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Chapter One

The Ghost of the Hallaport Cantina

"He's a wallflower. You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand."

- Stephen Chobsky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

They came to me as whispers. Soft, quiet, in the back of my head. They came loudly after the Resistance killed my father. Loudly after the First Order killed my mother. You will see them again, they told me. As the First Order retook the planet, they led me from the base and back home, away from the carnage. Move here, they said, Step right, not left. Forward, then right again. Climb the hole in the fence. Run for the trees. The whispers never really formed words, but I interpreted the instructions as them. Whether they were simply intuition or not, I will never know. But it guided me, taught me, and enveloped me when I laid in my hard bed after an even harder day.

Today, they kept me vigilant. I woke with a half hour to dress and eat before my shift at the port cantina. Straight, angular, dark uniform of the First Order on. Dark apron on top of that. Long, light brown hair in a tight bun on the back of my head. I was out with ten minutes to spare; thankfully, the cantina was just around the corner from the apartment complex.

There was some conversation, but not much. When the Resistance had control of Turshaval, there was almost always a cacophonous uproar in the cantina; colorful people of so many races and species talking and joking and eating. Now, under the First Order, things were more rigid. What I overhead about conversation was about work. Neither was... better, per se. The cacophony of the Resistance could be quite annoying, especially when short on sleep. But then again, so could the silence and murmuring.

I felt a whisper, and caught the box flying at the back of my head without blinking or even turning much. It was a box of gloves, thrown by one of the dishwashers, a smirking girl a bit younger than me with darker skin and dyed blonde hair named Malia.

"Good morning," I giggled.

Malia grinned, "I love testing those reflexes of yours, Ili."

"Thanks," I said dryly. I pulled on a hairnet and slipped on the gloves, "FC-1866 here yet?"

"Yes, now begin your duties," Came the calm, half-dead voice of the cantina lead from further back in the kitchens. One of the First Order, not a stormtrooper but memory wiped and raised from infancy for their role in feeding the armies. I stifled a laugh; he always sounded so soulless. I wondered if all the stormtroopers and their adjutants were like that, or only the troopers and those raised by the Order.

The dozen or so workers scrambled about the kitchen. Besides FC-1866, the rest of us were locals. Here when the Resistance had control, here with the First Order had control. Neither group cleansed the city of people during occupations; Turshaval was far too small, far too inconsequential for the effort by either faction. Not that the Resistance would have done it, but the First Order was definitely capable.

Soon, as the sun finally rose and it the long cantina tables through high-sitting windows, soldiers and other personnel filed in. Townspeople who were permitted to use the cantina came in well before any of the troopers or officers and used the smaller entrance I'd entered from the street. The First Order troopers, however, used a larger entrance that was open into the base proper. The troopers were always silent, but as I observed them, I could see that they still formed groups. Uneven groups, where when one accidentally strayed too close to another group, they would be non-verbally shooed away. I smiled, staring down at my cutting board as I crushed nutrient supplements for the troopers meal in a mortar and pestle. It seemed that even among the brainwashed masses, there could still be some sense of self.

FC-1866 called from the back, "Iliana, bring the nutrient dust!"

"Yes, sir."

I brought the mortar over and handed it to FC-1866. He dumped the contents in a boiling pot of gruel before handing it back, all without a word and without looking at me. I sighed with a twinge of annoyance and turned back to my cutting board. It was time to chop vegetables and herbs for the much more palatable officer meal.

A whisper nearly made me freeze. I kept my eyes on my cutting board, chopping away. But my mind was no longer just here. My perception was broader than that, larger than that. It encompassed the kitchen, the cantina, and beyond. I felt between and inside everything - how one officer was worried about a report due, another knowing his promotion was nearing - as I searched for the disturbance. Then, it happened. Malia handed an officer's meals to one of the servers, a man named Nunes (servers were only used to give meals to officers and higher; the troopers would line up at the gruel-filled "buffet" for theirs). As he walked, slightly nervous to the imposing officers table, one of the officers backed up from his chair without a word of warning.

A smack, a clatter, and a trip sent Nunes and the plates in his hands flying. My heart leaped, but I didn't show a thing. He would be severely punished for wasting food, especially if... oh no. The plates were going to smack right into some of the officers.

I focused in those split seconds. Focused hard, on chopping while keeping my eyes down... and stopping the plates and food from falling. There was no sound in the whole cantina, and I looked up, feigning shock like the rest. The food and the plates had frozen. Without so much as moving my eyeballs, I painstakingly guided the food back to the plates and the plates to the table in front of the officers. You could have heard a pin drop, it was so silent.

