She hates the cold. He understands, he'd grown up in warm, humid settings. She'd blossomed in more temperate areas, soft summers and mild winters. This is the reason he gives when, in the frozen landscape of the southernmost region of the planet, she clings to him like a child to her favorite blanket.

"It's freezing," she mutters, face on his chest. "I thought it was supposed to get warmer, the further south you go."

He nods, smoothing a hand over her back and ignoring the frostbitten toes on his calf. "It does. To a certain point." And this becomes a brief geography lesson, him explaining that temperature is highest at the equator, the line that divides the planet in half, separating the north from the south. The further away you go, in either direction, the colder it becomes. She is tired, he can see it in her eyes, but she listens, pays attention to his every word.

"We should go somewhere warm next," she says, as if they were planning a vacation, just the two of them, not the movement of an entire military force.

"Warmer places have bugs. And venomous animals. And poisonous plants."

"At least I'll die warm," she retorts and he doesn't stop himself from smiling at how petulant she sounds.

Later, when she is allowing them to get to know her better, she will say that home for her has always been the people who surround her. She has never identified with four walls, never known the pull of returning to a familiar place. She will say it bluntly and he will not be able to ignore the way her eyes flit to him first. But right now they are in his bed, and he can still pretend that she is only here for creature comforts. Tonight she is cold. Tomorrow she might seek out other things his body can offer. It's less messy that way, less complicated, to pretend that all they are to each other is replicable bodies.

"You think too much," she chides, softly kissing his cheek.

"You learned the ways of the Force? Mind reading is the way of the darkside, you know?"

"I wouldn't have to read your mind, even if I could."

"Why not?"

She grabs his hand, the one not settled on the curve of her back. "Because you tap your fingers when you're thinking."

She smiles, soft and genuine and rare (though maybe less rare recently) and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he could grow to like the cold.

Many believed that with the death of Emperor Sidious (formerly Chancellor Palpatine) that the Empire would fall. The rebellion that brought him down and destroyed their best weapon thought of the Empire as a snake, remove the head and the body dies. Perhaps like a chicken, remove the head and the body runs around aimlessly for a time before finally collapsing, its remains ready to be fed upon by vultures. This is why many countries, cities, and peasant villages celebrated for days after the explosions.

The Empire was not a snake. Some would call it a hydra, remove one head, another two would grow in its place. Others would say phoenix, perhaps falling once, but rising up again stronger than before.

It doesn't matter what it was compared to. The death of an old men, two old men, was not the death of the Empire. There were still many other figures, many other cogs in the machine, who did not want to release their power. This is why many more did not celebrate, why many more were surprised into silence.

District Administrator Brisen had been in charge of a small district of no consequence when the Emperor fell. Having done little to draw attention to himself, not being particularly terrible nor particularly distinguished, he managed to hold the small space even during the brief periods of Republic rule in the country. He is not well liked by the laypeople, generally forgotten or avoided. He lives comfortably, living off the sweat of others without inflicting the cruelty upon them directly. He caused no trouble for anyone and no one caused trouble for him. It was a lovely arrangement.

This is why he is surprised when one unassuming day the door to his study opens and a visitor walks in, fully dressed in First Order attire. He gives a name, one that Brisen quickly forgets, and informs him that his presence has been requested.

"May I ask by whom?"

"The Intelligence Sect, sir. Transportation for you and your household has been arranged. We can leave immediately."

Brisen could hear the underlying meaning to the words 'we will be leaving Immediately.' He swallows hard and stands. "Perhaps I should pack some things."

"That won't be necessary." The man gave a smile, an attempt, perhaps, at reassurance. It was over bright and forced, only adding to Brisen's obvious discomfort.

"Well. Alright then."

He was quickly escorted to a small carriage, black and nondescript. He sat across from the young official who was sent to collect him, the car otherwise empty despite the hint that his staff was joining them. With the curtain drawn he could not see outside, but one glance at his escort told him that peeking out the window was ill advised. The ride was silent and smooth and long, the weather mild. Under other circumstances he might have fallen asleep. But the man before him (who he was beginning to suspect was a bit more important than he'd assumed, if only he could remember his name) kept his hands pleasantly folded in his lap and a small revolver at his hip. It did not encourage napping.

When they finally reached their destination, some hours later, Brisen could hear the hustle of city life behind him but did not risk turning away from the small building before him. It was lacking the First Order's customary dark aesthetic, he considered that maybe this wasn't an official station. Once inside he was guided to a small, dimly lit chamber. The man who had taken him this far quickly gave a slight nod then took his leave. For a few spare minutes, Brisen was left alone to his imagination. He could not recall anything that he could have done. Nothing to displease his superiors, nothing to draw in their interest. Thoughts are still turning in his mind when the door opens again, letting in two men and a small cart.

