Chapter 8 - Being Unmade

Outskirts of the Jakku System

Resurgent Class Star Destroyer Ravager

It hadn't been the first time Poe had been tortured. On Antiga Prime, he'd been captured and held for nearly a week by Pro-Imperial Loyalists until a pair of Jedi Knights had been able to break him out. During that time, he'd been deprived of food, sleep and comfort while his captors had beaten him constantly before tossing him into an arid metal box to fry until the next round of beatings commenced. And in that time, he'd held on with a cocky smile and his typical sarcastic wit, knowing that he had to just hold on until help came. But here… here was entirely different matter. He was being held in a ship nobody knew about, and the only person who did know he was here was Counselor Leia Organa, and even then, admitting the fact she'd sent active military personnel into a neutral sector would've sealed his fate.

Unlike on Antiga, there would be no help coming for Poe. No plucky rescue to share drinks over and laugh. No, he'd accepted his fate the moment he was brought aboard the Star Destroyer. All that mattered now was just buying time for BB-8 to escape the sector and get back to the New Republic with the information he had. And so, he committed himself to that, and steeled himself for what would come next. However, in the two nights they went to work on him, their methods were nothing like what the Antiga Loyalists used on him all those years ago.

They strapped him to an injection table, the kind used by medical professionals to keep a constant flow of stimulants and liquid running through a body. Then they began feeding him through IV drips a stream of various toxins found in great excess in the Unknown Regions. The most notable one made his nerves hypersensitive to where even the feeling of air moving across his skin made him scream in utter pain. Others attempted to make him lucid, spilling out information in an almost drunken state. Then there were the more conventional methods.

Taking advantage of his drug induced state, a simple slap was more than enough to make him pass out. A prick of the skin, a rub against his forearm, all made him feel like he was on fire. Worser still, they'd put a black bag over his head, making it impossible for him to see who was torturing him, which became almost maddening. Even the psychological methods used were different. Typically, they'd ask a question and Poe would joke and mock them. But here, his torturers actually bantered with him, some even going so far as to mock him right back with steely insults that impressed even Poe.

And yet Poe held on. He wasn't sure if it was his sense of humor, or the fact he was protecting his best friend, but he refused to give into them. That of course hadn't stopped him passing out a dozen times, or from soiling himself after the pain became too much. They'd of course shamed him for that, too. Granted, Poe got back at them by telling an elaborate story about how Poe had met their mothers on a far off world with many great brothels, which had been answered withthem knocking him into unconsciousness.

On the second day, he woke. Only this time, the bag was removed, and Kylo Ren was staring at him from across the obsidian room.

"Comfortable?" the man in the mask asked.

"Not really," Poe groaned as he rose to meet him, even though it pained him greatly to do so.

"You know," he began pacing the room, circling him over and over again, "not many have been able to last as long as you. The First Order's had many years to perfect their methods. I am impressed."

"Yeah?" Poe smirked, "Well, you should probably rethink your technique."

"You realize there is no point to this," Kylo Ren stepped forth before him, staring down at him like a reaper in a graveyard, "no one is coming to save you."

"I figured that part out."

"We'll get what we need eventually. All that depends on you, and in what state you want to be left in when they're done with you."

"Oh, please," his smirk grew wider, "I had worse back at the Academy."

"Yes," he chuckled, "as I remember."

That caught Poe by surprise.

"Who are you?"

Kylo Ren did not answer. Instead, he continued to circle him.

"Truth be told, I'd expected this much from you. There is a reason you were considered the best pilot in the New Republic Navy, as much as my colleagues would deny it. Yet… I know the truth."

"What truth?"

Kylo stopped in front of him again, and this time leaned in closer until he was uncomfortably close with him.

"Your mother, of course."

Poe eyes narrowed in anger, but he did not reply. Kylo merely titled his head and continued:

"When she died, it caused you a great pain. It tore a hole in your heart you've never been able to fill. Perhaps that's why you've never been able to settle down. Why you always move from woman to woman. You simply can't."

"Shut up," Poe snarled, and Kylo chuckled at this.

