What most people don't realize is just how subjective memory actually is.

When he is charged with extracting information from one prisoner or another, he knows that most in his company believe the process to be simple, as if the mind is a database of security recordings to be accessed with a wave of his hand. Just one of the many misconceptions non-Force users have about his capabilities, the applications of the power that flows through him.

He only makes it look easy.

Even the most easily opened mind requires a skilled interpreter to sift through the billions of neurons, to follow branching electrical paths through a veritable universe of synapses, all chattering with a thousand voices every second just to control the twitch of a finger trapped in uncomfortable restraints, the ragged exhale of breath, the panicked shifting of eyes searching for a way out. The information he seeks must be drawn out like prey, touching any connections he can find and following them until it inevitably reveals itself.

Some resist for a short time, but in the end, it only allows him more time to explore. Your valiant effort not to expose the secrets entrusted to you leads you to concentrate hard on something, anything else. You feel sweat roll down your neck, your body burning in that stuffy room with pain, with panic, with desperation.

It feels like a fever, the worst you've ever had. You remember the last time you were ill, laying on that cot in the infirmary, sweating and heaving your guts because of a stupid mistake, filling up your water canteen in that river after refueling in that village and no, no, that mission was secret too. You mustn't think of the planet. When you were ill like this as a child, your mother made you a soup so hot that your lips still burned with spice long after you were done, but it was like a breath of life and it was good, not like the dry rations you choke down on long flights, the easily-produced mash you eat in that crowded mess hall with the mismatched benches on base...but even despite the food, to be back safe on base...yes, the base…

To say he sees it all, or reads it, is a laughable oversimplification of the process. For just these moments, he lives it. The squeak of the seat you always take during briefings, but only as you turn to the left. The way your heart rate only finally returns to normal when you drop out of hyperspace beside the smallest moon, which you always do, because from that approach the islands off the main continent look like three muddy green stepping stones leading you home. The hallway you travel down for no reason other than to see the girl who repairs the droids. He feels the sinking in your stomach when she is not there and the quiet thrill when you hear the rasp of her voice through a doorway, an accent you don't know her well enough to ask about…

Then you are gone and your droid girl is as good as dead.

Days later, he still craves the soup.

This time, it's her memory of the green that gets him.

Her eyes had taken in her first sight of Takodana like a thief standing in a rich man's vault, and indeed, the lush forests practically glimmered in her mind's eye. He's seen the place himself, and it never looked half as beautiful as it did through her eyes, filtered through fifteen years of thirst and sand and struggle.

He knew that she felt she could not have even dreamed of such a place, wondered who she might be had she had the chance to grow in a place like this, so full of life. She could live by the water, maybe even on an island like she'd always imagined. No dry skin here, no grit of sand between her teeth. No rusting ships to scavenge either, but then, she wouldn't need to rely on Jakku's ever-fluctuating exchange rate for the bulk of her calories in a place like this. Here, she could probably hunt a month's worth of meat in a single afternoon. She might even get fat.

That was the bit that nearly made him laugh, that single flash in her mind. He felt sure that he had worn armor heavier than that girl.

And yet here he lay, recovering from wounds she'd given him. What a grave miscalculation he had made. Had he just taken the droid it would have been a drastically different day, but that little glimpse he'd taken had awoken a curiosity inside him. Beneath her fear, a kind of purity, a strength, a righteous sureness in herself that was almost dizzying for him to take in. And he'd wanted more; carried her off to examine like the records he'd sneaked out of the archives and into his room as a child, desperate to read more about the powerful warriors of times past without anyone looking disapprovingly over his shoulder.

Had it been a mistake? Certainly Hux and the others would say so, and it was easy to agree as he experimentally moved the raw skin of his face where a scar would soon harden. But to see the change in her face as she grasped at her very first moments of power, to be inside her head as she slowly, surely pushed into his...it was like witnessing the birth of a new universe. For that moment, her elation had been his, and the constant weight of all his fear had lessened slightly, divided among two hearts now.

And in the end, he had been the one who could not handle it. Had left her to collect himself, to recover from the overwhelming vulnerability she'd made him feel.

He spends three nights awake, just remembering.


What most people forget to tell first-time travelers is how impossible it is to sleep that first week away from your home sun.

At first she thinks it's the adrenaline. It's natural, she thinks, for it to be hard to wind down after the whirlwind she'd just been through. It's not that she isn't tired. But every time she closes her eyes, she sees bodies falling into the abyss, ships blasting the ground around her feet, the red glow of a lightsaber inches from her neck, held by a creature in a mask…

At least, that's what he'd been then.

By the fourth night back at the base, she begins to think that her problem may be biological, not just psychological. With fifteen of her twenty-odd years spent anchored to that junkyard planet, her body still seems to be on Jakku time—and all the time spent traveling in the Falcon certainly hasn't helped.

Perhaps, she thinks ironically, a true Jedi doesn't have to sleep, can instead replenish their energy by meditating for a few hours each day. That was one of the fairy tales she'd heard about the Jedi, wasn't it? It's hard to sort out now, what was made up and what might in fact be real.

She decides to give it a try anyway.

It takes a few moments of shifting around to find a comfortable position on the floor, but when she does, she's surprised how easy it is to even her breathing and relax even with her back stick straight. Some people find meditating to be a waste of time, she knows, but she has a bit of experience sitting around with only her own mind for company, so what can it hurt?


What she doesn't realize is that to open her mind this way with no guidance, no training, is like a soft whisper in his ear, even from an innumerable amount of stars away.