The first, dark haired and rather short, looks Brisen over with something resembling anticipation. The other, tall and red headed, seemed to have taken on a tense, but somehow bored, stance.

"Good morning Administrator Brisen," the red head said, standing erect with his hands behind his back. He did not offer his name.

"Good morning."

"If all goes as planned, this should not take much of your time. We have some questions."

"Questions?"

"Yes." He glances to the dark haired one. "You may begin."

Screams echoed down the corridors. Brisen was not a man who had seen combat, had not built up a threshold for pain. With each question that he gave an unsatisfactory answer to, the more instruments of torture were introduced.

Questions about his loyalty were met with punches to the face and stomach. Questions about security brought welts, beaten into his back and stomach with a whip. Fire had been held over his legs and feet till the skin raised red and angry then gray and black with burning, the scent of his own flesh and the horrific feeling flooding his senses. His fists had clenched, unconsciously, and later he would find his hands slick with blood from wounds inflicted by his own fingernails.

Now, with a nod from the red head, the dark-haired man reached to the lower level of the shelf and began to pull out a metal contraption. Brisen, mind blurred by the onslaught of pain, was brought to the present by the possibility of escape.

"Hux?" He muttered, eyes fixed on the red haired man. He glanced up, eyes sharp, and frowned. Brisen's voice had been more than hoarse, it had been a sharp crack followed by gravel. He swallowed hard, or tried to, but found his mouth and throat dry. "Hux, right? I knew your father."

Knew was a strong word. He had heard of the man, saw him from a distance less than a handful of times. They had never met, formally or informally. But he would build a million bonds with any figure who could get him from this mess.

The boy, the younger Hux, gives no indication that he actually cares. If anything his already tense disposition seems to worsen, face pinching.

"I think I'll leave you to this, Matrius," he gives a slight nod, then makes his exit. With the red head gone the other smiles, the expression nearly splitting his face in two, and Brisen knows, can sense, that his troubles are only just beginning.

There is the sound of whirring metal. It takes seconds for the screaming to begin again. No more than a minute after Hux abandoned the interrogation room he can hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind him. When he turns, he is surprised to see Captain Phasma rapidly approaching.

"I thought you would still be assisting the idiot," he mutters, reaching in his coat pocket for a cig.

"I am. He thought, maybe, Brisen could also have information on the map." Phasma, unlike Hux, was positioned to participate in open combat. For that reason, she was very rarely out of her full battle uniform. He thinks he can count on his hands the number of times he's seen her in civvies. However, even without being able to see her face behind the mask, he can sense he disapproval. The cig, unlit, goes back into his pocket.

"Fine. This is only our second stop, there's three more left."

"Well, it's best to be thorough. You of all people seem to know that, General."

It's been more than a month but Hux, General Hux, has yet to become accustomed to his new title. He has taken all of the responsibilities head on, excelling in most of them. He does not mind the added work, actually enjoys it in his way. It's the title, the title, that he has not yet made his own.

"I should make contact with the squadron we sent to his home. Perhaps they've found something?"

The Captain nods. "I'll supervise the interrogation." With that General Hux shifts briefly on his feet and walks in the direction of the makeshift comm room. As Phasma approached the door the screaming, having once echoed through the corridors, abruptly stopped. When she opened the door she could see Matrius wiping off his instruments. The man, Brisen, sits in a chair. A sheen of sweat covers his brow, even in sleep his features are etched with distress, pain.

There are stumps where the fingers on his left hand used to be. Blood drips onto the floor, smears along his palm.

"If you don't handle those soon, he will die," she warns.

"Yes," he smiles. "I suppose I should call for a medic. And the others? How are they doing?"

There were four domestics who made up Brisen's household. These were an elderly man who served as his cook, the elderly man's son who managed the landscape, and the maid who tended to the house. In addition to this there was an errand boy. Of the four brought to the station, only one was refusing to speak and Phasma had understood why as soon as she saw him. The errand boy was young, she could tell by his short stature and slight frame. He was probably poor, as told by the way he was bundled in seemingly endless layers of tattered clothing. A boy like him could be seen on any corner, doing various jobs for any number of men. This one would stand out, however, due to the fact that his face was entirely wrapped in gauze and fabric. There were three slits, two for the eyes and one for the nose. The other three who were taken in had said, when the interrogator continued to question him, that they had never heard him say a single word. They didn't think that he could.

When Phasma brought this up to Matrius, he grinned. "Well, give me five minutes. I'll have the little bastard screaming."

