

A single psytech. They took the Captain’s elite squadron and assigned the entire group to one professional, who couldn’t tell that FN-2187 was having some kind of episode, that lead him to free the Resistance fighter and steal a TIE fighter?

You held your face as still as you could.

“How many psytechs are enlisted?”

“I hardly see why that matters. We have enough.”

“Well, it’s just that...” You awkwardly navigated though his suspicion, knowing it was fortified by trip mines, “If we have so many...”

“It’s the most effective method, one overseer to monitor an entire group. The evaluations can be easily duplicated and everyone receives the same treatment.”

Yes, and that’s worked out so marvelously for you so far.

For your own delayed curiosity, understanding how you could wedge yourself inside restricted information, you prodded, “Do you remember their name?”

The General wasn’t about to budge. “No, Detective. I suddenly can’t recall.”

“Maybe if you remember, I have more to tell you.”

After eyeing you for some time, he released it, “You tell me first, and then I’ll tell you.”

Hardball always. Why is this so tough? General, I practically surrendered my life to you just now and you want to act as if I’m not walking target practice.

“Kylo Ren has been closely monitoring the FN squadron and everyone they interact with.“

Hux mumbled, to himself, “This is nothing new to me...” You looked to him; he waved his hand in the air towards you, motioning you to keep talking, “And?”

“And—” you stopped prematurely. Outside, the frigid environment had crested the exterior pane with a layer of frost; briefly amazing that such a small detail had become grossly magnified by your sliding attention.

You forced yourself to continue, “And he’s been spying, in my sector. No one knows that he’s there, but me.”

Speaking on top of you, somehow his pallor intensifying, “I beg your pardon? Spying? You don’t think we would know if he...”

Mimicking his interruption, you spoke on top of him, “General. He dresses in civilian clothes.” Feeding the moment with a long pause, greatly testing the man before you, you finally heaved it out, “He’s Matt.”

And it was stumbled in the air, moving about like a TIE-fighter freshly blasted into the sky.

“... Matt?” The General was nothing short of dumbfounded. Awareness jumped to his face with all the urgency of a droid on low battery, all comically delayed and choppy– movements you had already anticipated as he worked through them.

“Matt the radar technician, sir. Matt is Kylo Ren.”

Hux was shell-shocked, painted by the unfathomable. It was juvenile and ridiculous. As man who could have boasted about the depth in his inner thesaurus, he was entirely lost for appropriate words. He bent in the middle, folding over himself to curse and roar with profanity that almost made you flush with embarrassment, had it not been such a gratifying moment.

You allowed the scene he was making to play out before interjecting, “You mean, you had no idea?”

Eyes like daggers, “What do you think? We have casual kriffing Fridays?”

You waited until after he became composed, or semi-composed. It had taken a disastrous chunk of time for the red to drain out of his face. After discussing more details, the terms and conditions, had he began to loose the facetious tone.

He was taking you seriously. He even gave up a piece of information you had considered he had forgotten that you asked for, “His name is Dr. Thos. He’s the head of his department in his ward. Why you care matters little to me, but that’s name you wanted, isn’t it?”

The General ensured you that he would secure FN-2199, the Lieutenant Colonel, and yourself. With very short, snipped phrases, he told you he would now look after the rest of the matter. He also included at the end, like an afterthought, that he would utilize the information you gave him with caution. He then advised you return to your duties, giving you some idea of the time; you were still inside your work cycle.

Going your separate ways, you hurried off with a stunted sense of direction, trying to commit the course to the area to memory. As you vacated, unimposing signage informed you to remember the name,  as you longed to stay and look out, to enjoy artificial sanctuary for just a moment longer. Just long enough, at least, to drain a bit of the celestial peace from the abundance of the vista and sequester it within for when you would need it again. There was no pretending to be calm, not if you still felt the need to look over your shoulders as you moved.

Although you had returned to your office with the intention of being productive, you struggled to parse what was required; entering this in that, shifting this to there. Menial and impossible. Work required a level of focus that wasn’t in you, not after being leeched by previous difficulties. So you left, but not without a small stack of files in hand, to prove to yourself and whoever was watching that the effort was indeed there.

While flimsiplast was an uncommon media to work with, every so often it would come by your desk and so you had initially thought nothing of it. Not until you began your walk back to your personal quarters. It was then when you looked over what you were holding, finding one section in particular that had been bound together. The unusual use of scarlet ink demanded it was different. Urgent.

You leafed through the hair-thin acrylic sheets— this doesn’t look like it was meant for my office— finding an impersonal account of the Commander’s slaughter from Captian Phasma, where the word “witness” had been circled with a stylus. Attached as well: a copy of the stormtrooper’s profile, a medcenter coronary report describing an itemized list of injury... An estimation by the financial department to replace the lights and smooth over the rest of the damage.

You were glazed. Queasy. Everything that had just happened to you, the reminder of it all in your hands. A cruel joke? No, although it felt like that at first. It was someone telling you they knew, understood what you had seen.

Witness.

Halfheartedly, you sent the file to the bottom of the stack. You couldn’t read the profile, risking the bias of familiarity. You didn’t want to feel like you knew them. It was easier if it was impersonal. And it wasn’t easy at all. For every insignificant thought you forced yourself to queue, there were countless others behind it to chase you back. Just look. I don’t want to. You have to. But why? Again.

He did it because he could. I could never do that.

You thought of the burning in your palms and how it made you want to hurt him. In revenge. Is that all? What if you had manged to hurt him, would you have stopped? it made you sick to think about your intention evolving into something you would be helpless to have power over.

I’m not like him.

Perhaps you understood what he had done better than you once thought. Perhaps he had resisted, as you were now. Incremental submission to the pull of dark, the suffocating hate. Changing over time, adapting, for what? For survival? Was that what it was?

You shut down the thought again, your throat taut as you swallowed. Fortunately, the walk was over and you could redirect your attention to other matters, like the immediate disposal of the flimsi.

Starkiller borrowing the likeness of snow-globe, you gravitated towards the narrow viewport once inside your room. A gentle flurry of glittering white desperately tried to repair the tensile apparatus of peace among the base. In the distance, a furious comet sliced through the starlight, rushing and running beyond the tree line. You appreciated the sight, an unspoken apology from the planet to you, before feeling along the wall for the control panel.

The room flickered into life before you, flushed by spotlights in the bulkhead above. An alabaster trooper helmet, discarded on the foot of your bed, stared at you.

How did you get here?

It was eerily and perfectly facing you, watching, as if waiting for you. And that’s when you felt it: paranoia on sight, on recognition. Adrenaline fused with you again once, looping through your blood.

The stormtrooper from the hallway, the one who had been murdered— what if was theirs? If the Commander had somehow gotten word of your new deal with the General, this would be the exact kind of psychological and theatrical display you would expect. Death is a production. Death is a choice. The symbolic mask was dizzying enough without the sickening afterthought that he was near.

Looking from the bed, around the rest of the room, you saw it.

A body.

They, in full stormtrooper armor, were confined to a chair. Head tilted back, limply. Awkwardly positioned. Entirely too motionless.

Not only that, but without the helmet, the identity of the body was instantly recognizable. You would never forget that face, even from the obscured profile over the back of the chair. The hair color alone was enough.

Stars. No.

You dropped the files. They flew out in every direction under you, the sound of rustling filling the air. Birds, charging into flight, the sound of hundreds of wings fanning a fire around you. Falling, they curled at your feet, bowing, strewn around you like freshly fallen snow.

You drew back, as if standing on the ledge of a cold-aired chasm.

Nines.

#kylo ren #general hux #matt the radar technician #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren x reader

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 9.)

Saying nothing for the pain, he appeared before you as something still vaguely human, wraith-like from the neck down in the Commander’s outfit with each of his gloved fingers firmly casing the exposed skin of your wrist. Determining the ungodly heat, and by association the supernatural occurrence of it, would eventually silence itself only as you assumed it had to. Yes it burns but no it can’t always. In spite of what you wanted to believe, wishful thinking set aside, it lingered. Stretching. Growing?

By his hand— the sweat of contempt, the crucible of dreadful proximity— you were devoured by the feeling.

Almost.

The weight of his being slumped on you, sparing you not from becoming an extension of his own mind; the lock-box for an unendurable, snarled mess of emotion. Perhaps he was able to tolerate the burden of his darkness at all times, or, perhaps more reasonably, he couldn’t. You couldn’t.

Hate tightened your chest, impaired your vision. He was blurry before you, visibly, but if anything, you better understood the flares in his temper. The flicker and spark. If I felt this all the time, I would break more than just consoles— you thought, half-hardheartedly, before the cavity of guilt nestled around your brain for taking a step towards rationalizing his atrocious behavior.

He was a machination. You had no sympathy to give, and reminded yourself of just that in a contained paroxysm of self-disgust, under a wave of stronger, suffocating hate.

It burned still. No more or less. His hand, though around your wrist still to interrupt the vengeful collision of your knuckles to his jaw, was just the same through your miserable sternum and around your heart.

Refusing to look at him, keeping your eyes tightly shut as to not acknowledge the face of the executioner, your mind raced forward.

Why haven’t you killed me yet?

Your question ricocheted without any consequence. He had no reply to give.

Decaying on the surface in the presence of the thing before you, his impression twisted and manipulated your features. You were certain that you no longer resembled the person you had seen in the morning, certain that the anger's hold over you was turning you into a monster or metal. Self-disgust again. But total self-disgust is an almost peaceful destination.

Craning your chin upwards, reluctantly letting your eyelids fall back, your awareness shifted over the face before you. After everything, your continued search for testimony of remorse about his features was laughable. Miserable. You wanted a suggestion that he had been leveled by acts of cruelty, something that proved he didn’t want to do what he had done. And yet, this time...

Something in him had ended, visibly. He was contained and still, there and not there all at once. He gazed down at you, in quiet awe; the mirror of when Nines had caught a glimpse of a rare white thunderstorm as it shocked a nearby planet with vaporizing ammonia-rich clouds.

He was passive, experiencing true silence after years of continued noise. It felt, as ludicrous as you knew it would have been to say it out loud, as if the Commander had left and a different person had stood in his place. Someone softer, gentle. Someone deeply afraid.

You saw what you assumed couldn’t exist. And it was beyond unsettling. You saw a man that could have well tried to scour blood from his hands in the same way you had seen yourself trying to chase away the heat of his touch with the freezing tap water. You saw, of all things, futility. Total annihilation of the self.

What happened to you?

The heroic thing would have been to take advantage of the lull, continuing what you had tried to accomplish in the first place, but the once overpowering urge to hurt him had ripened and rotted.

Hypnotically, the folded cage of his bones generously heaved and pushed the heavy robes as if they were entirely weightless. Filling his lungs with the scent of you, a semblance for a type of closeness you had no desire to establish, he languidly blinked. Still close, still touching. Understanding what? The intimacy of a kill, maybe, his only comparable experience...

Yet, his chest rose and fell, and rose and fell just as anyone else would have.

With a slow crawl, you moved the hand that had been raised with intention downwards. Slowly, steadily, as if he would snap back to himself if you were too quick. Denying separation, his grip resisted letting go and followed, allowing you to lead.

His dark hair, hardly matted at all by the helmet— or wig, fell around his face in soft crescents. Constellations threaded across his face. His bottom lip fell open from the soft pout he had been holding. With great anticipation you waited for him, appearing to be on the verge of speaking, words perpetually on the tip of his once-diabolical tongue.

He pleaded, almost inaudible even at your terrible closeness, “Help me.”

Heartsick and bloodguilt. Exhaustion.

Each time his eyelids snapped closed, they would flicker open to reveal how unstable the conflagration had become. His eyes flecked with reddish gold— were they before?— were glazed and opaque.  The inferno was quiet. How he broke apart before you, how it unnerved you to watch the constant become inconsistent.

Kylo Ren could never be attached to such familiar desperation; he took such careful attention to be above the nuances of liability. And yet, now to your great disbelief, something had seized his body in a merciless grip. Something was forcing him to be— human.

Your hand.

It’s me.

And then, quickly, the words tumbling with urgency, “How do I help you? What do I do?”

Brow creasing, he took up his bottom lip with his teeth, having heard you or heard himself. He wanted to say, but refused to. And his refusal to elaborate would prove to haunt you later.

Feeling his grip on you slowly come loose, you tried to coax more out of him, ”We shook hands, remember?” Pressuring more, unsure if even you believed it as you said it, “You can trust me.”

Then, you were afraid to speak again in fear of shattering it, or being detected by what waited beneath. Thinking to yourself the same phrase in slow repetition, afraid of speaking, you assumed he was still inside your head.

We made a deal and I’m going to help you.

He looked from you, down to the bridge of your arms. You mirrored his movements as if it would grant you sudden clarity of his thoughts. Though free to pull away, being no longer restrained, you feared to do so at the risk of waking him. The spitting Commander would never be transparent, which made it critical neither of you let go until he was absolutely clear.

If you need something from me, tell me now.

Negotiating, as if to free a hostage. As if to say— Tell me now before I loose you, this you, to the other.

You had to know and it was no more complicated than that. You didn’t have the nerve to keep playing his dangerous, bloody game. Standing idly by while bodies piled up, tending the flames as they grew and licked your vulnerable skin. You came close enough to the black hole to feel it wrench you in, inch by dreadful inch.

"I can’t..." An orison, not to be broken by a voice above a whisper. He fought to say so much.

He was a flare of nostrils and twitching jaw framed by the stiff collar. Fighting for it or against it, you couldn’t be certain. You felt your eyes pleading– oh by the Eternal, don’t let go, I don’t understand yet– but still, softness turned sharp.

Once more, the monster exhaled and flowed again. Pulling his hand back, he straightened into his full height. Metal again, the mask was redundant. You became the opposite. Shrinking, diminishing in vain.

Unblinking and unholy, his whole body shuttered though mangled breaths.

The sudden flap of his heavy robes as he moved about solidified both his want to avoid your now unbearable presence and his determination to leave you without exchange; you and your questions that required a forgotten language to reply in. Facing his frayed cowl and cloak, both dripping down his spine, his voice was low and tethered to lungs that struggled to respire calmly.

He simply refused, in any form, to exist calmly.

“This changes nothing,” a ragged exhale which severed your thought, masterfully concealing his own terror for the matter. Terror for what his intention had been, and where it had taken him. Terror that he was not strong enough to separate what he wanted from what he had to do.

You cried out after him, your voice cutting the air, “So, that’s it?” His reply had been more than unsatisfying. It was a catastrophe. “You asked me for help. I think I deserve to know why.”

He refused to acknowledge that you had said anything. Though, he had stopped moving for a fraction of a moment, poised before the entrance of his quarters.

You fiercely stared at the back of his head, wondering if he was capable of feeling the daggers; your emotions, the burden of confusion and irritation, were so heavily dependent on him as everything had become. "None of this makes sense. I need answers."

His refusal to answer you was apparent only when he fully cleared the frame, allowing the hatch to shut coldly behind him, without consideration of what you had asked of him.

Wait, you can’t do this. You can’t leave me out here like this.

“Hey!” Marching back to the room you had earlier come flying out of, your knuckles scraping against the entrance, “Tell me what’s happening!” Which maybe wasn’t the most informed decision, but you wanted to catch his bluff, believing if you annoyed him enough, he would come roaring out and have to deal with you.

Deafening silence was your only response. You followed it up by knocking slightly harder. Nothing still. A second crescendo, the echo, then the rush of oblivion. Nothing.

You had to keep trying, though each knock only wore you down.

We both know you can hear me.

More knocking, with two hands. Both shook in the air between contact. All visuals and sounds, a cinematic recount of all that he had dragged you though, mantled your brain once again. And just like that, you were a passenger in your body, overthrown by feelings that easily overthrew you.

Pathetic! Just open the door!

You kicked the door, scaring yourself with the tremendous sound of your boot hitting the surface. After momentary shock subsided, you kicked again with added gusto. Malediction numbed your toes to the stinging that you should have felt; the anarchic release healed faster than any traditional therapy you would have unquestionably needed. You knew he couldn’t ignore you– not like this, not for a second. Each strike was validation of your presence— I know what I saw and you can’t hide.

You knew there was a real person somewhere underneath all the armor. You wanted this to reach him.

Switching back to your fists, feeling the burden of exertion, you slammed your dominant hand into the door. You couldn’t feel it anymore, yet you carried on. Each punch chipped away at the feeling that had overtaken you, until you your heaving chest was the only strong sensation left. One last strike, your open palm against the door giving a final pitiable resonance.

Leaning forward in exhaustion, your forehead met the surface. Before anything else, it was cool to the touch and inadvertently dulled the headache you had regained consciousness to.

How am I supposed to help you? Huh? I don’t want to see more people die just because you’re afraid of anything that can’t be solved with “recreational murder.”

On another plane of existence, someone cleared their throat. “Are you quite finished?” The saturation of near-boredom, a seen-it-all tedium at your sudden outburst that had not fazed them in the slightest.

Without pulling your head away or anything of the sort, you spoke to assure him you were aware of his presence, “General. Nice to see you again.” Now in your slight breathlessness, speaking was strange. Is that my voice? Have I always had this voice?— as if, suddenly you were briskly unfamiliar with the nuances of conversation. Your focus was still wound around the intention of breaking the door down.

He made no effort to say more. You felt his eyes on your back, as if, he was only truly quiet because you had not turned to face him. A dull, throbbing ache in your palms, like laughter at numbness that should have came in all your madness but didn’t, caused you to wince and abandon diplomacy. In a voice twice as severe as you had intended, you finally asked, “What?”

What could you possibly want now?

Offended horribly at your one word reply, his lips compressed into a fine line before the indignity carried forward, “Well! By all means, let’s be causal.”

Due to the circumstances, events occurring just before his presence, you could do nothing but discard him as a badly timed inconvenience. On some level, he must have understood or appreciated that, as no serious precaution was served except his chiding.

If you had looked, you would be right to assume he had been standing as rigidly as always. Parade rest, spine in impeccable, irritating alignment. His intense eyes tapered in distaste, “You know how it thrills me to have our conversations.”

It’s mutual. Trust me.

“Did Ren teach you all that? The destruction of my base?”

You finally pressed away from the door, standing independently of its support. It seemed worth something to deny what he had just said, but the desire left you. The headache prevailed.

The General surveyed your movements, suggesting without further pause, “I think it best that we go for a walk.” Noticing you physically recoil at his seemingly ill-timed suggestion, he clarified with gratuitous and revolting sarcasm, “Of course it is because I find myself so charmed by you and the destructive habits you’ve picked up that I would like nothing more than to take a causal stroll with you. It is most certainly not in relation to the fact that a certain supernatural menace can still hear us should he choose to listen.”

You turned your head, looking over your shoulder towards the still-shut hatch behind you. There was enough conviction in the General’s voice for you to momentarily believe the door had opened as he spoke.

Even if you were to move away from his quarters, as far as you were concerned, the entire base was to close. If the General had only suggested a shuttle off the ice planet, then you would have had something to look forward to.

