They started with her helmet and with her bare face she was confronted with her colleagues. Their outrage was nearly a palpable thing hanging in the air, and it was suffocating her.

Next came her cape which was ripped violently from its moorings, then her shoulder pads.

"You are no longer fit to wear this uniform!" General Hux screamed in her face. Phasma kept her eyes trained on the floor, her expression as dispassionate as stone, even as his spittle flecked her face.

The stormtrooper standing behind her turned her from standing profile to the crowd to facing them as they proceeded to strip off her arm guards.

"You are a disgrace to the First Order." Off came the right guard.

For some reason she chose this moment to glance up at the vast audience. She saw what she expected: a vast sea of condemning faces among the officers and the blank black eyes of the stormtroopers. She deserved every bit of their hate, plus the portion that she directed at herself. As Phasma scanned her gaze locked on a pair of twin eyes in the crowd.

Father!

Her father was there, in the crowd, but then of a sudden he was beside her where General Hux had been; his long pale face made even paler by rage, barely constrained.

Phasma tried to speak but felt as if her voice were trapped in her chest, all she could manage was the smallest of dry whispers:

"Father . . ." You're dead . . .

Zabdi Tess'ar's hand flew out from beneath his the voluminous red robes and struck her across the face.

"I knew you would fail," his cold words sliced through her heart.

Even though Phasma realized that this was clearly a dream the agony she felt was just as sharp as it would have been in waking life.

"What have you to say for yourself?"

"Nothing, sir, there is no excuse for my weakness."

The stormtrooper beside her grasped her left arm guard; searing pain exploded up into her shoulder blade.

Phasma woke up screaming.

"The pain will subside." A monotone mechanical voice came from above her head. Phasma found herself lying on her back on a pallet. She tilted her head back to see an ancient 2-1B surgical droid hovering over her, its humanoid head tilting this way and that as it studied the arm it had just realigned. The room was large with stucco walls and barrel vaulted ceiling; faint sunlight was streaming in from a small slit of a sky-light at the opposite end of the room. The whole place was cool and smelled of earth.

"Sleep well?" said a new voice from further away in the room. Phasma lifted her head in the direction of the sound, but a wave of dizziness hit her and she lay back down.

"Hold still, please," said the polite 2-1B.

The stranger accommodated her curiosity by approaching the pallet. The stranger was a tall, solidly built man who appeared to be in his sixties, although his weathered olive skin made him seem older. He was dressed in the pale simple linen tunic of a farmer. His salt and pepper hair lay in a tousled mess over his heavy brow.

"The First Order has women pilots now, huh? They don't use clones anymore?"

"Sometimes," Phasma mumbled. In her disoriented state she answered without thinking. A headache was coming on.

"Interesting." The old man scratched the stubble on his grizzled chin.

"Where am I?"

"Yavin-4, or more specifically, my farm, even more specifically, my root cellar. So, what's a First Order pilot doing all the way out here by herself?"

"I was separated from my squad through a hyperdrive malfunction."

The man gave her a doubtful look.

Phasma stared solidly back. Half truths were the best lies.

The man shrugged. "Ok."

Phasma blinked at him in mild surprise at his easy acceptance.

"I'm too old and lazy to play interrogator right now," he said when he saw her expression. "If you say that's what happened, that's what happened."

Phasma continued to stare at him, wondering if this was his real personality or an act to lull her into a false sense of security.

"Are you hungry?"

"What?"

"Food? You First Order stooges do eat, don't you? Or do they feed you some kind of super formula through a tube?"

A very rude expression rose to Phasma's lips but she forced it down. It would not do to antagonize the large man at whose mercy she was.

"I eat," Phasma said curtly, shooting him a glare.

The stranger gave her an amused grin. "Sounds like you're feeling better already. What's your name, kid?"

Phasma deeply resented the epithet but let it slide for now. She debated on what she should tell him.

"You can give me a false name, I don't care, just as long as I got something to call you."

At this statement Phasma frowned at him, quite confused and suspicious. After some though she decided to give him something; the first name that popped into her mind was that of her old nanny droid that she had given her when she was too young to properly say "TDL-6".