The Captain, somewhat hesitantly, nodded. If anyone had the information to discern where Brisen's loyalties lay, with the Resistance or the First Order, it would be the one who carried out his work for him.

She took the errand boy to interrogation, not missing how his neck snapped to watch Brisen carted out of the room. The set of his shoulders stiffened, Phasma placed him in the chair that his employer had only just vacated. The seat had not been cleaned and she could see the boy's eyes, large and dark lashed, staring at the red smears.

"Let's see about getting those bandages off, hmm?" Matrius leered, renewed excitement in his features. Facial coverings like that would make perfect cover for a Resistance spy, but Phasma wondered if the boy really was a mute, perhaps the gauze indicating a medical problem.

When Matrius reached for the tail end of the wrappings, the boy reacted violently, lashing out with both hands and feet. Matrius, standing above him, delivered a sound punch to the jaw and the boy was sent back into the chair. After forcing the boy's hands behind his back and tying them together he managed to unwrap the top layer, which was mostly soiled bits of cloth, some blue, some the off gray of something that was once white. However the next layer posed a challenge, Matrius could not find the start of the strip, the bit he would pull to unwind the bindings like a loose thread. He quickly lost patience, reaching for a scalpel to cut a path. Phasma heard the door open behind her and turned to see another officer.

"Captain, your presence has been requested in the barracks," she muttered quickly, obviously nervous.

Phasma nodded. "Of course," her gaze flits back to Matrius, who had paused in his endeavors to watch the exchange between her and the other officer closely. Seeing that he had been caught in the act he tried to look away.

"Stay here," she said to the new comer. "All interrogations are to be supervised, after all."

He gave a nod before turning back to the prisoner. The door had barely closed when he began cutting through the gauze, using the scalpel to make a tear. Unwrapping it from around his skull proved to be tedious work, eyes glaring at him the entire time, but the prize was well worth it. In the end he saw why it had been difficult, the errand boy had shoved both ends of the gauze into his mouth before looping it around. Matrius gave a genuine smile as he took in the smooth, somewhat dirty features. No sign of scarring or injury, he was certain that the bindings had been a disguise. Maybe the gauze in the mouth had been a reminder not to speak.

He leaned forward, pupils dilating as they roam over wide, angry eyes, and swollen, red mouth.

"This will be interesting."

Phasma returned not long after. It was a small matter, a skirmish among comrades. She was present to hear stories and dole out discipline before returning to the room. A part of her haste was lack of interest in the monotonous task, minor strifes were surprisingly common in such a strict regime. The other part was the need to be with Matrius during this affair. The man got results, there was no contesting that, but Phasma had not liked the look in his eyes. Her suspicions were confirmed when she opened the door.

Matrius was still there, standing. His tools were, surprisingly, still clean. He was standing, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, with the scalpel in hand.

What caught Phasma's attention was the young girl he was pointing the scalpel at. For a moment she thought that she was the housekeeper, but she had seen that woman. She was older, somewhat stockier than the girl who now stood before her, half naked and wide eyed.

"The errand boy?" She asked, the static of her helmet doing little to cover her surprise.

"Yes. Well, not quite boy, I would think. Not quite a beauty either." Matrius was grinning like a mad man now as the girl jerked in different direction, trying to avoid his touch. Phasma noticed for the first time that she wasn't wearing pants, the front part of her shirt had been cut open. If not for the many layers protecting her, the Captain was certain that she would be naked. "Not that she'll let me get a look at her," his eyes had yet to leave the girl's face. "Take it off."

"No." The words are coarse and raspy.

"Ah, she speaks. Not quite a scream, but I have time," his gaze flitted to the Captain, as if sharing a joke, and the girl took advantage of his distraction. She lounged forward from her crouched position, taking the scalpel from his hand and wrapping her arm around his throat.

"I don't know anything. The old man had me bring him whores and alcohol, nothing more."

"Then why disguise yourself?" Matrius asked, cocky demeanor showing that the sudden change of events had done nothing to dull his mood. "Why go through all that trouble to hide?"

The girl brought the knife to his neck, scowling. She was shorter than him and had to shift her footing, a motion that brought Phasma's attention to long, powerful looking legs. The feet were clean, but long nailed and calloused. There were various cuts and bruises, each at different stages in healing. This was not what caught Phasma's attention. Instead it was the tattoo, half covered by the hem of her shirt. It was an ornate, almost pretty thing, a symbol that marked the girl as property. More specifically, a sex slave.

"You're a runaway?"

The girl glared at her. "Yes."

