…long time ago on Starkiller Base…

"I know – you're wondering what's a girl like me doing in a place like this. I mean it's not like you had a shortage of mechanics before…" I said to the Stormtrooper designated to make sure I didn't get lost. "It's kind of a funny story actually."

"This way," was all I got out of him in a way of reply.

Not unexpected, considering I took the wrong turn. Again. Though that wasn't on me. You can't have a base size of a planet and expect people to know their way around.

"So I was having a quiet night in and the next thing I knew the whole neighborhood was on fire and some psycho cut off a piece of my droid while he was raging over not finding some map. Skywalkers, am I right? Anyways, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I somehow made myself stop glaring at all the Stormtroopers trampling my front lawn, went for my tool bag and started fixing the droid. Yeah I know," I said to the expressionless helmet looking back at me. "I don't consider it a normal human reaction either. But in my defense, when everything's on fire and you feel sure you're about to be shot it's very easy to find that one thing you just might be able to change."

The Stormtrooper gave no indication that he heard anything I've been saying. Smiling to myself I said, "Such a good listener."

"In there," he said only, pointing me towards a room that was clearly the scene of the latest overreaction. The smell of burnt plastic was a dead giveaway.

"So there I was, fixing things as best I could," I continued, determined to go on reminiscing whether he paid attention or not. "I worked on as the Stormtroopers rounded up my neighbors and barely paid any attention to the Sith waltzing around all threatening. I just kept on doing my thing. For a second there I almost thought they'll just ignore me…"

They didn't.

Someone of appropriately high rank took one look at what must have appeared to be incredible ability to keep my cool under pressure and decided they could use someone like me on their team. And by the time someone noticed how uncooperative I was and how much personality I was manifesting it was too late to ask for a refund.

So here I was, rolling my eyes at yet another roomful of smashed machines. "You know, I really thought my life would go differently," I said to the unresponsive Stormtrooper as I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

This mess wasn't going to fix itself.

…later that day…

"Second time today… Seriously? You know, at this point I don't even bother asking myself what the point is. He's clearly off his medication permanently now. But how am I not supposed to feel like I'm wasting my life fixing things he's just going to smash again…?"

The Stormtrooper nanny assigned to me only turned his expressionless helmet at me, offering no comment. No surprise there.

It was damn near impossible to get any reaction out of them. I was starting to suspect that the only reason they still tolerated me around here was that I was their way of testing just how well their brainwashing worked. Anyone who managed to spend an hour with me and my complaints about the latest pile of smouldering machines I was supposed to get back to working order without responding to any of my not-quite-rhetorical questions was pretty much unsalvageable as a normal human being.

Tragic, really. I'd be really upset about it if only there wasn't my own situation to depress over.

After all, here I was doing a job I hated for people who basically grabbed me and told me here's a black uniform, you work for us now. When it came to tragic backstories I was right there with my white-armored colleagues. The only difference was I was not issued with a gun... Possibly because I'd be tempted to turn it on myself.

"Do you ever just stop and look around? You know, appreciate the weirdness? No? Is that just me?" I said to the Stormtrooper, pretty certain he wouldn't tell me even if he did. "Life, am I right? You think you have it figured out - and then it becomes a series of rooms someone had a temper tantrum in…" I sighed.

I worked in silence for a few minutes. Not out of any concern for the Stormtrooper's mental equilibrium, though. I just had a bad feeling. Based on my previous experiences it was only a matter of time before Phasma or someone equally scary and freakishly tall showed up to ask whether their pet Sith managed to ruin something irreplaceable this time and I preferred to save all my sass for that conversation.

I was taking my time digging through exposed cables, almost enjoying myself as I did so. Risking electrocution was one of my favorite things to do long before the First Order supplied me with reasons to stop clinging to life. Though from the look of this today was not going to be the day…

Oh well – there was always my other coping mechanism.

"Have I ever told you my theory about why this operation is doomed to fail? It's basic math. For every kid they snatch they create two pissed off parents ready to join the resistance. And that's two minimum. You know what they actually did by recruiting me? The very next day my mom, my brothers, whole bunch of my cousins and my grandma joined up with the rebels. That's right – somewhere out there there's an eighty year old lady staring at a monitor and choreographing attacks at your outposts… You're as good as finished as far as I'm concerned," I said conversationally to the Stormtrooper.

He didn't seem particularly worried. But then again he never met my grandma. "You have maybe weeks to live. If you're lucky," I said with a smile, digging in my toolbag.

I went back to work, feeling I was getting closer to complaining about Kylo I-know-it's-not-your-real-name Ren with every half-melted component I had to remove. I usually managed to get back to that several times before I was done. One really couldn't help thinking about him while doing this job. It was either that or contemplating the pointlessness of all this – and I very much preferred to do the former.

Maybe it was the part of me that wished he overheard me while I was making one of my sick-of-your-shit-Sith-lord speeches. That's how I knew my life couldn't get any worse. I was actually looking forward to getting force choked simply because there were worse ways to die. Though it had a lot more to do with the fact that there were so very few worse ways to live... Which definitely explained my recent tendency of eyeing Stormtrooper weapons.