Then, commotion. FC-1866 was loudly summoned by an officer and ordered to punish Nunes. From what I heard when he pulled the poor server in the back, he was to be on scrubbing duty for weeks. Still a lot better than what would have happened if the food had hit any of the officers. Several of them were muttering to themselves and looking around the room, no doubt trying to figure out how the seemingly impossible feat had happened.

"Here; you're sweating again," Malia handed me a paper towel.

"Thanks," I swiped at my forehead and neck before tossing the paper towel in the nearest trash. It was... draining to do what I just did without moving my hands or giving myself away. I scooted a bit further from the nearest active kitchen burner and chuckled under my breath, "Must be too close to the burner."

"The ghost strikes again," One of the line cooks for the officers, Petra, said quietly. We always tried to be quiet; the kitchen had an open view of the cantina, and no one wanted to get in trouble with the powers that be for being too loud.

I could feel Malia's eye-roll as I smirked and kept on chopping veggies, "Well, I wish the ghost would be a bit more helpful in the kitchen then."

I was almost offended, "Didn't the ghost stop you from dropping a whole pot of gruel last week?"

"Th-that was one time!"

Her voice pitched a bit, and suddenly FC-1866 appeared out of nowhere, "Quiet in there! I am writing a report on today's incident."

In unison, most of the kitchen staff said, "Yes, sir."

That was the extent of the conversation for the rest of my shift. I could feel the officer's - all low ranking, judging from their uniforms, but still miles above where I ever wanted to be - suspiciously eyeing the room. I let my mind open to them, and winced; their thoughts were excruciatingly loud, and though I could barely understand them in all their obnoxiousness, I knew one thing. This was getting reported higher up again. I was going to have to be more careful for a while. The ghost of the Hallaport cantina on tiny little Turshaval would have to lay low for a while.

At the end of the day, well after sunset, I finally clocked off. Malia caught me outside, "Want to go hang out tonight?"

"Tomorrow," I said with a small smile, "I've got plans."

She puffed out some air, "Okay... wanna walk together home?"

My smile widened into a true grin, "Of course!"

All the locals press-ganged into working for the First Order base were required to work near enough to said base. The official reason was for efficiency; I knew it was mostly to keep tabs on us. There were cameras on all the stop lights, both for ground vehicles and the few air cars. Every corner housed even more. At least the streets were immaculate, the very few allowed bushes trimmed to perfection. Buildings, all sharp angles and shades of gray. Modules installed in a blocky way by the First Order when they retook the port and reestablished their base.

Malia and I chatted about this and that, nothing of importance really, until we were already ascending the steps of the apartments, "Do you think the ghost is real?"

"Well, you saw what happened today," I shrugged, "Seems obvious to me."

"Could it be, you know..." Malia looked around and dropped her voice, "The Force? You know, um... like, a Jedi hidden here?"

I kept my face smooth and raised one eyebrow. She was right to keep her voice down; who knew how many surveillance cameras were in the building. I rolled my eyes, "They'd be a really stupid Jedi if they outted themselves to the Order just to stop a couple plates falling."

"So... like, a real ghost then?!" Malia half-squealed.

I laughed, "Maybe."

Malia left first; her apartment was on floor three, while mine was two more up, on five. I wedged inside and immediately flopped on my bed, feeling the days exhaustion catch up with me. Stopping the plates without so much as looking at them, while keeping myself as unassuming as possible, really took a lot out of me. I knew it was a stupid thing to do, but so long as I was careful the next few weeks, it would be fine. I'd heard stories of the Jedi and those with the Force; if that was what I was, I never wanted to be found out. Just left to obscurity on a tiny planet no one really cared about in an out of the way system. Then, left alone, I could be free, in a way.

I pushed myself up and sat in bed, looking around the tiny apartment. Nearly a third of it was taken up by my bed; a small alcove in the wall held one stovetop, a tiny toaster oven, and a microwave. One small cabinet, built into the wall. A maybe 2 foot by 2 foot shower stall, also embedded in the wall. All in all, the width of the whole apartment was the height of my short body and the length maybe twice that. Tiny, but I didn't mind.