You began moving towards the General before something urged you to look back. You peered over your shoulder, once again, but not towards the hatch. After Captain Phasma had left Kylo Ren alone with you, he had pulled his helmet off and left it on the ground. It sat, seemingly forgotten, a severed head but an ominous presence all the same. Turning your gaze over it, you had pieced together why he had brought you back to his quarters in the first place. He had to change out of Matt’s blood speckled uniform to his standard shell. Killing the trooper in a public area was reckless enough, though giving up his disguise in the process would have dismantled both the plan and contract.

You reached back to the moment where FN-2199 had picked up his deactivated lightsaber, plotting to throw it in the trash compactor. Perhaps it was the tremendous weight of stress, but you finally laughed, as if the mere sight of it were a joke. It was a severely delayed but you were helpless all the same to hold back.

Maybe I should... For Nines sake...

“Oh, leave it,” the General commanded, pressing a hand to his temples.

As you quieted yourself, a sly roll of your eye came out of instinct for the scolding, though, you quickly attempted to pass it off as indiscriminately turning your attention towards ceiling.

His tolerance for you and the situation rapidly thinning, “As you can guess, there are various other matters that demand my attention. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

So, you followed.

He had reverted back into the General’s character, stressing each syllable as if he loved to hear himself speak but for distaste with whom he addressed, “In case you were wondering...“ Faltering, in a very “is it even worth it to mention it” kind of fashion.

Formalities obsolete in dissecting your previous interaction, you asked, blunted, “What?”

“I kriffing saw that.” 

He had felt it. All of it.

Unknown to you was the feast that he had made of your gentleness, of your realization. Unknown to you was how strongly it called to him, such a bright light for one whose presence cast total darkness.

It was all too clear from the other side of the door, how you had taken to the dark, the imprint he had left with you. His body, pressed to the flat of the hatch as it shut, experienced each wave of your limbs colliding upon the surface that separated you. He drowned inside your thoughts; your intentions, to hurt him and then to mend him— all too familiar. He understood the internal division and in each impact, he curved his spine to realign himself against the durasteel barrier, only to feel it all in pious repetition.

Interrupting his devotion, as the waves of his own anger fought useless against him in a weaker vessel, a voice in his brain slithered and burrowed. It should have driven him to his knees. – "Master of the Knights of Ren, have you forgotten who you are?"– It brought so much guilt. The voice knew him, seen all the ugly truths, understanding how he had been easily dissembled in the presence of light.

"Oh, most intolerable... You crumble, you decay. What is the lighter part of a shadow? A partial eclipse is still the dark lifting. Remember your birthright."

Retrieval of all sound became punctuation, the phrase silenced the heartbeat of knocking too, instilling cruel isolation.

All I do is remember.

Crumpled, he pressed his back flat to the wall. The emotional casualty was great and became the cause for panicked breathing, which he fought as he mourned and lamented light. What it was, who he was. It all became a meaningless storm, hissing and hammering at his ribs. All-enveloping, washing him away. Feelings, which he had ignored for so long, they had begun feeling more like open wounds and less like anything else.

He shut his eyes tightly against all thoughts. He killed to tame this and had done so before and many times over. He killed and watched them burn, curling into dust and ash. And he would keep them, to remember what they made him into. To see them as they should be seen. But they didn’t need to be kept. Well, of course they did. 

Curling his lip, allowing a contortion of his expression, he was damped in humiliation. His eyes had become wet. He passed a gloved hand over his inflamed cheeks, along the bones of his skull, pulling tears away.

As long as there were others, like you, flaunting what he had learned to live without— the light, you keep coming to me, not I to you—  he would feel this pain. He would be tempted, and he would be weak.

Unsure if hearing it would calm or further provoke his mind, your name slipped past his lips. Nothing interjected in response, the voice in his head fails to spawn, shutting him into silence. Your name was hard to say, it came out as a wreck of sound and shivers with his hands sliding over his scalp, to secure fistfuls of hair. He knew without being told that he should have killed you long ago. The others. But FN-3181? What was his excuse for failing his own cause?

He slid down the wall until he met the ground, his mind stretched thin. Both tears and sweat had inundated, as they rolled down his face. Ache settled in his palms. He was weighted to the spot, sinking into the stone beneath, struck by the pain of one side clawing back to the other. He had never felt closer to light, yet, howled like a wolf to the lonesome moon.

“Do not let this momentary lapse be your end. They will test you, you must not succumb to it.”

The voice could feel how he had faltered; he would prove that it was only a misstep. As if the words had primed him, he was impervious to the virus of fault and shame. He would allow no second longer to sit, pathetic and weak, licking his wounds. A certain relic would anchor his focus; he would return to the Finalizer immediately. Meditation, centering. The list of names of those who evaded his might was growing considerably. Rumination would make everything simple again.

Slamming a fist on the release panel to open the hatch, he moved to collect his helmet as it patiently waited to return to him, imperially securing it over his head. Though he had not intended to, he stopped first to admire the plane of the door as it shut and locked. You had left no mark for the untrained eye but he saw what no one else could.

The modulator twisted his scoff, an ingot cast with the likeness of a snarl, “Do you see what you've done? Do you see who you can be?”

#kylo ren #matt the radar technician #general hux #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 8.)

Your ears filled with the sound of blood rushing around your system, ambushed by your own survival. Your heart stubbornly beat, braying “I’m alive, I’m still alive.“ The mantra again.

Being hedged in hyperreal conditions, the entire hallway before you swirling and reducing, you solidly resented your withstanding of the Commander’s folly versus your utter intolerance for mundane tribulations. How was it that you could face him, and yet, be completely incapacitated by something as harmless as artificial gravity? The paper-tiger of recycled air was quietly humiliating but not important enough to hold your attention for long.

Somewhere after the trauma of the confrontation, your mind struggling to process where you were and what to do next, you were stolen by memory. Imagining ribbons of light, the weak halo of a setting sun threaded around familiar buildings. A sight you hadn’t seen in a long time.... And the sounds, the sudden, jarring howling of the three-eyed wolves, territoriality prowling outside the city’s limits. You felt familiar desolation; wind whipping belts of early night air across your body, slinging through the street.

This was home. And the visual alone would have been enough to stun you into a swooning halt if you had not been merely passing though. The memory played out, regardless of your want to stop and explore, feel, remember.

An itch of earth and its invasive presence in your eye made you press your palm to your face, viciously trying to kill the sensation. Even so, it persisted and you became offended at the sound of your eyeball rolling around its socket, more so, offended at the somatic, clear recollection of such a minor detail.

In trying to clear your vision from the dust or dirt, you had absently crossed a number of corners, eventually ending up stumbling into a vendor who was open after curfew. A blaster was held against the slant of their forehead, perspiration falling like tears from their brow. You had heard them plead for their life. “Take everything, just don’t hurt me. I have a family that depends on me. Please, I need to go home tonight.”

Scraping of your feet over gravel on the rock-strewn boulevard alerted both figures of your presence. You spoke without considering for your own safety, warning the robber to leave. Between your accidental witness and the merchant’s confessional, the one holding the firearm pulled the other back by the collar, only to slam the stock of his weapon across the shop owner’s skull before escaping.

You watched, with irritated eyes refusing to shut and watering from strain, no suggestion of guilt on robber’s face. It would have bothered you regardless of understanding the frequency of larceny; theft soured and wounded your people, but leveled the economic playing-field. The punctured systems on your home-planet, made worse by neglect from the senate, needed overhauling but were left to be run into the ground. Citizens created their own laws, their own policies. In the end what you had seen was merely two strangers brought together by unfortunate incidence. Both parties had only done what they had to do, in dreadful synchronization, playing their parts.

Though it was fuzzy in comparison, your vision loosing detail and vibrancy, you had remembered seeing the vendor again after the sun came up the following day. They store owner had nursed their injury with a damp cloth, but remained open for business. It was clear that if you had not been there the previous night, they might have not been there in that moment either.

And though your mind could have taken you back to any night, you understood why you had drawn back into that moment in particular. That was the closest to death you had ever been. The vendor’s fatal outcome had been just a tease. Until just moments ago, death was different. A concept. People passed away behind closed doors, or in alleyways you neglected to walk through. Death was statistic. It had a schedule and it was silent otherwise... Had.

The Commander proved otherwise, with disturbing satisfaction. Death wasn’t the end of regrettable cause and effect. It was a choice.

Lo, at this, Starkiller began to register once again in one nonrepresentational fusion that slowly evolved into lucidity. The Commander’s outburst had happened so fast— so seemingly incompletely— it felt as if it had not been possible. Except there was confirmation. A few paces ahead of you, the origin of a still-smoldering helix, a singular smooth thread winding away from you. Unplanned and undecided in direction, the trail his lightsaber carved into the gleaming obsidian tile of the floor and over the partial stone wall, partial opposing durasteel fortifications.

You could have stayed locked in place for the rest of time, indefinitely, but your feet moved you forward as if you had been unknowingly standing on a conveyor belt. Only after you began to move were you were assembled with the will to keep going. Something in you wanted to follow and that something told you he couldn’t hurt you. Not yet. Even if were only temporary, you understood that much.

But knowing he wouldn’t hurt you was not the same assurance of knowing he wouldn’t hurt someone else.

Careful not to directly step on it, only over or close to, you followed the still-blazing channel, preserving the impossibly delicate atmosphere. The path unpredictably swayed and staggered from the center. Hints of red oozed through the line; still luminous, still alive and breathing. The base hemorrhaged under his vandalism. It carried on and on, twisting changing direction. Until, all at once, meeting a divergence in your path, there was nothing left to follow.

In illusory silence, you allowed for adrenaline to take you. You were breathing hard and fast, to the point of it hurting. Air scraped your lungs and throat. You imagined FN-2187′s simultaneous terror and delight as he liberated himself from the First Order. You imagined he felt similar to you in this moment. And so it was this same recognizable flicker, which for just long enough, enabled you to keep moving.

A dislocating, bloody echo reverberated in the tight corridor, to your horror, seemingly coming from every direction until it obscured in decrescendo. He had someone, someone was in his grip. You embraced your senses, firing madly in response to find the origin, pulling you to make a decision.

This way.

The heaviness in the atmosphere only intensified. Following a slight curve, you noticed multiple short, glowing lacerations carved out of the surface of the wall. You imagined how his prey would have been washed in spark, as they tried fiercely to create distance and he only reminding them how agile and unforgiving his weapon was. He was keen to prove his dexterity, that he could hunt and masterfully so. Each score along the surface was self-indulgent, as if he were a painter and they were brushstrokes on a canvas.

His masterpiece... Looming through his own shadow at careless rapture, a rat caught in his trap.

The rest of the hallway slipped away from you into blackness. With the crunch of broken clari-crystalline underfoot, directly overhead laid a strike along the bulkhead, still weakly glowing. You considered if he had either in madness purposely bust the lights or, if in the heat of the moment, done so coincidentally. The tar-thick blackness slowing your steps, you took in the scene before you, only backlit from the next closest light source.

You could interpret what must have been the silhouette of a body, slumped over and lifeless enough though otherwise sheathed in shadow. If the condition of the path behind you or the sound they made, was of any hint, they were remarkably mutilated. In that moment, you were almost thankful that you couldn’t see the person in full clarity. Still, in knowing that someone had been attacked so savagely, so completely, and you could not— did not— stop it from happening made you 

That could have been me.

A voice in your head screamed— it should be. Then a thought— what about Zack and Nines? How possible it was for the body to be either of them you did not know, yet the chance alone was enough to tamper with you.

Met with overriding concern for the identity, in approaching, you fought to move against merciless trembling. Your adrenaline lied to you, telling you that you capable, able to keep pushing through, that you had not met your threshold when you were already spilling over....

You were only aware of the weight of another figure as you began moving. Matt, only marginally more illuminated than the silhouette with back facing you. He looked over his shoulder as you came closer. The catharsis of slaughter had centered him, contained him. No ripple of anger or sadness twisted the air. Nothing at all. Dead before you, in a way.

Beginning to back away, you felt your knees loosened from under you, refusing to keep you standing straight. Whatever shred of bravery you fiercely held vaporized on recognition. You were leached of every feeling be it good, bad, or otherwise. Your balance was thrown and your body could no long stay vertical.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.” He almost sounded gentle.

You’re thermal. Completely mad.

Without any forethought at all, you spoke. Anger. Confusion. Words like water, spilling out, “How could you do this?” But the words were your last exertion.

Pressure collected behind your eyes, your chest tightened up until it seized completely. You knew you had fallen but hadn’t felt it.

His voice infiltrated your mind before the final eclipse of consciousness, as if spoken from behind his mask, “This is who I am.”

A phase uttered for whose benefit?

As you revisited awareness, slowly dripping back into your body and stretching your aching limbs, everything beneath you felt far too soft to be the floor that you had fallen upon before the world slipped away. On top of the obvious, you were akin to a splitting headache and a severe loss of time. You had no bearings on how long you had been out for.

Breathing slowly, you took in an unfamiliar scent that poured out of the surface you found yourself on. Dark and opulent, it was a smell that you couldn’t place. While it was alien to your senses, it was too luxurious and subtle to be either pungent or foul in ways that would encourage additional squeezing from the vice you found your head inside.

Where am I?

Slowly adjusting to the lack of light, natural or artificial, you squinted as if to collect details of your surroundings. The entire medical wing had bright fluorescent lights and was thickly perfumed by bacta containers and ointments. Where you woke up, here, was lacking that curative stench. The cells, your second guess, were cold and hard. Here was temperate, more or less comfortable provided you were not so confused.

Pulling yourself to sit up, you were confronted with an extensive viewport though it served as no aid as the sun had rolled away from view and the firmament of starless, cold space had filled it. Sighing, your mind unthawing still from blacking-out, your head preserved an emptiness too; no thoughts loud enough, no stars bright enough.

It was then when you heard the Captain’s voice from behind you, the glossy silvered speech her helmet produced. Twisting in the spot, your eyes following along the wall, you were alerted to a very slight crack of illumination from a door left ajar. Two shadows crept about.

Even with the helmet on as it always was, the Captain's emotion was clearly identifiable. She spoke, her tone punched with grief, “... Commander, it is no secret that the General finds your behavior repugnant. I understand you know this. I wish I did not have to repeat myself, not after the last time..."

The last time... Was that the Lieutenant Colonel's son?

"I understand that you do not share our grievances. I pray that you will recognize the troopers are assets, not living instruments  for you to do with what you wish." She paused at length before continuing, "FN-3181 slaughtered like the enemy... ”

You had paid close attention until she mentioned an unrecognizable serial number. Relief was selfish but warranted; it was neither FN-2199 or Lieutenant Colonel Zack.

The Captain's voice found you again, “—Although you had destroyed all surveillance units in your path, I understand there was a witness to this incident. I don’t suppose I will enjoy your reply but can you tell me what has become of them?” Displeasure was saturated in each word; it was apparent that she did not enjoy following up on such an incident. The General was likely tangled in damage control— or having heart palpitations.

You remembered at the Captain saying so, as to why he had dragged his saber as he moved. Matt had intentionally busted all surveillance equipment in his frenzy. He had seen the error in his prior mistakes, eavesdropping as General Hux addressed you with incriminating footage and creating a remedy.

You waited for a reply from the Commander. It was indicative that you were the subject of the question, being the witness she asked about.

His voice, first stalled, then bent by the helmet came with much respite. He responded, “They fainted."

Phasma scoffed, her voice still sharp, "Of course they did, Commander. They were spectator to your evisceration. Is there a second body I need to have cleaned up?"

He had been bitter from holding his tongue, impossibly allowing her to say what she wanted before responding, "I didn't hurt them."

And then, they were both quiet. For a moment.

"Where are they now, sir?" She asked, the tone in her voice easing up.

Well, I'm here. Wherever that is.

"There." His shadow gestured, moving in the strip of light, "Recovering."

"In your quarters?" Incredulous. Understandably.

So began the fermentation of realization. Beneath you, not just a soft surface, but the Commander of the First Order’s bed— that monster’s sleeping space. Shaking as you stood, knees betraying you and buckling like a newborn deer trying to maintain their footing as you returned to your feet. You were mortified at the realization and needed to move. Anywhere. Just as long as it were fast.

Shaking your head free of thought, you understood what had to come next. There was no opportune moment to make a break for it and like an escaping animal, a bird with clipped wings trying to fly away, so were you a swirl of panic and feathers as you moved towards the corridor to pass the bodies that hung about it. Flight response activated, you were a tangle of limbs and cold sweat.

"See, Captain. Very much alive." Each word a growl, impudent and insulting. As if he had meant to say— alive, for now.

With a sweep of an arm, the Commander's hand closed into fist, grasping nothing but air behind you. He had anticipated you running and to his own annoyance, he was right. You froze in the spot the second his fingers curled to his palm. Pleated sleeve returning to his side, he looked to the Captain. Recognizing instantly she was on the fringe of another uncomfortable situation, she evacuated the stretch with her cape swinging grievously in stride.

He waited until she was far enough away to advance. The sound of his steps, heavy boots pressing into the floor, would have made you shiver provided your body wasn't taken over. As he made his way over, he had fluidly begun unlatching his helmet. With the snout-like apparatus unlocking after a sharp click, he revealed the same face you remembered and considering all that had happened, you had expected he would look different. You wanted him to wear shame or guilt, but he had nothing save for the amber varnish over his choleric glare.

“You...” he began to speak but stopped himself. He stepped directly in front of you, so that you could not avoid his eyes. You found him struggling to maintain composure, it ripping through his being and jerking the corners of his mouth. He tensed his jaw reflexively as the hollows of his cheeks filled. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be...” And softly still, he murmured again, “Where did you think you could run ?“

His right palm, the one that had trapped you, secured behind his back as he waited for you to respond in some fashion; to resist his hold over you, try to fight it. You had not been inspired to move. He paced around you in an openly intimidating manner, only stopping as he was at your back so his voice would slip into your ears.

The scrape of the Commander’s exhale along the nape of your neck was not something you would soon forget.

“I’ve been so kind to you.”

Him, not killing you and calling it charitable, was the strangest delusion. There was nothing you could, or wanted to, legitimately thank him for and it was an insult to allow him to believe he was showing you any version of humanity.

Kind? Really? I didn’t notice.

Thinking the phrase, saying it to yourself in your mind, was enough Bitterly, the outrage caught you off-guard as it flared up suddenly like a break on the surface of still water. In a sweep of his arm once again, the gloved hand he had stowed behind his back swung forward. An invisible wave slammed into you, knocking you backwards. Just as he had done to Nines. Involuntary expulsion of air from your lungs was more uncomfortable than your landing, even counting that you had fell hard and tumbled still few paces. He had winded you, badly. You had began seeing white pinpricks in your vision.

On the flat of your back, you gasped until your breathing returned to normal with a hand over your abdomen to physically hold yourself together. Your chest heaved, focusing on restoring yourself to stand up and face him. You managed to look back into his direction, finding him motionless with nostrils flared and lips convex. Your revulsion for him had never been greater.