The act of human trafficking was technically illegal. But, like many other acts under the Republic, it had often gone unnoticed. There were various entities who specialized in breeding and trading, some of the victims the result of war, some of kidnapping. Still more were sold by relatives, due to the striking poverty of their populations.

"I don't know anything. And I don't think the old man does either." She presses the blade more firmly against Matrius's throat. "Just let me go. Or I'll cut him open."

The Torturer laughed. The girl's gaze cut at him for an instance, not quickly enough to prepare for his head swinging back and knocking her in the face. She winced with pain, stumbled back, and Matrius took advantage of the moment to turn and kick her in the stomach. She fell to the floor and he snatched the scalpel from her fingers.

"Give me five minutes Phasma. She'll sing." The smile had yet to leave his face. He was panting a little, but did not seem fatigued at all. If anything the girl's struggle only heightened his anticipation.

"That's enough Officer," Phasma commanded, stepping forward.

He jerked back, scowling in confusion. Then, quickly, he remembered who he was speaking to.

"Yes, Captain," he stood at attention and saluted, rigidly. For a second the man looked angry, then he gained control of his expression and looked almost mocking. Phasma felt that she was looking at a petulant child, angry that he was kept from torturing his pet.

"There are other prisoners that require your attention."

"Yes. Of course." He saluted once more before turning back to his table. Phasma took advantage of the moment to offer her hand to help the girl up, but she simply pushed herself up and went for her pants. She was pulling them on when Phasma turned to the young officer who had been present but did not intervene.

"Take this one back to the holding cell. Bring us the son."

The young officer nodded, placing handcuffs on the errand boy- girl's- wrist. She tensed briefly, as if preparing to resist, but seeing that Matrius was otherwise occupied, she allowed the bindings.

Phasma stands at the door, watching and waiting for the next subject, when General Hux returns.

"There's no indication in his home of subversion."

"How can you be certain?"

"He doesn't do much. To sell information one must have information. There's no reason that such a lowly man would have access to the plans, nor any evidence that he stole anything." Down the hall they could see the approach of the handyman, a well built, middle aged man with weather worn features. Hux shook his head. "Send them back to their hovel. There's nothing to find here." As an afterthought. "Maybe with a new title. For his troubles." For his silence.

"There was an incident," she began. "The errand boy they brought in was a girl. In disguise."

"A spy?"

"No. A fugitive." She surprises even herself with the hesitation in the next sentence. "I have reason to believe she is a runaway pleasure girl."

Hux's face reflects confusion for a moment, then understanding. "Reason to believe?"

"A tattoo. On her thigh."

"Hmm. Perhaps it is a cover story. A sort of failsafe, in case she was ever caught," he ponders this. "We should interrogate her. Just to be certain. Bring her to Matrius."

"She's already been to Matrius. He's the one who made the discovery." Phasma leans against the wall beside Hux. A momentary lax in decorum. "That's actually a part of the incident. When I returned to interrogation he was holding a knife at her to force her to remove her clothes."

"Far worse things have happened to people who have sat at his table."

"I know this Hux. And if it had been an interrogation technique, some method to get her to speak, I would not have thought twice about it. Matrius didn't care if stripping her made her speak or not. He simply wanted her naked." And it was because he knew, after seeing how she hid her identity, that she did not want to remove her clothing. To reveal herself. "We exist to restore order Hux. Not to needlessly terrify little girls."

"Those things are not always mutually exclusive, Phasma." His fingers twitched over the cig in his pocket. "Bring the girl to me. We'll see what she knows."

"What is your name?" He asks.

The girl stares at him blankly. "Your hair color. I've only seen it once."

Hux frowns. "Name, girl."

"Mouse."

He waits for her to finish, give a last name, but it seemed as if she was finished. "Is that all?"

"Some call me Boy."

He sighs. "Last name?"

"Oh. Don't have one."

"And you are a ... pleasure girl?"

Her face set in a frown. "I used to be."

"I've been told that there is a tattoo on your upper thigh."

"Yes."

"Show it to me."

The girl's eyes grew hard, but she stood any way and dragged her pants to the middle of her thigh. He could make out the tattoo easily on the light skin, though it appeared worn with age. He let his eyes flit over it for a moment before taking some notes on a page. When nothing else was demanded the girl, somewhat confused and more than a little wary, pulled her pants back up and returned to her seat.

"Where were you before coming here?"

"I've been in different places. Never really paid much attention to names. Some were cities, most villages."

"And the name of your owner?"

The girl bristled visibly at that. "I don't have an owner."

"The man who purchased you, what was his name?"

"I don't know."

"I've been told that owners give their slaves a second brand, to mark them as theirs.

Shall we check for your second mark?"