Because I sat up in my bed, I let my mind wander. Back to the waves crashing violently against the port shores. The trees that swayed peacefully on the other side of the town. Birds that chirped in their huge, gnarled branches. Two such birds, together repairing a nest for their tiny little eggs. I watched them, feeling that energy that wove through it all.

Then a larger bird came. The two fought against it, but it was stronger and fought them up. As I watched with my wandering self, the nest the couple worked so hard to build was torn apart. The eggs were broken, contents slurped up as the two tiny songbirds tried to stop the huge black one. And then, as soon as it'd come, the larger one was gone. The couple hopped back to their nest and poked around a bit before flying off themselves. There was nothing there for them anymore.

It was... sad. But again, it was life. The stronger bird took what it wanted because it could and because it needed food just as much as any other creature. The circle of life was not kind, but necessary. Either evil, nor good. It just was.

Everything was ordinary the next few weeks. I showed up at work, joked with Malia and sometimes Nunes and Petra for a bit until FC-1866 eventually told us to be silent. The troopers were as dull as lifeless as ever as they collected their nutrition gruel. At least I was hardly ever on gruel duty; I was far too good at cooking in general. Usually, it was prep or line cooking for the officers for me.

One day I came in as normal, well before the cantina was open, only to see that everyone was waiting at one of the cantina tables instead of already starting their duties for the day. I slid into a seat between Malia and Nunes, leaning towards the former, "What's up?"

"I dunno; FC-1866 told everyone to wait here for a meeting."

My eyebrows shot up, "... meeting?"

She didn't get a chance to say anything, because FC-1866 stepped out of the cantina back room, hands behind his back. We all stood in unison, as expected of us, until the First Order cook gave us leave to sit. He looked strangely... nervous. The closest thing I'd ever seen to emotion on the conditioned man's face.

FC-1866 coughed, "I will keep this brief. We are to expect the Finalizer in Turshaval orbit in a week."

There was a moment of silence. My eyes widened just a bit; it wasn't the first time that the Finalizer had been in orbit here, but the last time had to have been at least two years ago, during a failed attempt by the Resistance to retake the planet. Most of the fighting for that one had been elsewhere; no one really cared about Hallaport. I'd seen the colossal ship in the skies though; it was hard to miss, even on planetside.

"Sir, we're usually not so uh... formally informed of stuff like this," Malia said, "Is anyone important coming to Hallaport?"

"Yes," A chilled ripple ran through the cantina staff. That was never a good sign, "I do not expect anyone of importance to come to the cantina beyond the ranks we normally see, as there is a more personalized and higher ranked kitchen further in the base for them. But I was instructed by the head chef to inform you all."

"Whose coming all the way to Hallaport and why?" Nunes half-muttered. FC-1866's eyes narrowed, and the server quickly added, "... sir."

"You should know who by the mention of the ship name," FC-1866 said, tone a bit stony, "As for the latter, that is none of our concern. Now, back to work."

We scattered, all going to our respective stations in the kitchen and hurrying with our tasks. The whole place was in a titters with this new information, but we mostly kept our words to ourselves because FC-1866 was watching us all like hawks. So it wasn't until shift was over and Malia and I were walking back to the apartments that we began talking about it.

"Who controls the Finalizer?" I asked. It was such a large ship; it had to be someone important.

Malia shrugged, "It must be... well, Lord Kylo Ren I'd imagine. Or General Armitage Hux. Or both, from what I've heard."

"Lord Kylo Ren? The Sith?" A bit of cold went down my spine. I reached out to the whispers as they walked, but they were strangely silent.

"Yeah."

My brow furrowed as we entered the apartments, "What could he want in such an unimportant place like this?"

Malia shrugged, and as we came to her floor she rounded on me, her hands up and wiggling about, "Maybe it's to find our ghoooost~!"

I laughed and playfully smacked her hand, "Goodnight, Mal."

"'Night, Ili."

But as she turned, my smile vanished. I walked up the steps to my apartment, slid inside, and sat on my tiny bed. Anxiety seeped into my stomach, clawed at my insides. So I took a deep breath, and examined it as the whispers instructed wordlessly in the back of my head. It was not a bad thing. Fear was not a bad thing, so long as it didn't control me above all else. I would make every effort not to be found. As the anxiety lessened, I almost smiled. I could have some fun with this, if Malia was right. I doubted it; it was much more likely that they'd received a tip about Resistance activities on the planet. FC-1866's reports about our 'ghost' probably didn't get that high up, and even then...