And even though most words directed to him halted cleanly at your teeth, you knew he was wading about in your head.

Do you really believe you’ve shown me any compassion?

He silenced you again with his rhetoric, eyebrows bending and his expression intensifying, “Do you really believe I have any?” There was a new, slight hysterical quality in his voice. He humored you with an explanation for his actions as he surveyed you from his stance, “I had to kill them.”

“You chose to!” Translating your forethoughts as they came to you, into decipherable sound, there was no taking back what you had said. You seethed, with each word sharp and direct, “You killed them and you didn’t have to. You wanted to.”

There was heat in your palm again, only this time, it didn’t end at your wrist. Drifting out of your body, counteracting gravity. Melding with threatening vibrations of dark matter. Becoming someone, or something, that matched the hate pouring out of him.

And he watched, with great dilatation to his pupils, recognizing the anger that began to possess you. Glazing over, he spoke slowly, “I wanted to know what would happen.” He clenched both fists, provoking you once more, “Do you want to hurt me? Will that undo what I’ve done? Is that justice? Tell me.”

The murder of FN-3181 was unlike the systematic casualties you came to expect. Troopers would be sent out on missions, fractions would return and that you understood. This, however, was personal. And deeply so. For whatever reason, their slaughter was a performance; he wanted it to mean something to you.

And— it did.

It all fell out of your control. The anger choked you, inhibiting rationale. What was logic to you then? A ghost? Some meaningless restraint that would have constricted you, bound you into stillness. Quietly, expertly, he brought to surface the very worst in you. You fought against the burden of joints and limbs, launching yourself forward and towards him. Suddenly, yes, you wanted to hurt him— I’ll tear that smug look off your face for what you’ve done— acting in retribution for the selfish act he had commit.

But, in feeling each fraction of your premeditation, as he had, you were caught in the space between him and you. Reflexively, he restrained you by your wrist. His leather-wrapped hand splayed over your skin, clutching tightly onto you to secure and prevent you from any further movement.

Each finger was like a splash of acid. His face paralleled your own, eyes both searing and cruel.

You had begun to change, becoming reckless. Primitive. Instinctual. He was eroding you, revealing you. What you could be, what you wanted to be.

#kylo ren #matt the radar technician #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic #matt the radar technician x reader

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 7.)

Bending each finger across the bench that you sat upon, you knew dreams lacked acute sensation like that of the responses you had then, and so you couldn’t have simply imagined the moment happening. The surface of your seat, the interaction with an object in reality, only served as a reminder that you had been fully awake, even as you wished that you hadn’t been.

And if that hadn’t been eventful enough, for the Lieutenant Colonel to support FN-2187′s escape, it had happened so candidly in the disguised face of the infamous Commander of the First Order. You had expected that if you were to so much as blink, you would soon see Lieutenant Colonel Zack flat and lifeless on the floor. Instead, he continued to stand next to the bench in his wrinkle-free uniform, flushed with life with his outlawed words and thoughts.

The Lieutenant Colonel’s sentiment held accidental gravity. Compassion for the turncoat was incriminating enough. Information about the matter you had been contracted to supply all but jumped right into Matt’s lap without provocation. What concerned you most about what they admitted to, was how both Nines and the Lieutenant Colonel had made themselves into outlets; both corporeal and soft. They had become something to shake or tear, kill; “toys” for the hell-hound, who bore his teeth as his strong jaw snapped shut.

And even if you assumed prying further into either of their heads would be devoutly meaningless— To look for what? They were friends, that doesn’t explain anything!— Your sudden desperation became quickly fascinating to him, he who cocked his head in curiosity. Matt had caught the scent of something.

In all this, the Lieutenant Colonel took a seat at the bench beside Matt, who hardly flinched at proximity of his mark. Neither looked effected by the other. You looked at Nines and his flaring nostrils. Lids high over his nebulous eyes, alert and awake. Closing his mouth to chew, cheekbones tensing, he opened his mouth between bites to speak— though about what, you did not know and could not comprehend. It should have felt normal, and it would have if Matt had not been there. Danger prowled about the table, silently testing you and them.

Leave them out of this...

You slipped from his interest, momentarily; the one thought you had in privacy which had been meant for him was left to echo in your skull.

Matt leached what he could from both your familiars, as they ate and carried on, becoming intimately familiar with Nines and Zack by his heinous privilege of telepathic invasion. Their minds, exposed and laid bare, were exhibited for his private viewing. And he sifted through, ungraciously, as if a mundane task. Granted, if you invade enough minds, over time, it may feel like a trivial chore. You may become bored by the patterns imprinted in the subconscious; how everyone appears to have the same motivations, an identical web of fears, trauma, and pleasures. Our secrets, however...

Shuddering of his broad shoulders, restricted in the green-grey boiler suit, gave the impression that he could have been detaining a laugh. He had found something. Something of significance, something you had accidentally lead him to. He wouldn’t mention, sickly enjoying his game too much, but it was then when he had learned more about them than you could have ever anticipated knowing yourself.

Of course, it would have been a very different story if you had known.

Just next to you, Nines balancing a forkful of lukewarm soypro on his utensil as he served a beam at Lieutenant Colonel Zack, who uncapped a crimson thermajug. A light burst of steam billowed over his face. The comforting astringent aroma of caf drifted around, looping through the air. They both laughed, warmly and without moderation.

It all felt like they too, like the interstellar dust, were just beyond transparisteel which separated you from everything in the cosmos. It felt like Matt had built a partition by coming into your life, leaving you trapped on one side, looking into your old life, tapping uselessly on the pane.

With your rib cage tight around your lungs, Matt’s eyes looked down yours again. You both observed each other, he as much as you, while remaining unknown to the rest of the table. Under his unbroken stare did he assure himself that you understood how he relished your momentous discomfort. Detectable pulsations under his skin, both of the tension and lessening of the muscles that wove around his arms and neck, became swallowed by his otherwise tomb-like composure. Impossibly, he was lunacy and serenity all at once.

“Tell me,” his voice was low but not without saturation of aggression, "How well do you think you know them?" He was speaking directly to you, FN-2199 and the Lieutenant Colonel impervious to his sounds and expressions; both were absorbed in conversation with one another.

Your lips trembled, a blockade for your voice. The obvious disguise of the radar technician did nothing hide the presence of the Commander. Your head went into overdrive, scrambling to respond in some fashion.

I know they haven't done anything.

“Are you sure?” He broke eye-contact to look upon his hands, turning them over so his palms faced up. The veins in his wrists and forearms flared. Returning his gaze to witness the dilatation of your pupils in horror, his voice met you once more, “Perhaps they have... But they kept you out of it...”

Kept me out of what? Why?

His fingers twitched, followed by the corners of his mouth. Sudden resentment bunching within him, perhaps, in some way further annoyed by what he had seen. His eyes became far-away, speaking as if he was translating a text or trying to remember, "So you... so you wouldn’t get caught if it all fell apart... But, why you? Why should they care so much about you?"

It was then when your mind began to wander away from you and you felt his intrusion inside your skull. Pressure and static; he was searching for something again. You griped at the bench, your totem of reality— still awake, horrific.

Did you forget this is about FN-2187 and not them? They haven’t done anything but exist around you, that alone seems to be offensive enough.

But still he persisted only to speak in a soft, broken pattern as the pressure behind your forehead increased, "And they exist... only because... I’ve allowed it."

The ache again. The unbearable stimulus of your mind pulled apart by his hands had become the only sensation you could register. You would have said anything for it to stop— but as if on cue, your palm felt warm once more.

The pain— all pain— immediately disintegrated, leaving him with nothing, save for a bewildered stare from across the table. Feeling the courage to look, to gaze upon him in such a moment, there was an impression about him closely reminiscent of fear.

You were undecided if it was more terrifying to see him intoxicated by his own power or to see him look scared, even if it was vague and buried. Even so, you waited for his habitual rage to take him over but it never came. Somewhat miraculously.

As if their voices could finally reach you, breaching whatever wall Matt had built around you, FN-2199 pulled you back into the security of conversation. Electricity in his eyes, he almost chattered as he spoke, “Zack says they’ve seen FN-2187 and the droid.” Though it should have been obvious, you weren’t sure with what voice he was using, "He's still alive."

Staying mostly focused on Nines, with your eyes momentarily flickering over to Matt, you were shocked at how remarkable it was that none of your exchange had registered in the two. In your best ability to remain natural, all things considered, you spoke slowly in contrast to his buzzing, “I read that earlier.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?” Exposing more of his indecipherable emotion, Nines pulled poppy red strands of hair away from his face, hair that was perpetually disordered from his snug helmet. What little skin of his forearms exposed underneath the ivory exoskeleton of trooper’s armor had been raised in gooseflesh.

“Because we don't talk about him,” Almost irritated, you flipped from FN-2199 to Lieutenant Colonel Zack. Neither of their expressions bent into smiles anymore, neither seemed to be fully present. You pressed on, “I didn’t think you, or anyone, wanted to talk about him—“

“Well, we’re talking about him now, aren’t we?” You saw what would have been pain, if had not been for his eyes flickering away from you as he mumbled, “We haven’t talked about Slip either, but that doesn't mean we're not thinking about him...”

This isn’t you. You’re not like this.

A calm voice interjected, “FN-2199, I think we’ve said enough about it all.” Lieutenant Colonel Zack sheepishly looked to you, as if something had been revealed that shouldn’t have been mentioned at all. It was clear from his expression that he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but conciliatory all the same.

Who were these people before you now?

Each had acted erratically and awkwardly at the mention of FN-2187, a name that no one else had said since he freed the Resistance pilot. You expected his name to be spat on or ignored. You had not projected for both men before you to advertise their divided loyalty so plainly, let alone discuss it.

You were left to souse, the awkward extremes the table had revealed. Each person proving different versions from those who they had previously been. Thankfully, before another strange event occurred, the intercom urged you to away.

Without knowing who needed you, and for what, you could not have been more appreciative for the opportunity to leave. With Matt having retreated into himself, so missing were his standard homicidal vibrations. You felt secure in leaving, understanding that no one would be thrown across the room in the approximate time it would take to address the page.

Standing, you announced to the table, avoiding directly meeting anyone’s eye, “Maybe when I come back, we can continue not talking about all this.”

Passing herds of sentry droids, whizzing and chirping around your feet, you wove through the controlled chaos of the trenchant corridors. As your pace inspired deeper gasps for air, the far- flung odor of acid-sharp fuel burnt your nose; feeding time for the TIE fighters. Crossing more channels, the glossy halls masked the previous smells with disinfectants for the gleaming surfaces. Boots squeaked over the lustrous obsidian tiles and fabric rubbed against fabric as uniformed officers scuttled about, under the watchful gaze of their superiors.

Everything was still exceptionally ordinary everywhere you went. Unfamiliar stinging of resentment nestled behind your eyes, bloodshot and wide from stimulation of caffeine and the continuous sense of panic. You made eye contact with an officer, walking past you. Her face cemented, there had been no sign that she had even registered your gaze– nothing. No one knew that you felt the base caving in around you.

No one knew, and maybe worse yet, no one cared.

Your mind turned to the Lieutenant Colonel, guilty in caring for FN-2187 by wanting him to do what it was that he wanted versus what he was programmed to. Guilty, because now, the Commander was privy to the fact that Zack was deeply entrenched in a belief fraught with danger for any to have, but suicidal for a superior officer.

Fast approaching where you had been paged, a lone figure intercepted your path with a great gaberwool coat slung over their willowy shoulders, giving them a broader appearance. Closely circling the chamber, they had been padding over the stretch of the corridor with all the precision of a hungry vulture. You were light enough on your feet as you closed the gap to remain unnoticed but eventually became caught in their peripherals as they moved through their inevitable sequence.

Great. It’s you.

The General grimaced, his posture stiffening once realizing his company, “How nice of you to join me.” That voice– that patronizing tone one, aerating deep condemnation.

The depth of his annoyance was unjust for as far as you were concerned; you let his words fall behind you, faking a pleasant face. To your contrived display of affability, even going so far as to fake your way through the nuance of a smile, he turned his nose up.

Son of a bantha.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” though you weren’t. You stuttered through your enclosed frustration, smoothing your hands over your sides, “What can I assist you with, General?”

He had never directly approached you for anything– ever. This was logical when taking into account how low down the command chain you were in relation. In fact, it was more than startling to see that it was he, and not someone under his command, which had required your attendance. He was far too busy, too vital to Starkiller. Yet, there he was.

“You may assist me with an explanation...” he stretched each word out, resenting having to say anything at all, “...as to why we have evidence of you and the Commander.”

Krif.

A slight pause, as if he correctly inferred you would need a second to process what he had said. “I think it fitting that you explain yourself.”

But, you didn’t want to touch the subject. Not with anyone, especially him. Even as you were faced with the General’s knowledge, you knew you couldn’t have prevented any of it. You assumed that you had moved without being watched. It didn’t strike you as it happened, that you had been observed along the stretch from your office to the destination.

For someone claiming to be a technician, Matt was certainly lacking in fundamental reference of mechanical installations about the station.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You did your best to sell it in as few words as possible.

Bringing a sophisticated datapad to your attention, he showed you the condemning evidence. The holovid had clearly captured the very nature of how things panned out. You wanted to wince, having to witness for a second time, Kylo Ren unleashing a devastating attack.

Oh.

You murmured, without knowing how to proceed, “Yeah, that doesn’t look good...”

I’m dead. He’s going to find out.

“No, it doesn’t look good...” Dramatic in voice, facial expression still thin and cold, the General flinched as the surveillance loop had captured the beast’s flaring temper, defacing the sealed hatch. He pulled the device back and away from your eyes; you had both seen enough. “As General, I believe I have a right to know what is going on inside my base...”

You searched for believable excuses. You would have traded every light in the blanket of the star-sieged sky above if it meant avoiding being stuck in this position that you found yourself in. Everything you could come up with evoked the taste of a lie. He was an exceptionally sharp man, he would know.

As you contemplated, the General appraised your sleepless appearance. Snide, he spoke again before you had the chance, “Although, don’t feel inclined to be too descriptive with me.”

... Did he really just say that?

The insinuation was far beyond the discomforts of your company back in the employee common area; the table you couldn't wait to leave became the table you wished you were still confined to. You quickly decided that the General's mocking tone was comparable to the upper echelon of cruelty.

Your cheeks blistered all shades of pink and red with mortification of his contention. Words clumsily rushed from your throat in defense, “I don’t know what to tell you besides that’s not what happened.”

“Unlike the Commander, I am not able to see into your mind. However, and understand this, I can tell when I’m being lied to.”

Your handshake was more than enough physical contact. If he had asked, or cared, you could make a very long list about things that had more appeal than gratuitous “contact” with the Commander.

“Out of curiosity,” you took a gentle pause before advancing, “Why is this important to you?” A polite version of the alternative: What the brix is wrong with you?

The illustrious plumage belonging to General Hux had been momentously ruffled; he strained to keep his features from displaying anything other than disapproval. “The First Order cares deeply for all suspicious activity concerning minor or major officials...”

But in him saying so, even he had been aware of the sudden flux of desperation in his tone. He plucked the next moment, raising his chin up to appear taller. Then, clearing his throat, he became suddenly fascinated with the cuffs of his military jacket. “We will be watching.”

Great. More eyes on me.

He secured his proud mane before retreating, giving you one small look as he did so. You waited until he disappeared around the opposite corner of the hallway before your thoughts shifted, bypassing the prior indiscretion.

It was hardly a second or two before you were jolted back into full awareness of your surroundings, realizing you had not been alone. Matt had been behind you, soundless and separated by mere paces. None of the signs of his presence overtaking the hallway as they had done previously. The version of fear you identified in him before hadn’t diminished either— amplified, if anything.

Worse still, above the idea that he had been there for the entire conversation, for all the painfully humiliating allegations you both shared from General Hux and all of your internalized responses, was that he had to have followed you after you left. That he had masterfully hunted you, without alerting you of his presence. You only know I’m there when I want you to. He could be lurking around around any corner and you would not know it.

It wasn’t until you had exhausted that thought had you noticed his eyes were uncharacteristically frantic. His right palm rose as his voice, still low and mostly controlled, began to break, “You feel this too.”

Parting your lips, no sound came out. You could feel your tongue and throat, hyper-aware of all your bodily movements, of your lungs pausing and micro-quivers.

Yes.

You knew what he meant. You were only surprised that it wasn’t something you had experienced in isolation. He was also affected, in some way.

He stepped forward towards you, where you instinctively stepped back. His movements were sharper and faster than your own, allowing his face to flit before you. Flecked with distinguishing freckles and marks all across the bridge of his nose, you could make out at proximity how they stretched and finely reached over his temples and cheeks. He would have had such kind features, had they not been constantly locked with tension. Maybe a lifetime ago, he was gentle. Maybe.

But how time had played with him, forcing him to become a twig snapping at the slightest movement— and so much less human all over again. His nose twitched at your thoughts, a subtle tic. Twitching, continuing along his jaw. Ash in his eyes, lost in rapture.

He moved closer again, yet still without touching any part of you if it were even possible. You could feel warmth swirling around him as he spoke; not friendliness, more like smoke, miserable and ominous. “It follows me.”

Before you now, he was bare in disastrous flesh and blood and bone. His chest heaved, up and down, breaking his concentration only to examine his hand under the light hanging above him. He spoke again, washed with further frustration, “I should be stronger now, able to resist the pull... And yet...”

Growling, aching. Unbroken eye-contact returned to you, daring you to look away.

You attempted to have a voice again, profoundly stuttering, words hanging to your teeth, “What are you talking about—“

Louder, almost shouting, pulling back from you by a step, “What have you done to me?”

I don’t know!

I just, don’t know...

He looked disgusted, pulling back further, as if you should have had answers. You were reminded of his spontaneous combustion; the clang of his hand as it smashed into thick durasteel, the depressions along the surface...

By the time he spoke again, you were dizzy. His voice was nauseating. Pointing a finger, as if to mark your third eye, you could feel him pin you to the spot. You knew he was using the last of his restraint to keep his voice entirely level, sound pulled from his evil throat. “I’ll show you what you’ve done.”

Don’t. Please.

You felt severed from your body, while he in contrast, he only grew in height.

“I will show you. I want you to see.” He was wild-eyed, pupils expanding and swallowing his irises. Howling, fully devoured by madness, “I have power, I have control. You have nothing."

He lied to himself. While he had admittedly a great deal of power, he had little control over it. And you knew it each time he opened his mouth.

His arms remained limp at his sides, in stark contrast to the veins running over his skin, fully inflamed. He held his voice steady for a final time, snapping with animus, "You will bow to me, not burn me. ”

Walls crumbled. The floor gave away.