"And so, you did everything you could to make her proud. You went into the Navy, pushed every challenge you had to the limit. But in the end, it's not enough, is it? You know, in the back of your mind, that you will never truly honor her memory."

"I said shut up!"

"That doubt eats away at you. Drives your every choice, your every decision. That pain is you, as much as you wish to deny it."

Poe tried to break from his restraints again, to get his hands on the man in the mask. But they merely tightened and he screamed in pain as the deceptive sensation of bones breaking throbbed in his mind.

"That is the reason behind your success," Kylo continued, "no pain will ever be more unbearable than in that moment. Shall I show you?"

"No!" Poe screamed. Kylo Ren raised his hand, and cold fingers suddenly dug into Poe's mind. He felt his psyche being upturned, his brain being ripped apart piece by piece as though a surgeon was going to work on it. He fought. He resisted, but in the end it didn't matter. His head was sent back into the table with a loud thud as the fingers dug deeper and deeper. He screamed and screamed as he sealed his eyes shut.

"There is no escape," Kylo Ren's voice echoed in his mind, and at this, Poe opened his eyes. He wasn't on the Star Destroyer anymore. He was on Yavin IV, in his old home. That was when he heard her voice. Her weak, desperate voice.

"Poe?"

"Mom?" Poe gasped as he saw her, dying in her bed. She was worn and fragile, her skin hanging onto her bones like old leather. She was in pain. So much pain. He took her hand in his, and the effort made her squeal.

"Mom… I'm so sorry," Poe wept as she stared at him with pain filled eyes, desperate and longing.

"Poe… please… please…"

"What?" Poe asked desperately, "What do you need me to do?"

"Don't… don't…" then she gasped, her eyes widening as her final breath escaped her lips. Then she went limp and slumped against the bed.

"No," Poe cried as he cradled her body in his arms, "mom…"

Suddenly, her body began to crumble like ash. Turning to black and peeling away like the wind had taken her.

"NO!" he screamed as she fell apart before him, and the world went black around him. In the accusing stillness of it all, he was no longer the dashing Commander Dameron. He was Poe, the boy who'd lost his mother. And in this, he wept and cried as he collapsed on the floor in a broken heap. Twenty minutes later, the Lord of Ren had what he needed.

"The map is with his droid. A BB model, orange markings. My guess would be that it eluded your forces during the attack on the village."

"That would mean the droid has had at least two days worth of time to go in any number of possible directions," Captain Phasma commented, "the droid could be anywhere on the planet by now."

From his commanding view from the bridge of his Star Destroyer, Grand Admiral Ramius Hux stared into the vacuum of space with a deepend frown and a frustrated furrow of his brow. The 55 year old admiral rubbed a hand through his mane of silver white hair, the memory of the last time he'd been in this system haunting him, a memory of a… simpler time. Once, he'd been the proud captain of the Star Destroyer Indomitable, a ship with an equally proud history of service to the Empire that had built her. That all changed with the destruction of the second Death Star over Endor, when the Empire fractured into civil war and loyal, competent Admirals were becoming a rarity.

Indeed, his own promotion to Rear Admiral had been one of necessity, not choice. His superior, Vice Admiral Abrahm Jonston, had been killed in the opening salvos of his disastrous counter assault over the skies of Jakku. With the fleet disintegrating all around them, Hux had taken command of the Super Star Destroyer Invictus to salvage a defense. In this, he forced the New Republic to a bloody stalemate, which bought time for the remainder of the besieged Imperial Navy to escape into the Unknown Regions.

The result of his stoic actions there had earned the Remnant a much need bargaining chip at the peace actions, and Hux a place in the inner circle with the title and rank of Grand Admiral. It was not a responsibility the aged veteran wanted, but one he accepted without reservation. To Hux, duty and devotion was everything. For this, and his continued service over the decades, he was eventually awarded a high command in the reformed Navy. It was a worthy prize, many would argue, and overdue. Indeed, not many could claim coming face to face with Jedi assassins and living to tell the tale.