"Teedah"

"Teedah . . . huh. Sound's like a drink. Is there a last name that goes with that?"

Phasma was not going to give him her real one and she was too tired to think up another. "No."

"Fine, don't tell me. My name's Kes, and now that introductions are over I'm going to get us something to eat, and then we'll talk some more."

Phasma mentally groaned. More?

. . . . . .

Phasma had not realized she had fallen back asleep until Kes woke her up to eat. The meal was a hearty stew of meat and vegetable, a piece of flat bread, a glass of cold water and a sweet meal cake to finish. Phasma leaned her head back on the wall which her pallet was against and let her eyes droop. The 2-1B droid proceeded to put her left arm in a sling. Even though the satisfying food made her feel sleepy and content, at the same time she could feel her strength returning.

Phasma began to contemplate escape.

Her transportation was gone, the planet was clearly a dangerous place to traverse without weapons and some kind of guide. Phasma glanced around the room through her eyelashes: her weapon belt was gone and there were no weapons visible in the immediate vicinity. Just root vegetables and herbs hanging from the ceiling.

"The nearest spaceport is about thirty miles from here."

Phasma's eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Kes, feigning an innocence she knew he was not buying. The man was shrewd beneath his carefree exterior; clearly there was more to him than met the eye.

"And don't think about taking my jumpspeeder; you need a recognition code to turn it on and only I know it—well, me and my son."

Phasma truly closed her eyes now.

"Yeah, go back to sleep, you'll need to rest up for tomorrow."

Phasma opened one wary eye. "What's tomorrow?" she asked slowly.

"You're helping me fix the generator and rebuild the section of fence you destroyed, then I'll be turning you over to the Resistance."

I'd like to see you try, old man. I'll overpower you then return with a host of First Order fighters to blow your miserable farm off the face of the planet!

"It'll be a good excuse to visit my son. If he were here I'd hand you over to him to take to the Resistance . . ."

Phasma raised a scornful eyebrow. "A farmboy?"

"He's no farmboy, missy, he's the best pilot in the Resistance—an ace!" Kes' voice rang with fatherly pride.

If that flyboy farmer returns I'll take him with me as a prisoner for the First Order when I escape . . .

A male voice was suddenly heard screaming outside the domicile and soon frantic footsteps were heard getting closer.

"Pop? . . . POP?!"

"Poe?" Kes jumped to his feet.

Phasma straightened, a feeling of dread building. That name was familiar.

A few seconds later the owner of the voice came bursting through the door and practically bowled into his father. Kes grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him and Poe gripped his father's arms in turn.

"Pop, are you okay?! What happened?"

"I'm fine. Nothing happened. What are you doing here?"

"General Organa gave me leave. I wanted to surprise you so I didn't message you that I was coming. When I saw the downed Tie-fighter outside . . ."

"I didn't take it out, it crash landed. And here's the pilot . . ." Kes gestured to Phasma. Poe's eyebrows raised in surprise at the sight of a First Order pilot in his root cellar.

"Uh, hi . . ."

Phasma glared at him to hide her own surprise.

"Since she doesn't seem to want to introduce herself, her name's Teedah, at least that's what she says."

Poe raised an eyebrow. "'Teedah'? Sounds like a drink. No offense."

"None taken," Phasma said flatly.

Poe gave a visible start and stared at her; his eyes narrowed and then he tilted his head.

"What is it? You know her?" Asked Kes.

"I know that voice . . . It's embedded in my brain." Poe reflexively rubbed his once-tender jaw as the memory played through his head. "Say something First Order-y, like 'you rebel scum,' or something."

Phasma's eyes flashed up at him. "You're mocking me . . ."

A triumphant smirk lifted a corner of Poe's lips.

"It is you . . . Captain Plasma."

"Phasma."

"Who?" Kes looked lost.

Poe's gaze hardened slightly. "She very kindly saw to my care when I was a guest of the First Order."

"Oh, she's the one who interrogated you?"

"One of them . . ."

"I suppose I should be flattered that I made such a deep impression on you, Poe Dameron of the Rapier Squadron." Phasma said dryly, but deep down inside a small part of her was.