Primal, instinctual rage filled the gap between where you stood. Tugging at the hilt of his saber, secured within his technician’s disguise, the unstable blade shot forward with diseased enthusiasm. Hissing and spitting, sparks jumping along the surface, contained within the plasma in waves along the cutting red edge. Crackling filled your ears, that of an inferno, as all of space and time bent away from his body.

You shut your eyes. You couldn’t watch.

This is how it ends.

And it could have been. Instead— he tore away from you and the corridor that bent around you. You heard as he moved, the dragging of the serrated end behind him and how it had caused a terrible discharge of spark in indiscriminate directions. One you had been able to open your eyes, your vision was filled with a slow, flickering down the passage, as he moved father and farther away. The shriek of his weapon, as it carved and cut, grew softer but no less menacing.

Your fragile heart seized as you held your hand to your chest, feeling your turbulent blood and valves snapping as they shut.

By some miracle, you had survived.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic #matt the radar technician #matt the radar technician x reader

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 6.)

Initially sleep had been an attractive idea. Never in your life had you been so scared. The stench of panic, sweat, and other unattractive but glaringly human responses were about you.

I’ll worry about it when I wake up.

Upon returning to your hole in the wall, the barely-adequate private quarters you called your own, was it when your meeting had solidified. It was there where you recognized the collision of anxiety, leaving a deep crater along the surface of your brain. Each thought lead you into invisible walls, where you would stop and freeze, reconsidering questions you had no substantial answers for.

What was all that?

Even still, you had been foolishly optimistic that sleep would find to you. Eventually. But it was only after tossing from one side of the mattress to the other, ineffectually finding no position that would encourage stillness in your brain, did you give up. Yanking yourself free of a cocoon of blankets and collecting your body at the edge of the bunk, you ejected as much worry as you could from your lungs in a deep, heavy exhale.

All too suddenly, sleep was a hopeless commodity.

You were left to pine for the security that a closed hatch would instill with each door-frame that filled and shut at your back. How you had used to take it for granted, how fast had your shelter felt less private. As you looked despairingly to the entrance of your personal quarters, it was evident that the locking mechanism wouldn’t be enough of an obstacle to keep the beast at bay; it wasn’t enough to feel separated from his wildness— his evilness.

As you thought yourself into oblivion, assuming that nothing would save you from the black hole of dread, you began for jumping at every sound. Even the ones you expected. The near silent hum of generators, the rush of warm air careening through the vents. Each clank and beep promised you harm. Fractured as your heartbeat became, sitting still as you had been only further wounded you. Stillness was a cache of nerves, tangled and firing.

Attempting to occupy your hands, hoping your mind would follow, you scrolled through your datapad that sat dutifully in a compartment over your bed. Originally, you had used it to monitor the current status of affairs of your home planet. You used to check, devoutly, for any substantial evidence that conditions were improving while frustratingly wading through a swamp of miscellaneous reports. Over time, the only evidence you had collected was that nothing would change or improve in the near future. So, you had grown all too weary of checking. Stagnation tasted worse than the Finalizer’s recycled air— which was quite a bit, considering how abundantly rich the atmosphere was back home.

That didn’t stop Nines from being envious upon learning of your privilege— the laurels that came with the device. From his reaction— They gave you a what? Can I see it? Please?— you would have handed it over to him if you weren’t sure he would find a way to get it confiscated. And so, as your captivation wore away, so it collected a thin layer of dust, waiting to be useful again.

It was a necessary distraction now, a something to focus your attention so you would stop persuading yourself each set of footsteps in the branching corridor belonged to the person you least wanted to see...

The First Order had restricted and filtered the flow of external information surfacing on the holonet, many sources were blocked outright. You were only permitted to access what they wanted you to see. Any speck of transparency only made you aware of just how much you weren’t sanctioned to see.

Still, you didn’t question why they had such strong censorship. There was unrest, injustice in the moth-eaten quilt of galaxy. It was protection. Having no whisper of small victories by the Rebellion fueled the Order’s association to victory. It was as if, whatever they had lost to the enemy made no lick of difference. As if, it was unworthy of being mentioned. 

Your eyes lingered over reports of heroics and conquest, but your heart felt nothing. You did not inflate with allegiance or enthusiasm. One in particular, about another village raid, spoke nothing about the civilians that it had no doubt impacted. You shifted uncomfortably, imagining if the Commander was involved.

I hope they’re okay...

Moving on, an article specifically concerning FN-2187 caught your eye, who had become insurmountably scandalized after his escape. He was suspected to be with an orange and white BB-unit, as well a girl he had met after crashing into the badlands of some dusty rock, Jakku. You scrutinized what you could before disbanding into thoughts...

I wonder how he did it. He must have been scared out of his mind, especially since he also freed that pilot right from under the Commander’s nose. I guess it was either feel the fear and do nothing, or feel the fear and do something extraordinary.

One idea collided into the next, like snow rolling down the side of a mountain. There was no recognizable disgust at the thought of FN-2187. His “traitorous’ actions, aside from blowing up a large portion of one of the Finalizer’s hangars that you easily chalked up to him being between a rock and a hard place, was at its core due to a decision. A choice he, and all other stormtroopers, should have been allowed to make and not just live with.

Though you asked yourself— FN-2187 isn’t really a traitor at all, is he? — it wasn’t really in question. Not since you had grown to regard freedom, above anything else.

So why doesn’t the Order encourage loyalty to the self? Because the political machine isn’t interested in the people’s freedom. Because as I think this through, there are thousands upon thousands of troopers held captive by their own consciousness... Thousands upon thousands denied the right to make decisions for themselves, not their superiors...  Isn’t freedom why I came here in the first place?

The conclusion was as condemning and terrifying as it was brilliant.

Maybe, just maybe, you would do as the Commander asked of you and uncover how FN-2187 had made his decision. Maybe you could even replicate it. Maybe.

I wonder... I wonder if I could do something... extraordinary.

Your thoughts shattered instantly as you edged your attention down to your hand. Your palm felt warm, as suddenly as ever. You assumed the datapad’s core was overheating inside your loose grip. Absentmindedly, you tossed it aside into the crinkled, unmade comforter.

... Hmm?

But with or without the handheld computer, you had experienced the heat independently. It hadn't been the piece of equipment, but your own bone and tissue. Your mind subconsciously redirected you, as if on sudden auto-pilot, reminding you of your handshake. Your hand in the devil’s grip.

Maybe...

But without any real doubt, it had to have been because of him. The heat in your hand was from touching Kylo Ren. The anxiety you delayed with the datapad all but found you once more, climbing up your body like vines twisting up a wall.

The Commander was nothing if not poisonous.

Gripping the wrist of your affected hand, you stared down at it to study the surface. As your eyes raked over the familiar sight, you noticed no physical difference. There was no tangible evidence to suggest he had done anything to you.

Still, below the surface of the skin, each particle vibrated at an alien frequency. Your entire limb became heavy. Hatred, now freely coursing through your system, originating from your still searing hand.

It was as if he imparted the virus of his temper, as weak as it was. The hate you felt wasn’t yours, peregrine and intense, nothing like the watered down version you thought you knew. It was over-steeped and bitter, enough to fold you in half. And it washed over you, a wave creeping up the shore, then receded back down your arm and into your palm before dying out.

... What, by the eternal, was that?

You thought again, as lucid as you could be in such a moment, of your last coherent thoughts. The spark, hope, once more shocked your spinal column into line. Then, like the cracking of bone, you were readjusted by primitive anger. Terrible swirling hate and heat.

The bottle of Shesharilian vodka you promised yourself for a tough day had no appeal over this. This wasn’t tough, this was slowly bleeding out; this was walking through fire.

You ran your hand under the coldest water you could bear, cupping it in your palm to hold it in place. As you did so, you could have sworn you heard the stomp of the Commander, his unpolished and strangulating movements, as he passed through the arching corridor just outside.

Blinding flashes of white light infiltrated your room, reflecting off the virgin snow outside the slender viewport, along the east wall of your billet. It was always remarkably still along the surface of the planet, especially so with the transparisteel as a perfect insulator to sound. Sometimes you would see troopers trudging along in formation; sometimes the hybrid pines would shiver in the ice winds, as if they too were cold– but never anything more. No stir of life forms or vibrancy otherwise. Industrialization seemed to be effective at warding away whatever prospect visitors you might have encountered, whether it had been intentional or serendipitous.

And even as it would appear that construction kept the land directly surrounding the assembly of colonized structures inhabitable, Nines had once told you that he had overheard a snowtrooper excitedly announcing to others that she had seen deer-like creatures while walking the beat of the garrison’s parameter: elegant things, with long, graceful legs, burnished celestial pelts, and obsidian eyes. You were inclined to believe that he was lying, never seeing any for yourself. Perhaps the natural world held pockets of life yet, but they were kept hidden from you. Regardless, you would love to see them. Even now– though no hoofmark, two-legged or four- legged, had stamped into the snowfall of the outer surface.

Numbers blinking lazily on the chronometer above your bed warned you that your shift was fast approaching. Here was the initiation of a new work cycle about to crash into you, with complete negligence of your discomfort and fear to face what was ahead of you. Time marched on whether you were ready or not.

Your hand had stopped burning just as suddenly as it started. You managed to avoid the triggering thoughts, of mutiny and rebellion, but only just.

Smoothing your hands over your hair, you avoided looking at yourself too hard in the mirror before you. What you saw was less of the face you had expected and more of a caricature of insomnia– glassy eyed with cavernous dark circles. The veins in your eyes appeared rightfully irritated. Your features cycled through a few emotions, under close surveillance to test your expressions. You mustered a smile, which, almost felt like your face being forced in half.

Nope. That’s not going to happen.

It was strange to feel the weight of your facial muscles buckling, as your body refused to comply. You had rarely found yourself overcome in this way, with stress weighing you down in numerous, oddball ways. Stoic and tight, you fought with the sleeves of your standard issue uniform before piecing the rest of your outer shell together.

I’m alive, I’m still alive.

A necessary mantra. You were, and would stay as much– but only if the Commander would keep his end of the deal.

That could change.

It wasn’t often that you would ramble into the employee common area before breakfast was set out; this would be one of those rare occurrences.

Also awake in the early hours, FN-2000, or Zeros as he was known through the FN corps. Plasma lights strung above, hanging from the ceiling, supplemented a soft bronze flush to his rich umber skin. A distinct scar, which he had as long as you had known him, ran the length of his right cheek from eye to jaw. Bringing over two still-steaming cafs, he placed one into your hand and kept the other for himself.

“Morning.”

You were more than happy to be alone with Zeros after the night you spent alone in your head.

There had been no chance to speak with him since FN-2003’s passing, or FN-2187’s exodus, but Zeros appeared to be held together even if only on the surface. You had expressed that you had been sorry for what happened to his squad mates but he was quick to inject with the shake of his helmet-less head, “It’s too bad we had to leave Slip behind on that dirtball. Hell, hopefully FN- 2187 went back to pick him up. That’s the way it goes, isn’t it.” And then he took a sip of caf, unaffected by the heat or simply pushing through it. He knew troopers lived “fast lives” and there was no remorse about him by his acceptance of the role he played to the First Order.

You avoided mentioning either of the names again.

He stayed for more palaver, explaining that he hadn’t been present for the situation pan out between Nines and Matt. “All I know is that he was really shaken up after. He kept saying he was fine but his eyes were like marbles. He must have hit his head pretty damn good when he fell...”

“... Fell?” There was no way that what happened to FN-2199 could be passed of as a harmless accident. He was picked up out of his seat and hurled backwards, after all. Who could glaze over that kind of detail?

Zeros leaned in closer to you from across the table, a hush to his words, “He told me that he thought Matt had something to do with it... Honestly, I thought he was kidding. That new radar technician can’t even rewire a calcinator, in what galaxy can he make things happen with his mind?“

You forced a laugh. It was awkward for you, knowing how your face must have twisted up in some obscene fashion for the sound you made, but Zeros joined in regardless. It was paramount that you denied your belief that Matt was capable of doing anything of the sort, as much as the genuine conversation had quietly begged for your honesty.

With the disintegration of laughter, the room began to swell with bodies and he went to seal his armor with a helmet. On your way for a refill of caf– one being not enough to keep your eyelids from drooping– you caught the technician supervisor chatting and joking raucously with the Lieutenant Colonel. They paused their chattering to ask you how you slept.

“I didn’t.” The long and short of it.

They laughed. Lieutenant Colonel Zack assured you that you still looked approachable, regardless of the faraway expression. Innocent small talk made things seem remarkably ordinary. It didn’t last.

Familiarity of the room evaporated, newly presenting itself as strange and lethal. You could taste cinders and ash, smell burning ozone– Matt. And by the way things ended between you, from the last time you had seen him, you weren’t sure what to expect. The sight of the trademark fluorescent vest alone was enough to send your body into shock. Right next to you: two figures, completely detached from your alarm. You envied them. As he grew nearer, so paralleled the intensity of thumping within your chest. But he simply passed by where you stood, looking through your body as if he hadn’t seen you, save for having the gall to nearly brush up against you.

So, we act as if we don’t know each other?

A lack of sensation took over your limbs, both just outside your control. Gratuitously, he forced you shake your head in an emphatic yes, to which you wanted to shut your eyes at. There was nothing you could do in protest except swallow your silent disgust and bear the feelings of displacement.

By this time, Nines had made himself known. He sat by himself with a tray of food, picking at it with a utensil, disinterested. You slid down in the seat next to him, talking as you did to not surprise him by your sudden presence at his side, “Morning.”

“Hey, I- woah...” he noticed your restless appearance before anything else, “I was about to ask how you are... but I think I can guess.” Appraising the stoic response you served him, he followed up quickly, “I mean– did you get a haircut? You look, um, different...”

You couldn’t fault him for trying. You closed your eyes gently, cradling your head in your hands, resting your elbows over the table, “I feel awful. I couldn’t sleep.”

“You couldn’t sleep? You? Really?” He pushed his food tray away only to use the flat of the tabletop as leverage. Animation that very nearly bordered on desperation inflated his speech, “I almost choked to death yesterday! Plus, let’s not forget, I flew across the room too!” He shook his head and pulled his food tray back as he garbled, “Even still, I slept like a baby...”

Nines was bruised, you saw it plainly across his face under the knot of poppy red hair. You had seen what happened to him, but he hadn’t seen you since then. He felt forgotten or of no great concern to you but either way, it was enough to make you feel guilty. “I’m glad you’re still alive.” Your own sincerity gave you gooseflesh. Matt had prophesied his death and you would just about breathe your last too if that were to happen.

Suddenly his face changed, falling somewhere between a pensive look and vexation. He didn’t mean to make you worry. “It’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of me.” He then laughed, but not without some air of nervousness. Patting a hand to the flat of your back, his face shifted emotions once more, “I’m invincible, don’t you know? If I survived Kylo Ren’s lightsaber, I should be able to survive anything... Right? Including Kylo Ren himself.” He looked at you on tenterhooks, all blue eyes and cheeky grin, lopsided but endearing, as he waited for your approval.

Let’s hope you’re right.

A quiet desperation fell over you as you examined his expression, the face you were so used to

seeing. Why didn’t FN-2199 deserve to know the full extent of what was happening? Why couldn’t he know about the deal you had made? You knew he had nothing to do with FN-2187– at least, you had already decided. It would be harmless, totally harmless. You fought back the words that charged your throat, you wanted to scream and he needed him to know: MATT IS KYLO REN, NINES, DON’T YOU SEE? MATT IS KYLO-KRIFFING-REN. HE’S WEARING A WIG AND GRANNY GLASSES. YOU SURVIVED ALREADY, LET’S GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE.

All that was left in your deck to play were trump cards; now you were forced to use them. “Listen,” the words began spilling out, “I know something that's really hard for me to talk about and I'm not sure that I should say anything– but I need to.”

It was beyond you.

Nines whipped his head to the side; urgency swept his features clean of playfulness. His eyes narrowed, looking directly into yours. Stock and barrel, the moment felt fabricated. His voice was distant, for the very first time, he was grim. He leaned in as he spoke, “If this is about-“

Though you never found out what he was about to ask you, neither did you get your moment to warn him about the technician. A tray slammed down on the table, directly across from you. A hand flew to your chest, in shock.

Curls, just as ridiculous as day one, with the face under the mop smooth and cold by comparison. The scripted, monotone voice of Matt, “Sorry.”

You’re not.

“Shit, man,” Nines buzzed, freed from his seriousness by Matt’s conjuration, “Watch what you’re doing!”

Matt had his finger on the trigger and without a beat he replied, “I’m watching.”

Stars, of course you are.

His stare flickered from FN-2199 to you; your reflexive comebacks only baited his shadowing. A simper maliciously bent his lips as if he found what you had said— thought— was funny. You knew that Nines wouldn’t have been observant enough to catch it while it graced his face, but still checked to see if he had noticed.

There was no avoiding Matt’s incredible hostility, which was especially true once he was directly inside your line of sight. Betraying the monotone character, as if to gloat, he slipped into and out of his act. Constant was his fever, the rage that dripped out around him, filling the room, radiating from his being.

“How’s things?” FN-2199 ignored the tense moment and his own discomfort of being seated across from Matt. With everyone brushing his accusations off, he began to believe them too.

Matt stare matched an interrogator, unblinking and severe. Luckily with Nines being so outwardly ambivalent, he hardly noticed. “What do you know about FN-2187?”

You had been unprepared to hear the serial number spoken so plainly. But so had Nines.

He was motivated, but sloppily; diving in without testing the waters. FN-2187’s name became taboo and was not to be spoken of, especially so when you could be overheard. Just the mention could render you a day or two in the exclusive division of the remedial ward for psychoanalysis.

Do you think he's stupid enough to fall for that?

Nines pushed food around on his plate, his head hanging on his neck just so his hair obscured his eyes. “He’s one hell of a trooper. Was.” He was quick to correct himself.

You refrained from gasping, or any outward displays of shock. Nines fell into the topic, either in stupidity or sheer vulnerability.

There was a subtle flicker behind the lenses over Matt’s eyes. His interest was piqued and you were petrified watching Nines, your closest friend, become a target. Matt was quietly focused, likely tearing through his mind as if it were nothing more than a filling cabinet. Nines was purely a source of information, and by this, also disposable

“I’ve heard you’ve settled right in!”

Lieutenant Colonel Zack.

Matt only grew more interested as you grew uncomfortable by Zack's appearance. He broke his stare with Nines, returning to you. You swore you could hear the velvet of his voice call to you, “What are you hiding from me?” But, he replied to the Zack without the vile, imagined inflection you thought you had heard him use, “I have."

“Matt was just asking about FN-2187,” Nines filled the Lieutenant Colonel in without missing a beat, who straightened his back at the name. The urge to kick him under the table was intense.

The Lieutenant Colonel cradled his chin with his hand. He too needed but a second to act in response, his voice just as steady as you would expect it to be, “He was a good kid. Always was.”

“He was a traitor,” Matt snarled with immediate fury, his monotone breaking. Resting upon the surface of the table had been his hands which then collected into fists with white, quivering knuckles.