Hux shook his head. He was not one to gloat, or tout his accomplishments. His principles wouldn't allow it. Now, however, he was here. Back to the world that had secured him his place in history, and his own personal destiny… granted, at a personal cost. Being here made him feel… cold. He felt where the stump of his real arm ended and his prosthetic one began.

The elderly commander sighed impatiently, banishing away the memories, and replied:

"You forget, my good captain, that this is a planet of opportune scavengers who pick from the bones of the dead. A droid of that worth? It will not be long it is acquired by someone unfortunate enough."

He then about faced and marched to his commanding chair, ordering as he went:

"Captain, I want you to deploy squads to each of the settlements on this planet. In the meanwhile, we will conduct a screen of all ships leaving this sector with our SATCOM units to monitor and if necessary jam communications coming from the system. In due time, the droid will eventually be found."

"Sir," Phasma replied with a tilt of the head, "is that particularly wise? Regardless of our objective, this is still the Neutral Zone. If the New Republic discovers our presence here-"

"Yes," Hux groaned as he settled into his chair, his age telling upon his frame, "this is a difficult position we find ourselves in. In whatever case, we all know that war is inevitable. However, acquiring that droid is paramount to us surviving what comes next, let alone achieving victory," he emphasised with a clenched fist, "carry out your orders, Captain."

"Yes, sir."

As she was about to leave, he called her back a moment.

"Oh, that request you made?"

"Yes sir?"

"I grant it. However, I wish to know why you made it in the first place."

"Sir?"

"FN-2187. While I understand you had him on the candidate list for advanced training, I am curious why you've paid him this much attention. He is not the first remnant you've commanded."

"No sir, he is not. My reasons are… personal, sir."

"Personal, Captain?" he asked with a frown.

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"I know how the man feels. His squad was his family. And you, sir, know very well how I was when you found me after I lost my family."

The Admiral nodded knowingly.

"I do."

"Without you, I wouldn't be alive to stand here, sir. FN-2187 is one of the finest troopers I've trained, but he is still only human. I would rather not waste his potential by not giving him the proper time to heal. And I am certain our psychoanalysts would agree."

"Fair enough. You are dismissed."

"Thank you, sir."

As she turned to leave, however, the Admiral held up a hand again. Kylo Ren was standing at the view port, his arms crossed, pondering.

"What are you thinking about, son?" the Admiral asked after a moment.

Kylo Ren sighed and turned about, "The Trooper with the bloody handprint on his helmet you brought in. Is this FN-2187?"

Phasma turned from the blast door to face him, "Yes, my lord. Why do you ask?"

"The Knights may have found a new initiate."

They wouldn't look at him. Despite the bustling of Troopers in their various barracks and the milling about of ship personnel who brushed past in droves, never once did they look at him directly. It was if they were avoiding him. No, not if. Were.

The days he'd spent in sickbay, it had no doubt become common knowledge what had happened to Echo-Two-One, and to its sole surviving member. As he marched through the hallway, he didn't know if the absence was out of pity, or out of contempt. In either case, it made him feel even more hollow and cold than he already was. Yet, as he came to the door of his barracks, the truth stared at him blank faced. He'd dreaded coming here, where his men had been alive two days prior. And now, he returned alone.

The door opened with a loud hiss, and he was greeted with the accusing empty bunks. He stood in the threshold for a long moment, the sounds of memory plaguing him. The boisterous laughter and curses and banter of his brothers echoing like specters. And there he stood, staring at it all. Staring… unfeeling. A dead man walking.

"Why?" he asked to the room, its silence like the verdict of a court, the sentence yet to fall. He asked again, and the room seemed to recede further into darkness. He heard another squad coming his way, and he step inside to get out of their way. Only when he did, the door closed behind him.

Eighty-Seven?

He turned around, but nobody was there. He heard his name called again, and again, and again. He whirled about in all directions in panic as the voices kept getting louder and louder, their menacing becoming accusing in nature:

Why did you let us die?

You failed us!

You promised to keep us safe!

Why are you still alive?

He collapsed to his knees, his hands over his helmet as he fumbled over. Weakly, he whispered:

"Leave me alone."