A bubble of anxiety returned. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to explore the order and chaos of my mind on my own, without deference to the opinions and paths of others.

I closed my eyes to examine the anxiety. To feel it within me. It was there, a valid emotion, and I would use it. Shutting things in wasn't healthy, and neither was letting it control me. When I opened my eyes again, I was determined. These men; they would come for whatever they came for, but if it was the 'ghost'... they wouldn't find it.

True to what he'd said, the Finalizer arrived in orbit a week later. It was gigantic; so large that when I held up my thumb to the sky, stretching my arm out as much as I could, my whole thumb couldn't cover it. The whispers talked to me, warning me to be wary, and I was. This wasn't the first time someone with an ability like mine had been in Hallaport. I had sensed them before, but they never sensed me. Mom taught me well; I kept my condition well concealed just as I kept my ability a secret. Well, beyond the odd helping hand, that is.

"The troopers and officers won't be coming to the cantina today until late," Malia said when I got to work.

"Why?"

"Something about drills and ceremonies to welcome the arrival of the Finalizer," She said quietly so FC-1866 didn't overhear us from the back room, "And I was right; it is the Lord Kylo Ren and General Hux leading the landing party."

I raised an eyebrow, "You saw them?"

"No, but Nunes did; his apartments on the other side of the base, closer to the main entrance they went in."

"I only saw a bit," Nunes said with an eye-roll, "I was like... a half a mile off when the the transport landed in the base. All the stormtroopers all lined up perfectly was pretty impressive to see, though."

"Yeah, and the propaganda has been blaring all morning."

"News and welcomes, Malia," I reminded her. Calling the First Order newscasts 'propaganda' was... well, correct, but not the smartest thing to voice.

"Yeah, yeah, well I think-"

"Stop talking and work!"

We all silenced with a final, "Yes, sir!"

True to what she'd said, none of the officers or stormtroopers showed up to the cantina until just before sunset. When the first wave came in, I felt something strange. A presence, searching, somewhere far away but also far too close for my liking. I closed my mind, cut it off, and envisioned everything melting. Envisioned the Force and ability within me dissolving into the background. Nothing special, just the ambient Force of the world around me. The presence faded too, but I was smarter than that. I kept myself faded, my walls up.

"What're you smiling about?" Malia said from the stovetop next to me.

"Nothing," I said, "Nothing at all."

That night, as I laid down the rest, I dreamed with the whispers. They warned me not of danger, but of caution. Be cautious, Iliana, they said. As I fell deeper and deeper into the blissful darkness of sleep, my dreams grew more vivid. More real. So real that I could touch my surroundings. I could taste the air.

I was in a long hallway. Sleek, ordered, immaculately clean. Rooms to one side, glass to the other. When I looked out the windows, I saw a sea of people in white helmets and armor. Stormtroopers, training, exercising, practicing their stances. A flash of silver and black as one, different from the rest, instructed some.

Not there...

It was further down the hall. I followed the whispers, feeling oddly... floaty. Here and there I went, but the whispers always urged me on in the right direction. They always did.

Soon, I was before a door. Large, metal, somewhat oval on the edges. I entered it, merely moving through the door like a ghost. Inside was many people at many stations with buttons and readouts and lights I didn't understand. They were all in the same uniform, all the same. Save for the one in the center. He had ginger hair, slicked back with too much gel and with the air and uniform of someone far more important than any officers I'd seen at the little cantina. He turned to say something I didn't catch to an officer, who nodded and left. I moved out of the way so they didn't go right through me, not that it would have mattered.

Because as they left, another entered and did go right through me.

I froze.

So did they.

Right inside me.

The ginger haired man turned and regarded the person standing where I was and said something. I didn't catch it, because I was drowning. Anger. So much anger it was suffocating. Sadness-tinged rage. Torn apart. I was being torn apart. Yet I couldn't feel the pain, because I cannot feel pain.

This person stepped back towards the door, saying something to the ginger-haired man. I could breathe again, and turned to face him, the sinister ginger-haired man forgotten. They were gone in a flowing movement of black robes. I followed, curious at what could cause such unchecked, reckless anger. Emotions were to be controlled, channeled, harnessed and understood. But this person had such a wild torment of emotions that I knew him dangerous.

From the back I saw they wore a black helmet, clamped tight against their head. They were black from head to toe, save for some silver embellishment along the mask. After a long walk, up some stairs and down some halls, they disappeared through a door. I stopped outside and after a moment felt a... a pull into that room. But it wasn't the whispers pulling me. It was whoever was under that mask. Yet the whispers said nothing beyond caution, so I drifted inside.