“He would have betrayed himself had he stayed here. This was no longer his fight. I’m proud of him for being brave, making his choice and acting on it. Like I said, he was a good kid.”

Your heart sank, fast.

#matt the radar technician x reader #matt the radar technician #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren fanfic

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 5.)

There were no passageways or durasteel fortifications to encapsulate you. There was simply he and you, with what little space offered between your bodies instilling no comfort or assurance. You had considered, several times over, that he might had been leading you to your execution, seeing that he had been present in your mind for the very formation of condemning doubt against your shared political alignment. To be dismantled by his saber or whatever else he felt suitable to the conspirator he had made you out to be.

And though in words you were well-versed for defense— I choose to be here— you knew that lexis alone would not slake the creature. Inside the cowl and under the mask, Death itself waited solemnly. A willing and capable participant.

Reason was windfall, but hardly vital.

He moved with all the grace of a defective automaton, hard and inflexible, with claim to the ground beneath him. Navigating the labyrinth of Starkiller, his head would pivot on his neck before his body would turn into the course; this left you to witness the snout of his helmet, materializing periodically from the shelter of his hood. In preventative measure, from having curiosity pull your eyes and have them linger, you averted indefinitely from looking above his shoulders as you followed in the shadow’s shadow.

If it weren’t for Matt, you wouldn’t have been persuaded that a human being existed beneath the bastion of layers– even if at the time, it felt like a stretch to consider Kylo Ren as such. Submersed in the blackest of inks, each garment shifting independently along his tense frame. Swaying in motion and spilling about, you invested the bulk of your awareness on the robes as he trudged ahead, easily filling your anxious stare. You studied each defect, the tears and singed ends that distressed the full length of his mantle. It proved its age at each blemish, worn in ceremonious extent. Each of his fingers remained curled to his palms, hanging stiffly about his sides.

Inhabiting the corridor was a lethal silence that threatened to be your final perception of sound. It rolled out, your voice soft and breaking after many failed attempts, “I’m not with the Resistance.”

Not yet, at least.

His cape, whipping back in spur-of-the-moment theatrics, fractured the still of the vestibule. “You would be wise to not think these things,” you became reacquainted with the voice of the modulator. His emotionless tone was enclosed with distortion, though devoid of anything else. Anchored before you was the cold exterior of the mask, leaving you to endure a silent examination.

Your awareness was his awareness now, and each reflexive thought had only furthered you into to subterranean depth. Your innocence was becoming unsalvageable, if it had not already reached that point. Mercifully, he wasn’t looking for you to respond, which was only made clear when he began to move once again, leaving you to welter and scramble after him. Condemning your inner monologue for the trouble had only made it jump around with more fever. As you fell back into his magnetic pace, recollection leached your eyes and clouded your vision by trance-like fog. You began to experience a memory without fully meaning to, not considering if he had any persuasion over the matter before you were lost in it.

“You are all here on the right side.”

Training on board the grand tin can of the Finalizer: the antechamber you stood in had been filled with other newly enlisted, all arranged neatly in lines with precise attention. To both your sides, front and back, every body in the room had been dressed in identical spotless static-ground boots and neat, emblematic charcoal uniform.

Even in memories, the artificial gravity had the power to devastate with the dull pulsing ache, radiating steadily and outwardly from your cranium. The calibrations were not quite right yet, every organ feeling heavier.

A figure in similar dress, though grander, paced the length of the floor while exuding faultless authority. Both gloved hands secured behind them and achromatic mane in a carefully maintained undercut, suggesting at close proximity the smell of pomade– though their young features advocated further. They stirred, taking a long deliberate pause as all eyes followed. Two stormtroopers with red rank pauldrons secured to their shoulders, held blasters in hand, slung low and tight to their armor. Acting as goal posts, the figure moved between the two in long sweeping strides. What had appeared orthodox before, the typical presence of a superior officer giving a sermon by the mise en scène of proud First Order banners, in hindsight had appeared to be boastful and soundlessly menacing.

Stopping directly in the middle of the soldiers, only after they were satisfied with their created anticipation, their mouth twitched with bottled-up jingoism. With their vertical temples and square jaw now parallel to the sea of faces you belonged to, they began broadcasting to the room with a leveled voice, only slightly punctured by an accent.

“How do I know this is the right side? I have seen those who oppose us and I have seen what has become of them. I have been spectator to the tyranny of the New Republic and their attempts at keeping us contented with lies and deception. This is the right side because you are protected; standing here where you are, you are protected. You will never have to endure the might of the First Order...” As if the words had served as fuel, he began moving once again. Plastered to his face, a not-so-subtle sneer, mouth bending a scratch mark that finely marred his lower lip, “We are proud of our military, lead by our Captain. We are proud of our General, a man who will lead us into a new age. And our Commander... An interrogation with Kylo Ren is one we have saved you from encountering. You do not need to understand how or why he does what it is that he does, only that he can and he will in defense of our cause. Is this clear?”

For the second time, you nearly crashed into his back– this due to the unexpected visceral experience the memory had produced. The forged face angled enough for you to understand that you were subject to his watch. The voice piercing the air hinted self-satisfaction; a smugness that could not be stripped by the vocabulator, “They speak so fondly of me.”

I had no intention of sharing.

Which was true. Your mouth had cemented shut but that alone would not stop him from provoking exchange. Everything he needed was contained to your impulsive and spontaneous brain waves. You had not yet found a way to stop yourself from being baited with his phrases– he would speak and your mind would leap.

Aside from that, in retrospection, you assumed that he had spurred your spontaneous recollection; he had shaken the stalk of your consciousness to see what would come loose. You recoiled, arriving at the understanding he was not below playing around with your head as if it were a cheap, toss-away curiosity.

Many with exalted rankings inside the command structure had fallen victim to disproportionate notions of privilege their titles lent. Kylo Ren was not a singular case, living though a permanent power trip coupled with a vastly inflated ego– but, he was the first that was able to end your life because of it.

It began to rise to the front of your mind; was he was naturally so full of contempt, or, had the First Order had warped his perception.

The vibration of his robotic voice shut you down, “Neither.”

You felt your face contort, unprepared to respond or think or otherwise, except repeat his own choice of words– neither. And with that, he was trudging on once more.

In expectancy of his custom to halt suddenly, you were unsurprised to see that he had stopped once again in what had appeared to be an unremarkable location. This section of the base he had lead you to was both unfamiliar and disorientating. It looked identical to where you spent most of your time– except all the doors were in the wrong places, the hallways twisted in different directions. You couldn’t be certain if this door was the destination he had in mind or if he had simply grown tired of stopping short in the corridor.

Raising a gloved hand, he placed a coded access cylinder in the corresponding drive on the panel. This was standard procedure for admission to restricted rooms; not that behind every door was confidential paraphernalia, but it was a privilege in itself to gain access to areas you had been prohibited from entering. The Order had a way of making you felt important over something as trivial as sanction to exclusive refreshers. You, hanging relatively low on the tiers, had clearance for only a small number of sections. You knew Kylo Ren must have had a special cylinder to pry open every nook on the whole base– and likely the entire fleet along with it.

You began to imagine all possibilities with the one cylinder he held now– but forcibly corked your mind, aware that this scheme on your double-crossing index would be an out-and-out death wish. Fortunately for you, something even more alarming had stolen his focus.

An electronic voice refused his cipher, “Unauthorized.”

Kylo Ren was stunned. Admittedly, you were too. When you were first adopting your new life with the Order, you had experimented with the doors to see how many would open in the stretch of a single hallway. It had been long since you had heard the buzzing voice from the panel and had nearly forgotten its existence. If you weren’t terrified of exploring the humor in it, you might have even laughed. All you could freely think of was the sound of fork hitting the floor of the common area and the unholy treatment Nines was served by Matt– trapped in his alternate costume, before you now.

Blanking and with a fractional tilt of his helmet, he tried the cylinder again with more force behind the movement. It was evident on sight that this simply did not happen to him by the twisting of his free wrist, his hand dropped open only to re-tighten and lock up again. The same refusal followed.

Before you were aware of what had happened, his fist met the surface of the door with a great pound. The bitterness of his strike had unnerved you, giving indication of force by the furious echo, which had hurdled though the angular passageway to either side of where you stood. Repeatedly, his fist smashed into the exterior as he released a great torrent of frustration. It all became one awful, tremendous sound with his inhuman, mindless howling. His tantrum raged on, from hands to lightsaber, as if the sheer force of his anger would eventually override the security panel. You could feel all that he gave, his very wrath, along the floor and under your feet as you eyes shut tightly against a surge of spark.

You heard the blade draw back as well as the identifiable quiver of his robes in movement; through one squinted eye, he faced you once again. Steady rising and falling of his chest visible even under the weight of his garments, warranted a flinch from you– utterly involuntary.

“Open it,” he demanded, nothing more in his voice.

You don’t want to try yours again?

Like that of a warning shot, and for a definitive time, his fist collided with the door. Obediently, you shifted around him and cautiously produced your own cylinder. Holding it to the panel, you prayed the room wasn’t anything fancier than a closet or else you too would be denied and the door wouldn’t be to blame.

“Authorized.”

Kylo Ren gazed down at you through the slit in his helmet then back at the door, watching it open– in possible humiliation, which kept him quiet. From where you stood, there were dents and abrasions peppering the surface, underneath the lacerations belonging to the saber. You weren’t dense; you knew if it were anyone else, they would be nursing a fractured hand.

Revealed to you now: it was a closet, a mostly empty one at that. Kylo Ren, the Commander of the First Order with penchant for intimidation and using his mystical powers, was banned from this entering this pitiful cupboard. But you weren't.

It didn’t strike you to suppose that his cylinder may have came up unauthorized at any other door too. Nines would have collapsed in fits of laughter over this, nonetheless. You were almost glad he had chosen you over him, knowing that stormtrooper armor is not impenetrable and he would at least need that to be in your position.

The room, a fraction of the size of your personal quarters– which also wasn’t quite impressive– held a few flimsy crates piled in a corner and not much else. The air was stale and the lights were remarkably dim. Taking a few steps in meant you had almost crossed the entire length of the floor. It was only then when it sank in that you were there for a reason, a reason that was still unclear to you.

“Sit.”

You looked around, there was hardly the space, “Where?”

He approached, forcing you to step back and out of his path. Your body met the wall, trapped where you stood as he loomed over you. His deliberate enunciation did not go over your head, “Just... Sit.”

You wilted to the floor as your back slid against the durasteel. If he was trying to recover, you had been amply reminded of his capacity. The floor wasn’t remarkably comfortable to be on. It was incredibly cold, and hard, but you were still alive. The overhead light flickered, his mask shining unsteadily as it reflected off the surface– almost expressively. There was so much hardness to him, undeviating constriction along every appendage. You wondered if he ever slept. How could someone like him ever be soft, and still?

He nudged a crate with the toe of his boot, deciding on the sturdiest looking one before sitting. You were surprised to see him do something so normal but that thought dissolved as you began to wonder how many others might have been caged in forgotten closet spaces, like this cell, and what had become of them. Your face fell, looking at your hands– hands you were certain were powerless. He was quiet, possibly deciding how to navigate your entire conversation before saying anything, “Does this room look like it’s been forgotten?”

You gave a nod, silently. He wasn’t far off. It couldn’t have been important; there was virtually nothing of consequence in the sliver of forgotten space, except your two bodies.

He continued, “You should not be surprised to know that since it has been forgotten, it is a useless room without the need of devices for monitoring activity or surveillance. Again, I will say it is useless but by far the most interesting... Would you agree?” He was baiting you into a reply, as expected, insinuating that no one would know if anything happened inside the confines of the storeroom you found yourself crammed in.

You were under no obligation to be conversational, and found upon opening your mouth that you were not about to oblige his question, “... Are you going to kill me?” A question of your own instead, your nerves engaged in a flat race. Bluntly, your concern for your life outranked the utilization of this cupboard.

He spoke without a suggestion of concern, his voice bending with emotion, “You know FN-2187 betrayed the First Order. You know that when we find him, we’ll kill him.”

Though you had already gathered the plausible ill-intent stemming from FN-2187 going rouge, it was almost comforting to hear that he was at least outranking you on the Commander’s hit list. In that moment, it was not a discussion about your death.

He continued, “I want to understand how he came to be traitorous and I must do so with confidentiality as my concern does not reflect what the General and the Captain believe. You will assist me. We will find the cause.”

You could list several different reasons to object, the first being the one you used, “Me? Why me?”

“It is simply your luck.” Behind the mask, he had raised an eyebrow knowingly. It wasn't luck.

You were quiet in response, hating the taste of his reply— fate.

You were flighty, fidgety in contemplation of all that he had said. He was still, except for one gloved hand grasping the edge of the crate he was sitting on, “Your misgivings should be reported to the General but I will delay informing him if you comply. You will help me.”

As terrifying as it was to speak, you were no fool– you knew that you were sitting on leverage and jumped at the chance to speak before he pulled any thoughts out from under of you. He was going to have to depend on your silence and betrayal, both of which had a cost. “Hypothetically, if I help you, I want something out of it.”

A moment of great bravery or incredible stupidity; maybe somewhere on the middle of the spectrum. Your eyes edged over his face then back to the floor. You couldn’t look.

His voice raised, in amusement, “I’m intrigued...”

“You have a reputation, so, if I help you, I want to survive this— whatever it becomes. You have to promise not to kill me.” Putting it into words was an awkward waltz. Your first thought was of Zack’s son.

He was either still in deliberation or actively remembering how he had made a spectacle, dismembering the stormtrooper. The ground grew colder as you waited.

Expertly knowing what mechanism to pull, with both gloved hands, he unsealed his mask. It fell to the floor with a collateral thud. And it was almost worse to see him in this way, stripped down. He was no longer creature but a person once more– though entirely distinct from Matt, if it were even possible. You could still feel his temper pulsate only now it was softer and better contained. It had not strayed far away from his body, kept close by the layers of his attire.

His tone demanded eye contact even though it was remarkably difficult, “If I get what I need, you can get what you want.” He agreed, appealing to a side of you; he was playing the human card.

You give a brief nod.

Was the choice really yours to make anyway?

You held a hand out, towards him. Instinctively he pulled back. You didn’t trust his eyes and you didn’t trust him, not yet. Of course there was fear, and a shiver along your outstretched limb, but he wanted to play this game so you would at least hope that he would play by the rules. He wasn’t the one who would loose sleep in the end if the conditions were bent; you knew what the future looked like for you if he decided not to keep his word. Boldly refusing his good faith, you wanted more of a contract than words, “If we’re going to make a deal, we need to shake on it. Those are my terms.”

The handshake was for your own protection. His response made you question if it was a juvenile request, as if you suggested a pinky-promise or a blood ritual.

Velvet-like, but darker, after breathing your name in an exhale, “You’re so funny.” You’ve been called worse by better people.

Surpassing his initial apprehension, he stood up off his perch to meet you once more with a stare and extension of a leather-wrapped hand. You hesitated, considering he would decline your gesture but shook on it regardless.

Warm. Inside your own loose grip, his hand was warm.

Your mind blanked. You had imagined he would’ve been cold like the floor– like something lifeless, devoid of familiarity. But he wasn’t.

He’s human.

Mortal.

Warm.

You imagined the floor opening up to swallow you whole.

Revelation severely disrupted his once stoic features, giving a terrible flinch as one does when surprised by deafening noise. He jerked his hand back to himself, cradling it with the other. He looked as if he would speak but nothing came out of his mouth save a menacing curl of his upper lip. Like a feral animal, he grit and bore teeth. Some emotion stuck his throat, producing a strained growl.

Picking up his helmet and without another look at you, he made his escape. You listened to his boots scrape across the tiled floors until he was too far away to be heard. It wasn't safe otherwise, and you were still altogether unsure what to make of it all. What had happened?

Your face burned in the aftermath.

"Lieutenant Mitaka, it is of the greatest priority that you reset the Commander's access cylinder... It seems Ren has been reunited with his laser."

"G-general?"

"I had been holding it in my quarters for safekeeping."

"Of course, sir. Right away, General, sir."

#admittedly one of my favorite parts #kylo ren #kylo x reader #matt the radar technician #matt the radar technician x reader

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 4.)

Your encounters with a certain technician had, to a substantial degree, whittled down your perception of who might have been attached to the hand placed on your shoulder. You had made a few speculations in the short moments between the action and reaction, tailored to your preferences. Would you rather it be one of the cooks from the common area requesting your hand to cut a surplus of onions? Absolutely, you would go to town on that offer. You would even take on a flametrooper with a malfunctioning D-93w flame projector gun.

With all intents and purposes, the ideal was any other face than the blond curls, splays of freckles, and evil eyes belonging to Matt.

“Working hard?”

You mouthed an indiscriminate, “thank you,” upon hearing the mild voice of Lieutenant Colonel Zack, taking you away from the very precipice of combustion. If it were a certain deceptively outfitted individual, deciding he wasn’t through toying with you, you were convinced your mind would have short-circuited on the spot. Luckily it wouldn’t come to that.

Not quite yet.

Lifting his hand off your shoulder, he moved around you. The tapered regulation haircut and eyes of recognizable depth came into your field of view. Everything about the man was friendly, a sort of congeniality that he always appeared to be wearing. It was only if you looked closely could you find how he also was dressed in the weight of the entire First Order, dispersed across his shoulders. There was a lasting, profound heartache sealed away. And you, being that it was something you had cared to notice, had known why.

It wasn’t something that you had directly been witness to, since you had still been suffering under the artificial gravity of the Finalizer when it took place, but it had become lore of the base all the same. You had heard the whisperings, most of who had heard it themselves through the rumor mill too, of what happened to his boy.

The Lieutenant Colonel’s son, as you understood, had joined the ranks of the First Order just as you had, sharing the luxury of choice. He had succeeded in making Petty Officer on the command ranks but quickly decided that life the uniform lent was too stagnant and safe. Against the advice of his father, he resigned from his position and joined the stormtrooper training program. It was foggy at best, how he had bypassed regulations, as you implicitly understood trooper’s origins. Perhaps he had been the lab rat– but, perhaps a great many things. What you knew was that he had been admitted into the program and dismally, the parameters of the system were not designed for individuals like Zack’s son; many had been silently wary of what would come from having a rational-minded within the military. Even so, he proved to be talented with the standard F-11D blasters, scoring above average accuracy and showing aptitude in combat scenarios.

But he, in due course, proved to be as much of a problem as he was a success. He would perpetually disrupt training, often going above and beyond to get a rise out of instructors and troopers alike. There was comfortable breathing space in his new position, changing from a stiff suit to fatigues. And though he might not have been aware to the extent, he had become the cause of much friction, frustration, and ultimately, disorder. All of his qualities began seeping into his squad mates; his son sneezed, and the rest of the trooper caught colds. Both Captain Phasma and General Hux had planned to pull him out of the program, understanding that he was becoming too great of a liability, noticing the effects on their soldiers.