"Damn Skywalkers," I said glaring at the damaged control panel. "Because it is all their fault, you know…? They made a mess and the rest of the galaxy has to just deal with it. I mean didn't they think of actually making a thorough job of destroying the Empire? Didn't it occur to them to make sure they got everyone? You can't cut of the head – on a spur of the moment, in the middle of yet another family drama – and just assume that everyone will just go back to democracy. It's not like they didn't know how big an organization it was. Of course it wouldn't just fall apart because you killed one guy…"

"When you're finished with your analysis of historical events," came a familiar voice from behind my back, "perhaps you could tell me how long you're going to take."

"Captain," I said, turning around to find my previous Stromtrooper nanny was replaced by a far shinier equivalent. I gave her my best fake smile.

She just stood there giving off a pretty overwhelming I'm-glaring-underneath-this-helmet vibe. She seemed to do that every time she was forced to interact with me. "He didn't slash through too many important connections so for once I won't have to rewire the whole thing. That should save time," I said doing the barest minimum to keep my annoyance from my voice. "Why? Do you need me to be somewhere else…?"

Somehow I had the feeling her glare intensified, though of course she didn't reply. We didn't talk about the fact that they always made damn sure to keep me as far from their mind-reading sociopath as they could. I guess we all knew how that meeting would go.

"Get back to work," said Phasma, which was her standard response.

"So… did you do anything fun over the weekend?" I asked offhandedly. It wasn't as though she had any illusions about me actually shutting up after being ordered to do so. She knew me better than that. And I knew her counter-intuitive orders about not shooting me no matter how openly I provoked her which made this into a challenge for me. "I was going to go to the range, but apparently I'm not allowed anywhere near loaded weapons. Now tell me, is it because I might go on a killing spree or because I might go goodbye-cruel-world and end this fascinating social experiment prematurely…?" I continued as I tugged at a huge melted mess of clearly unsalvageable components.

Phasma, predictably, gave me absolutely nothing in a way of reply.

I expected nothing less of her. She was a real pro. She could completely ignore me for hours, no matter what rebellious thoughts I was voicing. In another life - one in which she wasn't an evil sociopath working for an organization of evil sociopath - these quiet moments of mutual dislike could have evolved into a bromance.

In this life though I just kept digging through the exposed innards of the machinery in front of me. I managed to do that in silence for whole ten seconds before deciding to try again. After all, this was all I really had in way of entertainment. "Just out of curiosity – how's that armor? Comfy? Because if it's been designed by the same person who designed these uniforms… I mean that guy clearly doesn't know he needs to make accommodations for female anatomy…" I glanced down at my chest uncomfortably squeezed in the too-tight jacket.

"Do you want me to shoot you…?" answered Phasma surprising the hell out of me.

"Yes, please."

She had no comeback to that. If I didn't know better I would think she was surprised by how genuinely whiny that sounded.

Still, she decided not to help me out of this circle of hell in which I found myself. Oh well – if she wasn't willing to pull the trigger there was always Kylo Ren. All I needed was one chance to get close enough to yell your helmet looks stupid and judging by how he treated machinery that never did anything to him I was pretty damn sure he'd end me before I could add what I thought about his war criminal of a grandfather.

But judging by how closely I was guarded at all times the management knew all that too. "So I know someone upstairs decided this is somehow a good idea – to let me run around without being put through conditioning so I can provide normal human reaction… but you don't like it. I can tell you don't like it. You're definitely frowning under that helmet," I said glancing at her over my shoulder. "So why not make both our lives easier and arrange for me to have a little accident…?"

She didn't answer. Though she did incline her head ever so slightly in a direction of a camera that almost definitely recorded me saying all that. Great. I just basically guaranteed she'll make damn sure I'll never as much as stub my toe, in case someone remembers me saying all this.

The more I tried the more the universe conspired to keep me alive. It seemed I was made to suffer.

"And done," I said a couple of minutes later, to my own amazement. I was getting really good at this… I should probably try to hide it before they decided they needed me in Unstable Sith HQ. "Just need a new panel to put over it."

"The service droids can see to that. Let's go…" said Phasma, grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me out of the room.

I should have seen her presence for a suspicious anomaly it was. It was only as I was being quickly escorted through the corridors that it occurred to me that he might still be around. That would definitely explain the rush, not to mention why I had the huge Stormtrooper babysitting me again, even though they went with the normal sized non-shiny ones these days.

"You do get how weird this is, right? I don't want to live, you hate keeping me alive… Darth Fanboy would probably love to kill someone just on principle… Why do we even bother?"

"I have my orders."

I glanced up at her. She probably said that automatically, because it in no way answered my question. "Let's change them. I'm serious. Take me to the general – I bet you it'll take him five minutes around my personality to decide it's alright to shoot me after all…"

I sensed her hesitation. Some part of her must have thought this was a good idea – but it clearly wasn't enough for her to let go of me so I can run down the corridor proclaiming my love for the resistance or something equally suicidal. "Won't work," she murmured almost too low for me to hear.

"Why not?" I said, sounding pretty whiny even to myself.

"Because he met you."

Those words confused me no end, until I realized she might be actually right. I distinctly remembered an interaction or two back when I was first brought here and proclaimed a civilian consultant. Of course. It was all coming back to me now. Part of me always suspected this was someone's twisted idea of a joke, but having it confirmed changed things. All my suicidal thoughts were suddenly quieted by a new, unexpected feeling of purpose, that was in turn pushed aside by another, just as appropriate emotion. Fury.

"I'm going to kill that ginger bastard…"