"You won't find one." She smiles, thin and bitter. "Most pleasure women aren't rebranded. Lessens the resale value. If you're going to kill me, then do it. But I won't go back to that place."

Hux stood, scowling down at her. "And where will you go now? Back to the Resistance?"

The bitter smile returns. "What has the Resistance done for me?"

He leaves the room, nearly running into a large black mass in a mask. Hux nearly curses but remembers himself. "Lord Ren. Have you made progress in your search?"

It is less an update and more a taunt, knowing that Ren is no closer to finding his map than he was when last they met. He really shouldn't be surprised when the twit returns the favor. "Has the spy hunt produced any results?"

Both glare at each other for a moment (or at least Hux assumes that Ren is glaring back) before Hux steps into the hallway. "Is that the girl?"

"Yes." Hux responds, somewhat confused.

"I can make her talk. If she's still being difficult." The others had apparently been subjected to him as well, just to be certain, she was the last.

"If you wish." Hux steps aside and watches Ren settle into the seat he just vacated.

The girl stares at him with curiosity, perhaps not realizing that the man was about to reach into her mind, tear through it if necessary. Her brow furrowed, as if in mild discomfort, but there was none of the pain associated with Ren's touches, when people would resist him.

"I saw nothing of interest," he says in passing, not stopping to address Hux properly. "She's not worth the effort."

Hux turns, regards the girl one more time, then turns away. He motions to the storm trooper by the door. "Release the girl. Arrange for her transport back to Brisen." He doubted that she would stay there long, but he supposed that it would be a good starting point.

Kit has been many things. She has been witness and orphan. She has been product. She has been whore. She has been fugitive. For the last four years she has been boy, servant to an old man who, if he had known who she was, may have wanted other things from her. For the last four years she has been mute, covering assumed disfigurement with layers of cloth, even on hot, sweaty days. Kit (though few know her by that name) is very good at surviving. She has done this by changing her skin, her identity. She will have to change again. Maybe in the next town she will be female again, maybe she'll get a real job, like shopkeeper. She was a simple girl. She just wanted to be left alone.

She is only a little surprised when she sees the armored woman leaning against her carriage.

I wonder if she's really that tall, she thinks to herself, stepping forward.

"Am I to be returned to interrogation?" Kit asked. "I was told that I was being released."

Phasma closed the space between them. "You said that the Resistance has done nothing for you." Kit nods in response. "Have you ever considered joining the First Order?"

Kit laughs. "No offence, but the First Order hasn't done much either."

"We haven't been given the chance."

"Thank you for the offer. But I think I'll go." She moves past Phasma, pulling her hair into a tail and tying it with a strip of her mask.

"He made you feel weak. Made you feel small and powerless. Naked." Kit paused to listen to her words, hand on the door. "Join us." She pushed a clipboard forward and Kit could see questions written on the page. "You can create a new identity for yourself, leave the past and the pain behind. No one will ever make you feel weak again."

Kit turned and gazed at the barren wasteland that had been her resting place for two years now. It had been nice.

She took the clipboard from Phasma's hand.

The next time Hux saw Phasma the crew was preparing for transport. It was time for the next search, this time in Mygeeto. It was a setting that he was more comfortable in, he supposed, being more modern.

The next time he saw Phasma she was not alone. Instead she was followed by a young woman. She was not wearing Stormtrooper armor, opting instead for the black uniform that his officers wore. Her hair, dark and thick and curly, was brought to a tight bun.

It took him longer than he was comfortable with to recognize the errand boy.

Like this, it was hard to see how anyone mistook her for a boy. The face, though not beautiful, was obviously feminine, with a full mouth and wide, darkly lashed eyes. Her form was also that of a woman's. She had taken great care to hide herself away, and was willing to die to maintain an illusion.

Hux found Phasma alone not long after. "The errand boy?"

She shrugs, a difficult gesture to notice under so much metal. "She goes by Kit."

"She told me Mouse."

"That's what Brisen called her, and his staff. She prefers Kit."

Kit. Like a kitten. He rolls his eyes, that is no proper name for a grown woman. "And she has enlisted?"

"Yes."

The errand boy -Kit, he reminds himself, is pretty. Pretty and young and he contemplates whether or not this is the reason for Phasma's softness towards her. "I wasn't aware that you required an assistant."

"She'll deal with menial tasks."

"Do you not think it could be a bad idea? Hiring a girl who was just a suspect in investigation?"

"Kylo cleared her."

"Yes, his mystical mysticism."

"Do not mock the Force," she warns. "The Supreme Leader does no-"

"Yes. I am well aware. Just make sure that she does not make any trouble for us. Yes?"

"Yes General."