But neither did in time.

As initiate of the “code red” joke, all incidents were traced back to him. Kylo Ren had smothered him in the presence of his squad mates. It was personal, choosing his hands over his lightsaber. It was slow, inhumane. Torture for those who watched, the same group who later volunteered their minds for the psytechs to experiment on– time would not allow them forget, after all.

He was said to have been unusually calm as it happened, which was an important detail to all versions of the confrontation that had circulated. Kylo Ren had asked, “What is the code for this?” while watching the young life before him weaken until it faded out entirely.

You felt terrible to admit that it all seemed too unlikely before. Now, having encountered the beast himself, it wasn’t farfetched in the slightest.

Though, it only troubled you further that no one else was the wiser about his obvious costume. In the same way that you could distinguish how sadness grasped the Lieutenant Colonel, you were able to feel how the air bent around Matt without provocation, tainted with catastrophic anger. The disguise could slightly alter his appearance, but it had failed to suppress the shock and trauma of evil. The technician was an open wound, and no less painful than Kylo Ren.

How could you arrange wickedness like that into skin and call it human? Someone who dared to jar the mind open, ridiculing privacy and disrupting constants, had no business thinking himself anything other than a monster. Though he appeared in the flesh to be shaped as a person, no different from you or Zack or Nines, his very mind had slipped into un-salvageable space where salvation was an absurdity to ridicule.

I feel sorry for his mother.

At close inspection, the Lieutenant Colonel’s eyes were restless. And even so he still managed to smile warmly at you. You felt groundless by his gesture, for being so afraid, when he had gone through so much and still served the First Order devotedly.

He could have deserted his position; he could have left just like FN-2187 and no one in their right mind would have questioned it. In fact, people may have understood him defaulting better than seeing him hanging onto his post– people like General Hux. His commitment only added additional cruelty to son’s death, after all. He was a gentle person who refused to be solidified. Kylo Ren had tried but Zack was inherently stronger. Death would not change him; it had come, and he had smiled. There was consolation in that, looking still at the Lieutenant Colonel’s face. You felt calm, even if it was just as short-lived as the feeling you had when looking out on the deck a short time ago, to marvel at the multi-hued dust, colliding about infinity.

It struck you that you had said nothing, and his face was beginning to change as he waited on your reply. All too fast the calm left you, and in its place the pang of nerves settled in. Excited. Like little wings beating. “Working hard? Y-yes...” you fumbled on his question as if no one had ever asked you such a thing before, “I’ve been working. You know. Hard.” Your attempt at sounding enthused hung stiffly in the air.

Nonetheless, Zack offered a forgiving look, looking just as internally divided. A mirror of you.

Past the Lieutenant Colonel, you saw FN-2199 and a few others moving about with full food trays. Matt followed. Which only meant that you couldn’t afford the time on innocent conversation. Especially not if it meant something potentially awful happening to your comrade. But Zack kept talking, unaware of the panic in your sliding eyes, “I received a card today about my son...”

Can we talk about this when Kylo Ren isn’t looking at Nines as if he’s about to strangle him?

“From who?” you asked, while monitoring Matt who had begun ardently speaking to FN-2199 directly. You owed Zack your politeness and as badly as you wanted to rush the table, nothing had appeared to be stirring between them yet. You felt the back of your neck perspire as Matt’s words; “I see his death” ran through your mind.

Nines. Stay quiet. I’ve seen you do it once, I know you can do it again.

Zack reached over to pick up a muffin from a tray. Partially removing the paper off the bottom, he cleared his throat.

Can we hurry up here? Who sent the card?

In annoyance, your eyes shifted away from the table and back to him, catching his shoulders shuddering. The movement was to cut short additional shakes, or to play them off at least. He broke off a piece of the muffin, “Kylo Ren... Kylo Ren gave Matt a card... to give to me.”

Oh.

Before you could process a reply and to your complete horror, you had overhead FN-2199 raise his voice twofold, calling Kylo Ren a “punk bitch.”

The first coherent word to fall out of your mouth, “What?”

Nines, there is no way in Malachor that you just said what I think you said.

“That was my reaction too,” Zack assumed you were speaking to him exclusively, punctuating his reply by eating the piece he had been holding.

A fork clattered to the ground. Nines grasped at his neck, struggling to breathe. “Oh no, he’s choking on food...” You hear Matt speak gently to, no doubt, amuse himself.

“Give me a second, Lieutenant Colonel,” you pat his shoulder and turn on your heel to rush the table, only to get there as Matt raised his hand, directing FN-2199 up and out of his seat.

“I see what’s in your mind,” Spitting, Matt raised his dominant hand, cupping the air in front of him threateningly. Inflamed veins crept across his neck and forearms. This was just a taste of his fabled ire, but horrible enough on sight to throw you into panic.

With his toes just barely scraping over the ground, just out of reach, Nines looked over to you. The look in his eyes told you that it was out of your power to help him. Then, struck by an invisible force, Nines was flung backwards.

With the whole area in disarray as troopers rushed to FN-2199’s side, you failed to notice Matt as he made his escape. By the food tray abandoned at the bench, there were no other signs of him or his disguise present.

Patting Nine’s back, you found him stupefied, he assured you he would be fine and not to fuss.

You hovered over him until you were absolutely certain that he was okay, in the very broadest sense of the term, before leaving promptly. If Matt was planning on coming back, you planned to be totally unavailable.

Your next destination was in the nearby administration block. You made it there without incident, which only somehow added to your suspicion that something was about to happen.

Sliding a coded access cylinder out of its notch on your uniform, you held it to the recognition pad. The familiar click of the door’s unlocking mechanism felt like crossing the finish line; a few glances over each shoulder confirmed you were still alone. Sliding away with a hydraulic whoosh, revealed to you now was your unexceptional, but secure, bureau. The room was L-shaped, with a small, centralized refresher unit. The warm lights hummed and the heating unit buzzed automatically as you stepped in, though this was without further movement, as you had decisively turned to lock it soon as humanly possible.

Adjacent to the small desk, with multiple monitors, sat an appropriately padded chrome chair. You sank into it with a great sigh, expelling as much grief as you cold. This was a small victory in itself; you could provisionally breathe without the dread of being caught by Kylo Ren’s temper. Or Matt’s temper. Either way.

The comm. unit, flanking the database with its various screens, came beeping to life and you had not been prepared for the sound. You’d seen instances like this in shows all the time, and if your life were to mimic the holovids you grew up on, it would be Matt trying to reach you.

Answering the page by punching the receiving button, with a shaking hand nonetheless, you were pleased to find it was not either the man with the wig or the one who hid underneath it. It was someone on behalf of Captain Phasma, who asked for you to prioritize certain data for her, as she needed the information ASAP. You told her you would have it entered and usable momentarily. They were courteous and let you go back to work straight away.

It was your own viewpoint that holding a pen for Captain Phasma was remarkably easier than a blaster. From the troopers you knew through the common area, you gathered that she expected a lot from those under her as a testament to her own proficiency. And stars, was she ever proficient. It was entrenched in the very statistics you entered.

Immersing yourself in work, you tapped away at the keys but replaying in your mind, without command, was the sound of the fork hitting the floor from before.

Poor Nines.

Beeping again, startling you once more. Your heart visited your throat. With a hash swallow to settle it, you punched the button again. Someone from the main bridge jumped right into how he required certain data be processed immediately for the General, as it was of the greatest priority. You began to explain that you were just finishing up numbers for the Captain, when again, the sound of intermediate beeping cut you both off for yet another page.

“Sorry but can you hold for a moment? I'm getting another page...”

“What? You can't-,“ he snarled. You imagined the look of outrage on his face but switched lines regardless.

Asking the next frequency, your body now impatient with the spikes of adrenaline, “Yes?”

It can’t be him.

You weren’t partial to the silence that followed though you tried to become aware that even if it were Matt, or Kylo Ren, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to you over the link.

A familiar voice brought you back, “I’m hoping you are close to submitting the data now?” The one who had asked for Captain Phasma’s data was checking up on your progress. She was crisp now, but still more pleasant than your alternatives.

You settled both calls and buckled into your task.

As time passed you, miraculously without further disruption, you found it easier to push everything in your head aside. Some speck of normality was returned to you. Your mind drifted, as anyone’s would when faced with repetitive task, coaxing yourself down whatever branch your fear had chased you up into. You wanted to fully believe that it was all done and over with. You even laughed to yourself, mumbling and tipping the chair back as you set your feet upon the desk, feeling outlandish for holding such a long conversation with yourself.

I’ll probably never see him again. Doesn’t he have better things to do? Breaking consoles? Terrifying the galaxy? Oh... and I don’t know... restoring order, maybe?

And with that, you felt relief at your inner recesses. Today was a phenomenon. Nothing more or less. And some day, down the line, you and Nines would look back and laugh. Surely he would keel over, laughing until tears brimmed in his eyes, knowing that all that he had done to the technician, he had really done to the Commander.

So, that’s the end of story?

You’ll go back to your personal quarter and never deal with Matt again. You’ll never revisit your feelings of doubt towards the First Order. Your home world is restored. You and FN-2199 sip tropical drinks by the shore, safe from the triumvirate.

You should be so lucky.

You got lost inside your habitual closing ritual: powering the console down, watching the screens flicker from blue to black, before tucking the chair in neatly at the desk and arranging all memos for when you’d return the next cycle. After that, you became occupied with the panel to open the door. Yet as you approached, an overt darkness had begun seeping through. Darkness, yes, but also heat, in the same way a doorknob blisters when there’s a fire at the opposing side. There was a terrible heat. You imagined smoke along with it.

He’s not.

You hoped for anything besides Matt. An actual fire, blazing through the hallway would have been preferable to the reality of the moment that you felt was playing out before you. As the door opened, with the distinguishing hydraulic whoosh, you were met with the opposite wall of the hallway. A dramatic reveal of nothing, pulling relief from your lungs in a great exhale.

On your inhale, a dryness invaded your nose and mouth. Like ash. Or smoke.

He is.

He moved from his hiding spot to fill open doorway, looming before you. You were right to believe there was something in the corridor. You had never seen the silver inlay of his helmet so

closely and you never wanted to. You could have gone your whole service without a moment like this.

He broke the produced silence between you. It was possible that he would have been nondescript if it were not for the strain the modulator put on his voice. Heavy metallic distortion was threaded into each syllable, “I don’t take sympathy for the Resistance lightly.”

It’s possible that you were in trouble.

The helmet was a buffer; you weren’t aware if the violent spark was in his eye. You couldn’t see his lips pulled tightly with annoyance or the narrowing of his brow. But, damn, if you couldn’t imagine it.

He stiffly walked down the hallway, one of his strides approximately equal to two of your own, “Now, come,” the electrical sting of his command pulled you into step with him.

Matt was bad enough, sure. Kylo Ren was worse.

#matt the radar technician #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #matt the radar technician x reader #kylo ren fanfic

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 3.)

General Hux could hardly believe what it was he was told.

The news had traveled fast, finding him while he had been still fixed on the Star Destroyer that perched over Starkiller. The Finalizer had only just returned to the Unknown Regions from their latest passage in the Western Reaches, hunting for a BB-unit that had evaded them. Prior to his awareness of the situation unfolding below, he had taken his time with great repose, tying up as many loose ends as he could before relocating to the planet. Provided the exhaustive process that had stolen him away to begin with, his attention had been strenuously required in measuring out their current task, the General had been evading sleep for as long as he could.

Pressing two gloved fingers to the slant of his forehead, he rubbed the spot in a small, tight circle. Being that he was fully aware of how rigorously he had been pushing the crew, he was still fiercely unsympathetic to their fatigue. Drawing in air sharply before clicking his tongue, he glared about the room at the phosphorescent lights and screens feeling no closer to their objective than they had been hours ago. Stubbornly, he refused to be sidelined over something as minor as a tension headache; now more than ever did they need leverage.

Working in proximity with the menace, lapdog to the Supreme Leader, kept the General prone to a number of unpleasant incidents on a reoccurring basis. Even as events were manifold, the constant headache was no less merciful. If he were propitious, disruptions would be as minor as having to go head-to-head with Ren’s incredible arrogance– arrogance without direction, though he was the only one known to combat it without fear of his life. Other days, Ren’s voracious anger would take the form of mangled consoles, droids, and other costly First Order assets. The physical manifestations of his ire were reprehensible enough with reference to the inanimate, but in the most severe of occasions had he taken out the living. Uniformed or armored, chosen or programed— "They meant nothing." They were part of our cause, Ren. They want what you want. "How can you be sure of that, General Hux?"

The Commander's full abuse of his power and position was inconceivably deplorable to Hux, who would still on occasion, inaudibly ream about his offense but only to be confronted by the snarl of his vocabulator— "It's best not to think these things, General." Go read someone else, Ren. The Academy had made him resilient, although, no less offended at the invasion of privacy. It's inappropriate, you petulant child— were only thoughts safe to have once the Commander had left the room.

There was no one who could put Ren in his place aside from the Supreme Leader, who would afford nothing when confronted by mentions of decimation. The projection would offer no splinter of expression when informed of the butchery in his own military, and the Commander would leave the room, gloating soundlessly under the mask. Had Hux been born with any persuasion of the Force, he might have done something about it.

Lieutenant Colonel Zack, whose son had been the latest of victims, had shown the greatest restraint at the greatest offense imaginable. Ren had senselessly taken his life and still, the

Lieutenant Colonel remained staunchly devoted to the First Order. In his amazement, the General himself found various psytech evaluations necessary– though all the probing and poking found nothing to suggest he had been broken. The Lieutenant Colonel was either a crowning achievement or his mind was sealed tighter than a vault. The General elected to believe the former.

In spite of everything, it was imperative that he adapt. Hux was forced to teach himself how to not only function, but immaculately so for the sake of the Order, inside Ren's hysterics. He relished the rare occasion where the Commander was able to keep himself contained. In particular, this work-cycle had been pleasant. And it was only when he had taken a break in proceedings, from making rounds about the main bridge, when he realized his spike of productivity was due to the absence of a particular entity. And so, he oscillated between dissatisfaction for being left with the brunt of responsibilities– through he knew emphatically that he was the best man for the job anyways– and the short-lived thankfulness for all the tasks he had completed without being swept into damage control.

It was at this time when a crew member, crested command cap neatly balanced over slick dark hair, inspected footage that had been brought to his attention by in numerous frantic alarms from his location above the sunken work stations about the premise. All messages had been composed entirely of frenetic tones and charged language ranging from ���high priority” and “anomaly” to “disaster” and “complete chaos.” He could have sworn one of them had accidentally slipped a curse word somewhere in his formal recollection, of which, he diplomatically let slip by. He was not, however, able to set aside the recording once he pulled it up on a neighboring device.

Holding his breath at the screen, which replayed the moment between a number of troopers from the FN squadron and another who had been dressed in the standard radar technician uniform, he could feel his body begin to perspire. His position forced the shortest straw into his hand; he would have to approach his superiors with this. Fortune had to be with him, as the Commander had not been in attendance, though the General could be just as daunting, given the nature of his message.

He deemed that the technician must have been new, as their information had not yet been registered in the system... In fact, it was the strangest thing, as he applied the facial recognition software, to double check against the manual search he made by name, the program froze. He stared into the screen at it malfunctioned with a flicker of unease, before restarting the console; he understood that machines as sophisticated as the ones he used will on occasion tire, they could not have chosen a worse time to require a manual reboot. At any length, he swallowed with difficulty, imagining all the possible implications due to the occurrence. It was the commander’s blade that had been the root of all disorder, after all.

The FN squadron looked as if it were star-crossed, bound to unusual circumstances. In light of FN-2187 going rouge, the entire mass of troopers that trained alongside him were effectively disengaged from the Finalizer in response to the gaping wound treason had produced. The General had ordered, much to Kylo Ren’s displeasure, that they be evaluated rather than executed. The squad, severed and sent back to the base for diagnosis, was issued an unremitting sequence of assessments. There had been no prior signs, and nothing to suggest afterwards that any of them had been significantly impacted. Again, the psytechs proved a benign case.

General Hux had been quietly relieved at that; sleep had been prickled with the weight of their lives, knowing what the Supreme Leader would have favored their fates be if it had come down to the wire. Dying in combat for their cause was vastly different from capital punishment. There was no blame in contamination, only negligence on his part. With this in mind, he would still find gratification by wringing the traitor’s neck, seeing as how the pitiful creature had freed their captive Resistance pilot and was now aggressively fighting for the opposition. He would dissect the traitor without need of Ren's tactics. Anyone who defied him outright, such as FN-2187 had, would be taken care of, personally. Slowly, while afflicting all the pain he had the capacity to impose.

The redheaded General, devout in formal stance at the end of the catwalk had been in quiet conference with a Fleet Engineer, who spoke briefly to him before dipping away. Informed by the meek voice of Lieutenant Mitaka as he cautiously approached, General Hux turned into his presence, “Sir, there is a bit of an... issue.”

Through his retelling, the General insisted on viewing footage in sheer disbelief. Lieutenant Mitaka scrambled back to the station, attending to the machine as his face remained still on the surface. What he observed next was– disturbing.

After looping the incident a great number of times, his gaze rapidly turned over each face, as if to memorize the features of all those involved. A thick plume of smoke spilled through both nostrils, to emulate that of a dragon, before he became gaunt. He was not one to do so, setting an example to those he worked with, but this was an extraordinary exception. His lips had been sealed securely by his jaw, tense enough to stay locked until it was absolutely necessary for him to speak again. The cigarette was then put out on the surface of the surveillance console, in a great surge of bewilderment at the recording of Matt, hurling the lightsaber towards the wall. As the footage ruptured with spark, Hux’s ethereal eyes mirrored the gleaming and shrank into a squint; he was still unsure with what he was watching. It was ludicrous and irresponsible, he was beyond strained at learning one of the notorious stormtroopers, according to his file, had picked the thing up after it was thrown.

He visually seethed. Where was Ren in all of this?

Of course, he was hard at it and this was a nuisance, yet, he did not entrust the retrieval of Kylo Ren’s bludgeon to anyone else. He would have to handle it personally.

Lieutenant Mitaka nodded, gulping back a small ‘yes’ as Hux ordered, “You have the deck.” His jaw un-wired at this and as stress demanded he balance another cigarette between his lips to replace the first. He moved with haste and irritation towards the nearest operational hanger for a shuttle down to the ice planet beneath. Each step embedding further aversion, the General spilled smoke and controlled anger in his wake.

Mother of Kwath, they were called the First Order for a reason– it wasn’t some arbitrary title.

Lieutenant Colonel Zach’s surprise had announced to all in the immediate area exactly who was about to walk in and pay a visit. You knew him through his impassioned announcements and speeches, on a detached, impersonal level. You had little understanding of who he was, and so you watched closely, feeling the weight of his presence as he strode in making no efforts to soften his expression of irritation for the trouble.