They faced me and spoke in a strong, metallic male voice that was obviously altered, "You are the one I was sent to find."

He cannot see you, but he feels your presence. Caution.

I didn't say a word, and he didn't either for a long moment, "Give me your name. Make this easy on yourself."

I wanted to laugh, but I kept silent. I felt irritation rolling off this man in waves, "Give me your name. Now."

CAUTION. CAUTION.

I felt fingers in the back of my skull. There was a pressure, a strange poking sensation like he was trying to pull open my mind and see my every secret. I got the feeling that this was supposed to hurt. Pressure, as my mother taught me, usually meant pain if it went too far. He thought he would give me pain to get my secrets. I put up my walls and faded back, faded away into the world, and I wanted so badly to laugh. But I didn't, heeding the words of the whispers, and I sent my feelings his way instead. As I faded back into the world as I was meant to, the man roared with his anger.

The next day I was on the line, cooking meals for the officers with a couple others. About halfway through feeding the non-local First Order members, another squad came in. Five stormtroopers to join the fifty already there, but one was different than the rest. They wore shiny metallic armor with a large black cape embellished with a red strip around the edge. They looked around and sat with the officers while the regular stormtroopers sat with the rest. I recognized the silver one from my dream the night before, and just looked back down at my sautée pan.

Nervousness in my stomach bloomed, and as I stirred the officer's food, I examined it. There was nothing to be nervous over; nothing was wrong here. This was not a bad feeling, merely an expression of the whispers constantly telling me to be cautious. They could not hurt me, even if they tried.

I slid the pan off the stovetop, plated it, handed it off to Malia for garnish before she handed it to Petra to serve. Potato hash with onions and peppers. So very, very much better than the gruel the stormtroopers ate. It was always strange, the disconnect. But the troopers were too brainwashed to mind.

I let my mind wander, but I was careful. I kept it to the room, because I didn't trust the stormtrooper in the silver armor. She scanned the room in silence, movements too sharp and purposeful for the average trooper. Too intelligent.

Petra served the meal to a couple officers and I nearly broke my calm facade to sigh in relief. Nothing happened. Nothing would happen.

I reached to pull ingredients from a higher shelf. It was difficult; I had to stretch and reach because I wasn't the tallest. In fact, I was quite short. I felt a bit warm, so close to the stovetop, but didn't think of anything being wrong until it was too late.

As I finally got the ingredient and brought it back down, Malia exclaimed, "Ili, your stomach!"

I snapped back and looked down. Sure enough, there it was. A burn, straight through my apron, undershirt, and searing my skin. It was pink, raw, and I knew the whole thing would blister. And I hadn't felt a thing, of course. I hadn't expected to.

"You need to get that covered or something-!"

FC-1866 poked his head in from the back, "Quiet in there."

"Sir, Iliana's burned herself," Malia said.

I shot her a look. She didn't know about my 'tolerance' but still; I was raised to take care of these things pretty well myself. FC-1866 gave me a pointed look. I turned around with a sigh and showed him, and his eyes narrowed, "Five minutes. Get in the back and bandage it."

"Yes, sir."

I heard a crash as I finished applying some ointment and bandages from a small kit in the back room. Hearing the commotion, both FC-1866 and I stuck our heads out and he immediately pushed passed me. There was poor Nunes, on the floor by the officers, having tripped up again. At least he'd had the good sense to maneuver the plate away from the officers this time.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

The officer closest to him, who I assumed had accidentally backed his chair into Nunes, was shouting at the poor server. I muttered to myself, "Bark is bigger than his bite."

I retreated and faded my mind back, eyeing the silver-armored trooper who seemed to survey the situation with interest. I slipped back into the kitchen as FC-1866 half dragged Nunes into the back room. Malia volunteered to clean up the mess and I went back to the stove-top. Soon, the silver trooper stood and left without a word. Eventually, sometime after that, FC-1866 stopped yelling at poor Nunes. That man was never going to get off pot-scrubbing duty now. I almost felt bad, but I can't really help a situation when I'm not there.

That night I slept fitfully. No dark men full of rage, slicked-back men, or silver troopers to distract me. I was merely the background again; one with both the order and chaos of the world around me.

Author's Note: Just so you know; spoilers for TFA in this one, and eventually possibly spoilers for TLJ too.