But only because he'd been listening for her.

Her energy is troubled, yet still humming with that unmistakeable wholeness that he so lacks. He finds himself holding perfectly still, as if a movement might shatter her presence in his head. Someone so new to this power, this life, ought not to be attuned enough to sense him observing on the other end, but she had surprised him several times mere hours after discovering her skills. She'd pull away immediately if she sensed him again, that much was certain, especially considering the way they had parted.

Would she have killed him? Yes, he realizes after a moment. There is no question there.

Would he have killed her? He thinks he already knows the answer to that as well. He'd had the upper hand for a long moment, after all. She was strong despite the delicate-looking frame, but even wounded, simple gravity was on his side. All it would have taken was a bit of a push…

But what had he done instead? Practically begged her to submit. A power like that would be a crime to snuff out, even his master had known it, had wanted her brought before him so he could feel her potential for himself.

Yes, it must have been the power that continually drew his thoughts.

He takes a steadying breath, his sense of her growing ever-so-slightly stronger. The increasing feeling of tranquility tells him she must be meditating, but an underlying exhaustion betrays the fact that sleep has eluded her as well.

Of course meditation would come naturally to her, he thinks bitterly. Why wouldn't it? As a learner it had always been his weakest point, unable to empty himself of tumultuous thoughts, of anger and ego and desire. Even his attempts to connect with the Dark Side, to focus his anger and hate into an inner power, had resulted in little more than a restless mind constantly dwelling on thoughts and memories he'd rather leave behind.

He sits up suddenly, in spite of the pain. He is beginning to think she exists just to taunt him.


The sudden swell of jealousy in her chest nearly knocks her over.

Perhaps this is what happens when you open yourself to the Force, she thinks. Her eyes are open now, her heart pounding. Perhaps it shows you truths within yourself that even you are not aware of. But why would I be jealous? She searches her feelings in earnest. Who would I be jealous of?

Everyone she knows has had more than their fair share of misfortune, it would seem, and especially in the last few days. It would be almost impossible to compare them, needlessly cruel to try and determine who has the better lot. Is nearly two decades of loneliness and scraping by in the desert sun worse than a lost brother, a traitor son, a dead lover? What about a childhood and free will lost to the First Order? A fear and uncertainty so consuming that each moment of your life feels like it is being lived by two people?

She's not sure why she thinks of him like that. She hates him for what he's done, all the death and fear and division he's caused. Her back still hurts from where it met the tree nearly twenty feet up. He doesn't deserve her sympathy or consideration, yet that moment spent inside his head still lingers with her—all that anger, all that regret, all that dangerous desire and jealousy…

The realization turns her cold.

It is not her own feeling. It belongs to him.


Somehow, she knows. The flood of fear in his own chest tells him that. Stupid, stupid, he thinks. How is it that he gave himself away? There's no way she should have felt him so clearly with her level of experience, but then, he doesn't know why he's so surprised. The impossible seems to be quite standard with her.

His first reaction to being detected might have been to lash out, but frankly, he's a bit too sore for that. Besides, all the equipment in this room is necessary for his recovery. And anyway, she was already pulling away. If she felt the full force of his anger, she might never open herself that way again, too afraid of his negative energy on the other side. To shut her mind would be disastrous for her power, might stunt her abilities altogether. He couldn't let that happen even if she'd rejected him as a teacher, had looked at him like he was insane for even suggesting it.

Not to mention that he'd never feel that wonderful wholeness of spirit again.

He had to control his emotions. It was a tired refrain from his childhood and training, one he'd rejected and rebelled against his whole life, and he couldn't believe he was now repeating it to himself while drawing slow, steady breaths as he laid back down. If his master were to sense what he was doing, punishment would surely follow. But Snoke isn't here right now, and he won't let himself be the one to frighten Rey off from exploring her power.

He draws another breath, exhales, and pictures the only thing to bring him comfort in a long while.


As quickly as it had come, the tight feeling in her chest eases. It's an odd sense of ease, not the relief she expects as if pulling her hand from a hot stove, but more like the feeling of calm that comes from a gentle hand on her shoulder, or on the small of her back.

He is still there. This is coming from him.

And the truly odd thing is that she's sure she's never been touched like that, not really, not in a manner that truly brought her comfort. She holds still, paralyzed by both unease and confusion though but a moment ago she was tempted to bolt from her room screaming for help. She hadn't even been sure he was still alive, the way she'd left him across that yawning chasm, but she was positive she felt him again, his energy unmistakeable.

Don't be afraid. I feel it too. That's what he'd said. That had confused her at the time, too. Shouldn't he relish her fear, draw power from it? Why try to comfort her, ease her mind?

Another wave of calm washes over her, one she can't believe comes from the same restless mind she peered inside. It's powerful, especially after nearly a week with no sleep. Another wave, and she feels her eyes droop. Another, and she has to jerk suddenly to catch herself sliding out of her sitting position. Are they in time with his breaths? Or simply pulses of his own mind? Should he be able to do this to me?

She is tired enough to decide to think about it later, and climbs into her cot once more. She's safe, after all. He's not inside her mind like he had been before, she can feel that. He's just…present. And his intent is plain, no matter how confusing. She'd begged for sleep several nights in a row, after all, and you know what they say about beggars and choosers. Another wave nearly makes sigh with relief. Overkill, she mumbles as her eyes drift shut, giving in.

This time there are no bodies, no ground crumbling beneath her feet. Only the lush, glimmering greens of a place where she might have grown up with a full stomach and soft hands.