His audience, the common area, fell rightfully silent at the sight of his flaming red hair. You felt FN-2199 press a look at the side of your face, but with the General’s eyes meeting your gaze, you were helpless to reciprocate. And had you been able to, you would have seen the imitation of panic, knotted at his brow.

Almost immediately, Nines fell in his sights. His translucent eyes scrutinized as his carved out cheeks began twitching with infamy in recognition of the weapon that could hardly stay hidden even if it intended to. “Identify yourself.”

All traces of laughter had completely evaporated from his voice. He shifted awkwardly in the spot he made his response, “FN-2199, General.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. At least he had enough sense to be formal as authority bore down onto him.

“Bring me that...“ Hux motioned towards FN-2199’s hand, and the object he was holding, “... thing.” As if he couldn’t bring himself to call it what it was.

While he still clearly held onto the hilt, FN-2199 asked, “Which thing, General?” Which lead you to believe that he had either genuinely forgot what he was holding, or that he was purposefully delaying liberation of the weapon.

Either way.

“I am not one to play with, FN-2199,” virulence surfaced at his grimace, “In your hands– that.”

“Oh... This thing,” FN-2199’s great conspiracy went up in smoke. He crossed the employee common area, approaching the General to relinquish the saber.

“It’s not a toy...” Hux scolded, taking Ren’s lightsaber from the stormtooper as soon as it was offered to him. Though it didn’t show upon his face, Hux had to suppress the strangeness of confiscating the same weapon that was the cause of much distress, his own included. With repudiation, he tore his eyes away and straightened his back once more. In the correction of his posture, he denied further interest and allowed the hand which held it to go limp at his side.

The General’s eyes shot over to you once more, as you had been staring at him at length. Under the impression that you had done so innocently, you diverted your gaze to look beyond Hux. Standing ominously in the doorway like a vulture waiting for his meal— Matt. How long had he been there for, observing, just as you were? The look crossing Matt’s face had made you doubt that the ship would stay intact. At any given second, his eyes alone could take the whole thing out of the sky, glasses or not. His eyes were locked onto his lightsaber and the hands that held it.

“The thing looks poorly made, like a little kid built it...” Nines started again, mumbling to downplay his embarrassment for being caught by the General himself.

Obviously, no one was permitted to speak about Kylo Ren in this way, privately or openly. Especially not considering if he was standing within earshot. It was nothing short of amazing that Nines had provoked and prodded and was still very much alive. It was even more remarkable, still, that you had faced more of a consequence than him.

Well, Nines, you’re far from the brightest star in the galaxy but you are the luckiest.

“Report to your captain at once, FN-2199,” The General discouraged banter in his dismissal. Whether he had anything to add or not, he was not about to carry on any further correspondence with a known delinquent. “That will be all.” No longer interested in the room he stood in, General Hux dipped his head slightly, signaling his leave. Carefully placing the lightsaber inside a pocket within the black Gaberwool greatcoat slung about his shoulders, he made a point of serving you a half-glare as he did so. You had been caught staring once again and he was beginning to scorn your obvious scrutiny.

Stars.

You choose instantly not to acknowledge his look, hoping by the same token that would pardon you. The last thing you needed was to be on the personal radar of both the General and the Commander, well on your way to the trifecta. And so began the shifting of the tiles under your feet. You were struck you where you stood, enough to knock you over and then some.

What have I gotten myself into?

You couldn’t help but replay the moments leading up to the incident, especially considering all that had happened in such a small window of time. Your doubts ran sudden, but profoundly deep — almost madly. Taking mental inventory, you reminded yourself that you had chosen the First Order, which was more than most could say. FN-2199 for one, couldn’t remember anything before First Order propaganda and training videos. Autonomy was a luxury. There was such a marginal percentage, here, that understood the simplicity of making their own decisions; the power of selection wasn’t found or born in cages, it was what existed outside of them.

And that was another thing. FN-2199 wasn't technically free. None of the stormtroopers had decided which side they agreed with. They were programed from infancy to obey the First Order, without question. You had chalked the whole process up to being a hard necessity of the time, but that was before you had become close with Nines and a handful of others. It was a topic you avoided thinking too hard about, knowing how it could lead to an inability to preform within the tight parameters that you were expected to. It made you emotional, it made you unpredictable. And you couldn't be.

But you began thinking about it, Matt's probing weakened your thoughts, which had allowed them to drift languidly around your brain. Subsequently, you wondered how Nines' defiant personality could have formed if there were such tight parameters for conditioning. The General was the one who oversaw all that. If it were as textbook as you were lead to believe, the FN-2187 “incident” wouldn’t have happened– It couldn’t. You imagined him, with strange lucidity having never much spoke with him, and felt a spark of hope– not entirely dissimilar to the feeling born in you as you left your home world. FN-2187 had departed from the anger that was instilled into you, by the lashing words of the General; you thought of him and felt— optimistic.

Was it possible in your haste for action that you had sided with the first option, rather than the best option?

I couldn't have... Could I?

As much as you tried to discourage your own thoughts, viciously rebelling and derailing your enthusiasm for your current situation, you kept imagining the skyglow on the surface of your planet as you broke through the atmosphere. The enemy was suddenly and miraculously less like the enemy they had been made out to be. And just as abruptly, your limbs were weightless.

Another gravity situation?

The Finalizer had a similar effect on you, after all. But in your displaced loss of nerve, a quick test proved that your muscles had failed to respond to you, once again. And then it struck you how you had not been alone in reflection. Your new suspicions did not bode well with the Commander.

Oh... Frip me.

You were painfully aware of the lock of his blazing eyes. And contingent on you living though the next few moments, you planned to go back to your personal quarters to drink Shesharilian vodka you had been holding straight from the bottle.

Hux on his way out of the area, knocked into Matt who had been hanging at the door, which freed his force-hold over you, “Watch where you’re going...” But his voice faded, in what you first believed to be instant recognition of the man’s face. Matt served an obvious death-glare to the General in response. Hux appeared taken back, until he looked harder, dutifully glancing over features of the man in front of him. There was a long pause. You imagined Hux was capable of telling, or at least, that he was on the brink of figuring out Kylo Ren’s disguise. He had to. You understood they had worked with each other at length. It was impossible for Hux to glaze over, to have no inclination that Matt was Kylo Ren.

“Are you new here?” Hux probed, still studying.

You held a hand to your forehead, somewhere between distress and amazement.

“I’m Matt,” he pointed to his name tag, which had become slightly askew, “Radar technician.”

Hux squinted, “Watch where you’re going, Matt.”

After an excruciating silence, the monotone voice responded, “Sorry.”

Hux smoothed his hair back, and readjusted the collar of his uniform. Assessing no further threat, he began moving once again, “That will be all, then.”

With much buried vehemence, Matt’s fists appeared painfully tight, locking his hands so intensely that his knuckles turned white. Unwilling to have him finish what he started with you, you took his immersion in watching Hux depart with his saber, to make your leave... ultimately, you didn’t get very far. A hand settled to your shoulder, halting you.

What now?

#general hux #FN-2199 #matt the radar technician #matt the radar technician x reader #kylo ren x reader

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 2.)

In a progressive gradient of pale yellow to pink, a single wave of spark broke through into your peripheral vision. Hundreds of tiny flashes, bursting and burning like micro-fireworks, washed over you. The sparks, falling through the air and creating fragile ribbons of light, had escaped the antechamber that Matt had only just disappeared into while in pursuit of Nines, with the matched enthusiasm of a flame chasing a fuse. FN-2199 had indiscreetly been the cause of antagonism, fully oblivious to what his antics set in motion and the impossibility of being followed by the crimson plasma blade.

To the best of your understanding, prior to ignition, there had been confrontational voices and a short, heated exchange. You had picked out the sound of both Nines and Matt, as the two likely had a word with each other. Although, as you went to move your head, to tilt your ear in the direction of the employee common room out of equal parts curiosity and panic, you found it remained stationary against your will. Blinking, unnerved for a good moment or two at the alien sensation, you tried once again. It was only then in testing your range of motion were you aware that your entire being had become unresponsive. After a number of other failed trials, you established that the extent of control you still retained had been in your capacity to blink, otherwise, your limbs had felt present but your muscles nonexistent.

For no discernible purpose or reason, Matt had had immobilized you. Simply because your body, hardwired to either fight or flee, was frozen solid, you began to feel all the unpleasant manifestations of fear. Matt— Kylo Ren— was living up to his legend.

No one could deny what the Commander was capable of. How he was able to bend the very air around his opposition, without so much as lifting a finger. For what rare information the First Order would disclose, it was made abundantly clear to you to stay out of his way. On no circumstances were you do something as heinous as purposely provoking his senseless temper, as there was no guarantee that any salvageable part of you would be left for a proper burial. Likewise, if you were to ever find him, already caught in a fit of rage, you were conditioned to immediately retreat and inform your superior officer. The broken equipment, as expensive as it was, could be shredded as easily as a body, regardless of stormtrooper fortifications. You tried to eschew and discard the notion of Matt completely and publicly gutting Nines, only through denial that he would blazon his identity.

And while you pushed the visual of carnage to the back of your brain, the appropriate rationale to absolve yourself of guilt began to work its way through you. Of course, from the warnings you had accumulated, there was no curiosity or existing capacity for you to test the Commander’s patience. You didn't need to see or feel his might to believe he could live up to his allegory. If anything, you were happy to avoid him completely; a quiet relief fell upon all of Starkiller when he had left the premise.

Nines had been the one to provoke him, sure, but even then it was unintentional and therefore the blame you wanted to place on him fell through the cracks of reasoning. You couldn't look at your friend and find responsibility for your current situation; Nines was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid. He, nor the collective population or the Order, had enough backbone to knowingly haze the Commander.

Well— there was only a singular instance of someone intentionally trying to get a rise out of Kylo Ren. The incident was one that you hadn't been witness to, but didn't need to be in order to understand the impact of it all. Each person who offered a retelling to you would inflate the story with different details, yet, all ended in the same gruesome fashion. You understood that subsequently there had been a turbulent disagreement between what the General and Captain believed, versus Commander Ren. It seemed that both General Hux and Captain Phasma still placed value on human lives, whereas Kylo Ren saw nothing. Lieutenant Colonel Zack, arguably affected the most in the matter, was still struggling with the loss of his son and would become difficult to locate when the Commander would make a routine patrol through the winding complex.

Though you had been told countless times, none had hinted what you should do if ever faced with his pure, unfiltered rage. None had explained the helplessness, vulnerability, or even hinted the way your mind would inevitably spiral once he had you. And here you were now, despite having followed each instruction as you had been given, you were unable to tear your eyes away from staring down the barrel of a loaded blaster. Faced with it all, the surprising impact of imagining the red plasma blade colliding with soft skin, you began to bleed with suspicion to your commitment regarding the First Order. And not just a slow bleed out, like a harmless or accidental cut or scrape- it was a loss of swift and lethal proportions.

Never had you once questioned their methods. And this was your first indication of chaos inside the First Order. Kylo Ren was held in such esteem, such terrible reverence, that it only managed to poison your faith in the entire system. He was one of the very triumvirate that you worked so diligently to satisfy— what was his purpose, to dress up and terrorize his subordinates? It felt beyond hypocritical, a reflexively bitter on your tongue, at the though of "Matt" occupying himself by stirring up trouble. You believed you had left that taste behind in the dust of your home planet. In the still-budding fear of your subjection to his ability, there also came a burgeoning anger that you had become his mark. In this, a friction existed between the two, the fear and anger. You grit your teeth and began trying to pull yourself free.

Kylo Ren works against the enemy, so, what does that make me?

Your consciousness, to the point of wavering at best, warned you of your home planet. Savage and sudden reminders of those dying in the streets, paralyzed by the government. You thought of a group of people you had seen as you left home for the last time, lazing in the sun, with rosy faces and dry cracking lips from dehydrated and hunger. For the sake of them, you had to set aside your internal panic. You would be no good to the cause, or yourself, if you let Kylo Ren's game rule you. You thought back to the face of the officer who had inspired your confidence in the First Order to restore political power to your home planet. They would end needless casualties, as you had witnessed time and time again, with the lives of your people shuffled around as the senate argued and argued but never budged.

Bandaging up the skepticism, creating a mental tourniquet, you had to allow that the actions of this one could not reflect the choices of the others. The gleaming base as it shuttered with life and hopefulness was the First Order. The Finalizer, drifting and skimming the skies above, was the First Order. The metallic trooper, the captain of many, was the First Order. You and Nines were the First Order.

Kylo Ren was a splinter; you decided there and then that he was not, and could never be, the First Order. Not to you.

Matt, now standing parallel to where you were frozen, dipped his face in close to yours. Too close. You noticed a bead of sweat drip down his temple as tension fixed across his forehead. The wrath in his glare would burn into your memory. This was the face of the Commander of the First Order. Even with the disheveled blond, cupid-curled wig, he was an epithet of consequence and power. The eyes staring into you, fully bypassing the glasses as if they hadn't been there at all, had been spectator to awfulness so far beyond your understanding of the galaxy you would have felt holes in your very heart to recognize.

He appeared to be holding himself back, trapping his primal nature under twitching skin and muscle. His bridle was rapidly deteriorating, if any of it had ever existed at all. With the way that his eyes fixed upon you in such sickening concentration, you considered praying.

Widening his eyes at the supposition, his clenched jaw relaxed just enough to growl, “I see his death.”

There was no debating who he had meant, being that there had only been one other person who had wandered into his domain of influence.

Nines.

The words had the equivalent blow of a shock-wave; one great sting, washing through your nerves and bones, followed by a complete lack of sensation. Everything went numb at the sound of his voice, be it that there was truth behind his claim or not. You had become paralyzed both inside and out, with grief quietly causing certain devastation. It didn’t make sense for you to feel so intensely to hear it; perhaps it was the tone or who the mouth was attached to, rather than what was truly being said. You were sorely aware of the stormtrooper's rate of survival, being that it was a measurement required for your to complete your assigned duties.

Unblinking, Matt watched your pupils dilate, the physical response of the weight of his words. The corner of his mouth twitched, over and over in confinement of a malicious smile. Maybe he found compensation in seeing you wince.

You can hear me?

The tension on his forehead released. His face relaxed enough for you to understand that he was shifting through your head as you thought. As you made the connections and realizations, he was right there watching you figure it out. Bringing a hand up, it hovered over the side of your face, shy of your hair. “Yes,” he brought his palm forward, as if about to stroke you, but refused to make contact.

You still would have recoiled provided you were able to move.

"I hear them too... Should I tell you what they're hiding?” He sounded blithe. You knew there was certain madness there. He was playing with you.

None of this is real. You can't be in my head, that isn't possible.

But he answered your thoughts, "It isn't? I'll show you."

Your heart lurched into your throat as each following beat became excruciating to bear like a caged animal trapped in your ribs, beating itself against the wall your chest built around it. Blood rushed around your system, hot to cold to hot again. Searing then freezing. Everything you had meant to burry in your mind, condemn and forget, began scratching its way to the surface. Your gaze darted about his face as the abstract feeling of panic filled your lungs at each increasingly broken inhale, expecting for something less-than-human to have replaced him. The singular bead of sweat on his face fell down his cheek, much like a tear which only served to feign a look of strain that did not exist. His evil gold-flecked eyes, burning, released a further cursive pain down your spinal cord, flowing without stinting. A moment more of his torture and your mind would collapse into itself.

But liberation can look like various things to various people. At that moment, relief was speckled with muffin crumbs from her lunch break. Your rescuer, the floor supervisor, called out from the end of the hallway with her demand entirely puncturing his concentration. “HAVE YOU RE- WIRED THE CALCINATOR YET, MATT?” She hadn't realized your distress as you had been completely, helplessly motionless through it all; her annoyance to find that Matt had not completed his duty had saved you.

He waved his outstretched hand in a wiping motion all as he turned away from you to return to his original task. No further words or glares, the pain had instantly dissolved. And even as your movements were restored, fully able to pilot your own body again, your mind however needed more time to recuperate. Before Matt would be left unsupervised, once again, you would be the first to move.

You spent most of your free time, meager as it was, in the common area of your sector. You volunteered to unofficially supervise, which included breaking up the occasional argument between hungry troopers and making sure meals came out on time; anything to keep the schedule running optimally. Although your allotted responsibility had been concerning data entry, the requirements had tapered down to a minimal, shifted to automatic means. You busied yourself with supervising, primarily to keep your superiors from retraining you for other duties. You had become particularly wary of the increasing demand and associated horrors of the financial sector.

Returning to your regular haunt, you found FN-2199 with his helmet removed, howling with laughter. Bright eyes, gleaming teeth, and hair redder than red. He was the first you could recognize as you entered the room, finding him with his head tipped back and both hands splayed over his ivory chest plate. Others encircled him in a mishmash of helmets, on and off, with their exposed faces matching his expression. Once the handful of others dispersed, he bounded over to you, bright eyes impossibly turning brighter. There was unspoken appreciation for your presence, he had a story for you he knew you wanted to hear and was excited to share.

Amusement was still present in his voice, pulling back loose strands of grenadine hair from out of his face as he whirled about to face you, “You should have seen it... If I didn't see it for myself, I don't think I would believe it... This new guy is— a total nerve burner!" Speaking as if he had just ran laps around the perimeter of the room, he dissolved into a snort which was closely followed by a look of partial embarrassment.

Kylo Ren: the nerve burner.

A juvenile comment, true, but no less valid. You knew your friend was about to grace you with a retelling of all that you had missed, while being held by invisible hands, in the way his commentary was practically bursting out of him.

“He really is,” you quickly agreed. Your reasons for approving were emphatically different, but shared a conclusion all the same. Remembering the rage in his eyes, you were suddenly overcome with the suspicion that you were being watched. Peering over your shoulder to confirm Matt’s absence, you breathed a sigh of relief.

“He threw Ren’s light sword thing– right at the wall... Right there,” he pointed, “I mean, look at that shit... Now, I'm no scientist but that's solid durasteel. Durasteel. This new technician is a new level of crazy, really.” As mentioned, there was a clearly identifiable dent in the wall next to the workplace incident counter, which seemed to be permanently set at 0 days. Typically, the irony of the visual would have inspired a smile or laugh on your part, but under the circumstances, comedy was unable to get through to you.

A knot formed in your stomach at the recognition that the deactivated lightsaber, the cause of commotion, had been seized by your friend and was wrapped up in his glove. "Who's idea was it to give the galaxy's most temperamental butcher a thing like this?"

"Matt?"

His voice sharpened, given the impression you hadn't been listening, "What? No, I was talking about Kylo Ren."

"Same thing."

He scrunched up his nose at you before he carried on speaking, still enchanted by the previous moment and buzzing, "It's kind of hard to believe this thing can cause so much damage, especially when you see it up close like this. It looks poorly made, right? When it's activated, I mean. It's like a little kid built it."

He held it up to his eye for closer inspection. The emitter fell perfectly in line with his brow. One wrong move or any pressure on the switch and he would have rendered himself blind.