You coward! the voices screamed back, That's what you are! A weak pathetic coward!

"Leave me alone."

You are weak. A bumbling fool who couldn't save us! Just like you couldn't save that family on Jakku! Just like you couldn't kill that Rebel Scum!

A sudden rage took over Eighty-Seven. Shaking with incomprehensible fury, he roared:

"I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!"

He wrenched his helmet from his head and threw it hard against the wall, knocking over a table and sending its contents clattering to the floor. He didn't stop there. He ripped away his armor piece by piece and tossed them across the room, slamming into beds, walls, and even knocking out one of the lights. Even his body glove was violently plucked away, tattering to the floor as Eighty-Seven huddled in a corner, the cold air biting into his exposed skin. He panted and hissed angrily, his eyes wide and wild as he shouted at the wall:

"Why!? Why did you take away my men!? Why!? Why am I still alive and they're not!? Answer me, damn you!"

But there was no answer. No voices to tell him otherwise. Nothing to address the burning guilt ripping into him and tearing him apart from the inside out. And as he stared at the wall, he started to cry. He shook with the effort, seizing up as tears and sobs escaped his disciplined frame.

"It was supposed to be me!" he wailed, "I was supposed to go, not them! I was the one that should've died. What did Slip do any differently than me, huh? What did Zeroes and Nines do that got them killed? Why?"

As he wept, he crossed his arms over his legs and began to rock and forth.

"Why didn't you let me die with them, then?"

The scene played over and over in his mind. The pilot. The family. The thousand chances he had to put a bolt in him, to grant him the death he wanted.

"Why did you let me live?"

The New Republic was his enemy. Their people oppressors, bent to the will of a corrupt government and serving the interests of self serving men with power and money. They were his enemy. An enemy he'd sworn to destroy, and who would've shown him no mercy. Who torn apart an order of peace and security to rule with a reign of anarchy and destruction. And yet…

"Why did he save that family?" he asked himself, their faces coming into view, both in life and in death. Why would his enemy risk his own life to save people he didn't even know? Why would he spare an enemy that wouldn't have spared him return?

But you did, his mind told him, he dropped his guard as much as you. And yet, you didn't kill him. Why?

"Because I'm a coward," he replied back somberly. He reached through the pile of armor and gear, and found there his sidearm. He took it in his hands, feeling the weight and the cold plas-steel and polymer. He checked the charge pack, pointed at the wall… and then angled it under his chin. The steel of the barrel was flush against his skin; making him shiver, making his jaw quake and his body shake.

His finger hovered over the trigger, slowly squeezing it.

Do it, the voices whispered in the background, do it. Join your men. It's what they would want.

His eyes shot open, and he saw them in their deaths. Zeroes choking to death, Nines gone in a flash, and Slip dying in his arms, his hand leaving the bloody imprint. He saw them in life, saw them laugh and smile and share their accomplishments together. And in that moment, he saw them turn and look at him, their expressions one of horror and pain. Slip raised his hand desperately and gestured at him; his face becoming frantic.

No.

Eighty-Seven continued to stare at them with guilt-ridden eyes, the blaster still held firm. They all looked at him again, shaking their heads as they turned their backs on him. Slip looked back, looking at him pleadingly one last time until he raised his hand.

Goodbye.

With that, he too turned away. Eighty-Seven clenched his eyes shut. His finger squeezed until…

"No."

He wrenched the blaster away from him, staring at it in horror and utter confusion; like it was something he did not recognize. He shook his head wearily, and the blaster clattered to the floor. He hung his head, and stared down at the floor that held him.

Why did he let you live? Why did he save them? Why?

"Don't worry," the voice of Captain Phasma rang in his mind, "justice will come to him soon enough."

Does he deserve to die? Does he deserve to die like your men? Like that family?

"No... he doesn't."

Eighty-Seven rose to his feet, and began gathering up his scattered armor. Slowly, he began to donn it. The helmet hissed into place as he marched out the door, his footfalls echoing off the obsidian deck plating as he whispered:

"I won't let him die."