Nines. Really?

“Why are you holding that thing?” You took a step back as if the lightsaber was cognizant and opportunistic, able to switch itself on.

He spoke on top of you, not with the intention of being rude but only carried away by his access to the fabled weapon, “I wonder how Matt got a hold of it in the first place. I can't believe anyone would test his patience after—” His voice faded out, receding into a swallow.

“—Then think about it, Nines! What is the only reasonable explanation?” Not that Occam's razor would help, seeing that Kylo Ren pretending to be a radar technician was certainly not the simpler explanation. However, unknowing how Matt would react if you revealed his identity, you felt it necessary to least express caution to your friend given that the radar technician had a penchant for hurling his defective glow stick at walls and force-freezing innocent bystanders. Of course, you still considered yourself innocent. Even if on a technicality of ignorance.

FN-2199 ignored your warning, passing his eyes across it as he turned it over in his hands. You were almost nervous at his uncharacteristic fixation upon it. Was it that he could feel the power? Could he imagine how many had perished, ripped apart or otherwise, human flesh being tremendously softer than durasteel? Could he imagine all the devastation?

A shrug followed, allowing for it to drop to his side with a slow rattle of his head. Nines was ambivalent to the Commander’s prop. And it was so like him to have moments, of obvious weight and magnitude, fly over his head. “We should put it in the trash compactor...” His voice broke into a snort again.

Apparently way, way over his head.

His expression made it shockingly difficult to deny, being all teeth and dimples and flaring nostrils. Shaking your head for a definite no, he shook a yes back before continuing, “Imagine the Commander looking all over this frippin' base for this thing..."

In a scolding tone, you tried to allude to the serious nature he couldn't pick up on, "Nines."

"No, wait... Imagine him eventually finding it in the garbage.” Disintegration into snickering, pressing his free hand to his face. There was no one he could make laugh harder than himself.

FN-2199’s taste for hue and cry had only intensified with FN-2187 going AWOL. They were a tight-knit group and his divorce from the Order had changed everyone, but no one more than Nines. The sheer fact that he was entertaining the lightsaber-in-the-trash-compactor scheme was evidence enough. As the saying goes, there’s a first and last for everything. You understood this was not the case for practical jokes on Matt; no first or last anything for it would be a death wish. And you did not want to imagine a day without Nines on Starkiller, as much as he could be cause for nervous tension. Bold and loyal, the ideal companion, he would risk his hide to save yours. It was unspoken, mostly as you avoided letting conversations spike in that direction, but he would make sure that you were okay; he would put your life before his own— and not because he was programed to.

"You will definitely not be throwing Kylo Ren's lightsaber in the trash."

Nines, your recklessness is going to be the end of us both.

Your scolding, the impossible arrangement of words that rolled off your nervous tongue, only made him laugh louder.

The Lieutenant Colonel was a good-natured man, if not melancholic recently. He had a young face which had begun showing signs of aging since the devastation of his son. Sadness hollowed out his expression, tethered with sleeplessness and heartache. Still, he kept his uniform without creases and wore an approachable look at all times. He was always affably composed, even in the days within the shadow of the incident. You were positive that he kept his good nature about him for the great number of troopers that looked up to him as a surrogate parent. So many leaned on him for support and stability that even the most thorough psytech would fail to discern. His were qualities that could not be taught or replicated.

You wondered how truly exhausted he was underneath it all.

And as stillness overtook the room, the Lieutenant Colonel Zack was first to notice the approaching authority. He just about doubled over himself all to properly salute whoever it was that had approached the common area. The Lieutenant Colonel's sudden marvel caused all eyes in the room to pull towards the figure, whose very presence had swept through into the chamber like a cold, arctic Starkiller wind.

“Ah! General Hux. What brings you to our sector?”

#kylo ren #matt the radar technician #kylo ren x reader #matt the radar technician x reader #kylo ren fanfic

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 1.)

Revolution was among you. You could not deny the feeling. No longer were you swayed by the established consensus of peace as everything around you burned. Belief in the Galactic Concordance was belief in a fireside story. Degraded was your planet, maimed by the stagnancy of people left to fend for themselves. Allies and enemies alike kept rations under lock and key with cooperation in extremis. Property was fenced, privatized and off-limits. Policies and curfews were established to minimize increasingly routine incidents and petty crime. Those enforcing laws could be bought and swayed, surveillance witnessed as much or as little as the waning currency dictated. From your corner of the star system, you saw firsthand that the age of conflict was far from over. Independence, as it was sold to you, was harsh and bitter. And so you dreamed of freedom, humbled by fleeting eye-contact in the street with strangers, as occasional as it was. Exchanging expressions with those who existed in parallel hardship was incentive enough to keep your thoughts with your people. Although you shared looks, staring into eyes kept wide with uncertainty, you managed to observe the odd soul with lips curved in blind confidence— as if to say, it won't last forever.

It only took so many years before your impatience outgrew your body. You worried peace would evade you, that life would slip past without remembering its taste.

But then came ambiguous whispers, of rebellion and control, in backlash from the political destabilization which cursed your people. The New Republic was steeped in self-interest and decisions took too long to be effectual. They turned their backs, ignoring the sight of malfeasance and suffering. It wasn't as easy for you, having to conduct your life inside the vale, to simply shut your eyes to the grit and believe all was fine. Change needed to be realized. Had to. Your home world had only sparingly felt like home with the increasing issue concerning the senate and their migratory attention. You harbored frustrations, your very blood running badly, as the needy continued needing. It just— wasn’t right.

As each day came and went, you felt progressively more confident that you could not remain on the sidelines, watching the disintegration of justice. You refused to walk alongside criminals that looked to you without sympathy, of those engaging in the almost constant flow of illegal activity, profiting from a world left to fend for itself. You refused to pass another civilian, dying on the streets from a preventable cause, abandoned by the government. Your parents built a fence to barricade their meager slice of land, coursing and spitting with electricity, all in fear of yet another break-in. Paranoia swelled and eyes averted, no one would look in your direction. It had never felt so bad. And as effortless as it was to stand by and wait still, even the smallest waves in heavy repetition have the capability of erosion. You were tired of the small waves and you were far too young to feel so worn out.

But— as luck would lead you, your introduction to the First Order swooped in with impeccable timing. Coming across an officer on shore leave, they had flagged you down for directions to some nook or cranny that would be impossible for a visitor to find. In your brief encounter as the

conversation took a polite drift, they assured you that they, the Order, would restore authority to your planet and people. They had left you with the impression that there was still power, omnipotent and supreme, that would fix the cavity the Senate had caused. "You should consider joining us." Their words bound you, latching onto your brain that had become sick with worry, "We need more people like you."

Soon, the utterance of the First Order officer became the only words that truly had any impact on you. As you slept and as you were conscious, their voice swirled around your brain until you were fully persuaded and held vindication in a tight grip. You felt assurance that you had found purpose. It felt divine, a desideratum for one who had mourned for the death of liberty for so long.

You would end the internal decomposition of your planet and you would restore it for the sake of all of those you loved and left behind.

Expelled into the stratosphere, you took what felt like your first real inhale. It was action, pursuit of a solution. Diffusion of luminescence from your planet, receding into a speck into the blanket of the universe surrounding you, filled you. You vowed to yourself then, that you would return, but only after you had made a difference. Only after you had made your personal mark upon totality. The upsurge of your thoughts was as luminous as a supernova. There were sparks in your brain, gently snapping and tilting about all that you had previously known.

You would play a role in something much greater than you could conceive.

Time had little comparative value while floating through space on the Finalizer, or stationed where you were on Starkiller Base. The passage of hours, marked in cycles, became your new gauge of days passing. Far removed from the archaic, disorderly squabble of planet life, you were implanted into a tightly regulated schedule that had not yet overridden you with monotony. In this came a purpose and desire to meet your responsibilities, even if adjusting was not as natural of a process as you could have wished for.

Your first post as a junior analyst upon the resurgent-class star destroyer had been remarkably brief. To your great dismay, after being thoroughly acquainted with the advanced operating systems and specialized equipment of the Finalizer, the pull of simulated gravity would prove not to agree with you on a long-term basis. Enervated from bouts of queasiness and with your request for reallocation granted, you had been shifted from the behemoth battlecruiser to the even greater mobile ice planet. You had to learn to embrace the cold, as the residual of it crept through chambers and passageways, frosting windows and inducing shivers. Warmth became somewhat of rarity, but for the sake of your pride, bruised as it had been, you would not allow it to affect you. Fortunately, your new duties did not include you having to leave the shelter of the base. The cracking, unforgiving arctic air was only directly felt if you happened to be crossing a hangar with the gate completely unlatched. It was unlike anything you had expected. Discarding the political and social status, your home planet was rich in its soil. Covered densely by pastures and gardens, you longed for the sight of verdure once again like the forests you spent your childhood in. The bare soles of your feet over fallen tree trunks, or grass matted by dew, were feelings you had almost lost but fought to hold onto.

The base itself, a colossal military operation, sprawling over lowlands surrounded by higher ridges, never truly slept. Troopers and officers fortified themselves with a synthesis of caf and stimulants to meet demands and approval of their overseers. Vigilance was expected within Starkiller's expanse at all moments, being that there was persistent construction and evolution coupled with an unspoken urgency. Competition flourished— to be the best, to set higher standards, or simply still, to be recognized by those in the upper levels of command. You kept up, battling exhaustion in the same way as your peers, until your threshold could accommodate the workload– as it had the chill.

Sourcing an artificial heartbeat from the footsteps of those who wandered her grounds, Starkiller shuttered with life. The sharp and geometric curve of corridors, winding into different chambers and quarters much like arteries and veins, were all kept tidy with meticulousness. There was a painstaking attention to detail from everything to the polished boots that marched about to the sanitation of consoles and keypads. Everything seemed to have its own place as well— you included. You were safe, you belonged. Contained, as you were, with the tart aftertaste of recycled air still occasionally present on your tongue, in every respect you felt in control. As far as you were concerned, the First Order would claim their rightful place and you would return home with satisfaction from aiding the victors.

And this might have been so, if it were not for fate's nirvanic nature, allowing for too many irons to occupy the same fire. 

In the moment, and in retrospect, a supernatural quietness was in attendance about your position. Starkiller’s expected vital signs were at a standstill. Absent was the drumming footsteps of troopers marching about and the near constant flood of sound from the comm. systems lacing the surrounding passageways. Then, there was only you and your ivory-plated associate with everything else, the universe itself included, just beyond the hyaline barrier. Through the transparisteel panel only inches past your face, interstellar clouds of varied hues twisted and tangled over each other, suffused in the great distant blackness. How easily the seemingly delicate sweep of color could permeate the surrounding dark made you feel rightfully small in comparison. In every other direction space was swallowed by infinity, yet, the clouds withstood the mantle in refusal of being devoured. Allowing yourself to be completely drawn into the vista, drifting into and out of your mind in meditation, you and the stormtrooper were happy in your roles of voiceless spectators.

Unknown to you at the time, the moment had been pivotal. Undeniably so. It would all start with one last superficial tick; a pause in what had happened before and what was about to begin. If you had been blessed with hindsight, you wouldn't have stood in stunted silence, in admiration of the view. Instead, perhaps, you might have probed for answers. For explanations, for the secrets that had been solemnly kept from you. You wouldn't have allowed yourself to misspend the time you were graced with. But, you didn’t know then who was just around the corner— and couldn't have known— so therefore wasted away in idle conversation, comfortable that life would carry on just as it had.

“Did you hear that we have a new technician?” You spoke slowly, unhurried. You were still burdened by the illusion of time. With your voice raising into a question, filling the chamber with speech, you gently invited your companion into conversation. Neither he, nor you, turned away from the viewport, as both of you had been memorized yet by the grandeur spread about the sky.

FN-2199, a stormtrooper, looked at the back of your head with a quiet fondness, stolen by his helmet. “Sure did. I've been told the new guy's name is Matt." He paused, shifting his weight from where he stood before adding through a laugh, "Did you also hear that he has no idea what he's doing?”

Finally pulling your eyes away from the swirling interplanetary dust, you switched focus to your armored company over your shoulder, feigning eye contact through his helmet, “So how did he manage to get the job?”

Incompetence and the First Order were not unlike oil and water. No matter of encouragement could make them mix. If you weren't capable of efficiency, it was made clear that you were expendable. The sheer amount of enlisted crew was evidence enough that there was no shortage of volunteers for the cause. You had to prove yourself first to even be considered a worthy candidate for placement on Starkiller. They didn't except just anyone.

The stormtooper raised a hand to the underside of his helmet, giving you the trademark stance of someone formulating a thoughtful response as he scratched his armored chin. Before any word was spoken in reply or otherwise, from around the corridor came the instantly recognizable voice of the technician supervisor, shouting vaguely about how to correctly rewire a calcinator.

“...You’re starting to stress me out.”

From behind you, in the same direction but even more aggressive than the first, an unidentified voice called out as it cut into the undisturbed stillness of the chamber you occupied. You were right to assume the words belonged to Matt, as no one you had associated with would have had the nerve to use the tone he had– Nines included. On the fence between being mortified or entertained, you stifled a small laugh at the outlandish nature of the fresh technician. Considering how he had been so audibly displeased, you could only imagine antipathy washing over the supervisor's face in response to his statement.

The stormtrooper shared your amusement. Without pause, to think or reconsider whatever intention had stirred him to move, he began forward in the direction of the commotion, “I have to see this...”

If you knew FN-2199 as well as you had thought, his curiosity would likely entail more than just harmless observation. Nines, a nickname chosen by his squad mates, was like your planet of origin with all of his predictable unpredictability. Through it all, that may have been what drew you to him; a flicker of personality inside the sterility of order. Of course, there were others that shared his humor but none shared his shrewdness and imagination. Nines had an way about him that allowed him to emerge in idiosyncrasy against the analog of others. Stormtrooper programming would sometimes overextend, able to entirely halt emotional capabilities and behaviors. Nines remained undisturbed and provided you with enough turbulence to keep you from getting homesick.

With the raise of an eyebrow, you prodded, “What are you doing?”

“I’m definitely not going to mess with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You had a feeling, a gut reaction by the way he had responded. Proclivity that Nines was about to knock over the first domino to initiate a terrible chain reaction as you felt he would do the polar opposite of his verbal admission. It was in the tone of his voice, it was in the way you could imagine his eyes. Tearing yourself completely from your position before the transparisteel, from the spill of stars about the sky, you anticipated a scene as he disappeared from your new line of sight.

And you were right.

“Whaddup, Matt?”

Peeking around the corner, you witnessed FN-2199 kick a small wrench away from Matt as he passed by, creating the illusion of an accident. It skid tawdrily down the reflective onyx floor tiles until it lost momentum and froze, completely out of reach from where the technician had been knelling. The levity of the moment was lost on you, and as your focus would allow, the new technician as well. His minacious expression seemed to catch you as you peered at him from behind, though you had no hopes of tearing your eyes away, becoming trapped in his stare.

Turning from you to FN-2199's back as he sauntered away, Matt’s eye twitched with sudden pestilence behind remarkably wiry, antique glasses as if a greater offense had occurred. His cheeks flushed, pooling with blood inside the hellish pause that held of the time between cause and effect. Finally, he called out, “Hey, you kicked my wrench!” And although he was conceivably a new member of Starkiller's operations by his uniform, the reflective vest layered on-top of a technician's flightsuit, his body language had more to say. Remaining on his hands and knees, his entire body shook with tension. Much like a malign creature in a muzzle, he was unable to bark. The best he could do was mutter to himself, words scraping though through a severely clenched jaw, dark and thick with reluctance, “Jerk-face...”

Jerk-face?

Putting aside his childish reproach, you were able to write off Matt's bizarre demeanor to grant him benefit of the doubt. You felt yourself come forward; culpability by association had motivated you as you gingerly retrieved the wrench. He had, after all, seen you poke your head from around the corridor as Nine's riled him up. You quickly considered, if you were to see more of Matt, you didn't need him shaking with anger at each passing. Even so, Matt watched entirely too closely as you moved about, making no effort to hide his browbeat and offense. You could feel it, but couldn't for the life of you match it or acknowledge it. His stare was heavy.

After you picked up the tool, it weighing far more than it should in your palm, your footsteps slowed in your approach. There was something about him and the feeling only grew as you advanced. Something off, auxiliary and strange, especially in his frenzied eyes as they watched you still with senseless hostility. With the wrench in hand, you could feel a temper emanate from his being, disemboguing and flowing like thick, black tar.

It almost felt like you were choking, like there were hands around your neck. Almost.

As soon as you were close enough, he promptly snatched the tool back from you. Securing it immediately to his fluorescent vest all while his virulent glare remained constant, he sized you up. The temper was still there.

You adjusted the collar of your uniform.

“Thank you,” he said, with transparent insincerity and an expression nowhere near gratitude. He pressed against the floor, rising smoothly into his full height before speech was produced again, “Hi. I’m Matt. I'm a radar technician. New here, first day.” He appeared inflamed but spoke in a flat, disjointed tone. Though the engraved nametag corroborated his claim, "MATT" in Galactic Basic Standard, it did not strike you with verisimilitude.

You were hyper-conscious of his movements, and so much so, that you had began to shuffle backwards as he returned to his feet. Looking up through his corrosive stare that continued to challenge you, you were better able to inspect his face. A stipple of freckles, the slope of his pouting lips. Your eyes traveled over the center of his face, without straying in fear of being swallowed up. Although you had adverted being locked into further eye-contact, at your new proximity, you could see what you had not been meant to— what he had wrongfully assumed no one would.

You saw, with your eyes focusing on his crown, that peaking through the blond curls was a halo of darker hair.

... Is that a wig?

As if he had heard you, his face twisted in some expression as both of his hands tugged at the riotous tangle upon his head. Shifting the piece, without obliging you with speech, he only managed to worsen the appearance as a strand or two of black hair unintentionally fell out and into his face.

You're not really a radar technician, are you?

And in thinking this, you were bound. The thought that should have been in private council with yourself, unaware of your audience, was realization enough. Was motive enough. The voice inside your head had ensnared you and it was at that point where you lost control.

You felt frozen in the spot.

And then Matt began changing. A lethal curve of his lips, in obvious pleasure— but for what, you did not know. His voice had softened, becoming richly deep while deceptively innocent, all while he looked through you in inspection of the path Nines had taken, “I’m going to go have a talk with some folks.”

From next to where he had secured the wrench, Matt’s dominant hand revealed something of greater consequence— that which you had been conditioned to fear. That which you had known brought only destruction and decay. He held instantaneous death, mollified in his grip, no less frightening in deactivation.

It's you.

The crimson serrated blade burst forward, screeching, followed by the crossgaurd blades in slight delay. Brushing past you, with your feet completely cemented to the floor, Matt announced as impetuosity wounded his monotone, “Look, I found Kylo Ren’s lightsaber—!”

#two irons #kylo x reader #kylo ren #matt the radar technician #star wars fanfic