Ankira obviously had not had the time to plan out the transfer of his new prisoner. The halls of the ship were bustling, the crew eliciting a mixture of excitement, trepidation, and aggravation. The conditions were not ideal to ascertain discrete facts from their minds, but it was evident the Emancipator was badly needed elsewhere. Their allies were in combat; that much I was sure of, and the rescue mission had delayed their response. Their frustration suggested it would take a considerable amount of time to reach their friends.

I felt the deck shudder slightly as we arrived at the detention center, an indication the ship had entered hyperspace. Prior to be sent to a cell procedure dictated I be examined thoroughly. I removed my cloak and outer layer of clothing, including the thin layers of armor I wore. Fortunately the capabilities of the Emancipator's scanners saved me the indignity of a truly invasive search. Nonetheless, it was degrading and unsettling to demean myself by stripping to undergarments in the presence of others-especially these Resistance scum.

The guards spoke little during the process, their fear of me obvious despite the fact I was ostensibly their prisoner. They knew better than to assume they were in control of the situation, proving themselves somewhat wiser than their commander, Captain Ankira.

My clothing, less armor, was returned once they were satisfied no weapons or other illicit items were concealedwithin it. After being given a few moments to dress, I was escorted down a long, sterile corridor. The cell I was placed in was larger than I had expected. It was a single room, with a bed, toilet, chair, and table. The chair had provisions for restraints on it, and I had a feeling that I would find myself being interrogated while secured to it before my time aboard the Emancipator was over. In fact, I was surprised I was not being interrogated immediately. The thoughts of the crew suggested the ship was heading directly into combat, and I was the highest ranking First Order leader ever to be held by the Resistance.

Perhaps it had something to do with the odd feelings I had felt emanating from Ankira himself. Ankira was an enigma; his actions seemed to originate from something deeper than just his concern for his crew or his duty to the Resistance. The man wielded an unfortunate amount of power, and I would need to determine what his motivations were: either by observation, or by more invasive means.

After being left alone, I removed my gloves and boots and lay down on the bed. It had been days since I had slept, and the fatigue of recent events and exertion weighed heavily on me. I was exhausted, and reluctantly decided to risk a few hours of sleep.

I rarely slept more than four hours at a time; as a senior leader of the First Orders my responsibilities were demanding and wide ranging, so it was unusual to have extended periods to myself. Even if I had, sleep was not something I indulged in unnecessarily. Focused meditation allows one to center their mind, to better understand their purpose and their goals, and better prepare themselves for the challenges they face.

Sleep is the opposite. It is an uncontrolled state that allows the unconscious mind to generate strange manifestations. It defies reason and has no regard for order. How people view it as a pleasure rather than a simple physiological necessity is unknown to me. Sleep is the avenue through which fears materialize, through which the uncertainty comes to the surface. There is no way to counter a dream; no way to push aside anxiety, no way to contain rage, no way to even turn pain into something useful. It is simply an opportunity for the mind to experience uncontrolled terror, unmitigated sorrow, and unrelenting regret. To dream is to suffer.

I closed my eyes, and hoped that maybe, for once, I would dream of the nothingness I so desperately craved. I was not so lucky.

The sound of surf crashing on the rough beach was nearly deafening, drowning out the words the man was saying. He was only a few meters from the boy, his wife by his side, but they may have well been separated by continents. The boy was independent, unwilling to heed what he assumed was a warning and would have contemptuously ignored his father even if he had heard him.

Walking along the shore, the boy enjoyed feeling the cool water rush past his feet, causing the coarse sand to surge around his ankles. If he stood in one spot to long, it would accumulate in a mound around his feet. He moved swiftly to avoid this, stepping lightly across the bright white beach.

A lance of pain went through his right foot, and for a moment he started to cry out before suppressing the scream. Instead, he lifted his foot, studying the small, shelled creature that he had stepped on. It returned his gaze with emotionless, stalked eyes for a moment, and then withdrew into its shell.

The boy ground his teeth. He was suddenly oblivious to the world around him; he could no longer hear the waves nor did he notice his parents moving quickly in his direction. His mind was focused on the simple, insignificant creature that had just inflicted such agony on him. He studied it for a moment, then curiosity gave way to anger. With his right hand, he grasped down on the shell, cracking through the ceramic like material and ignoring the pain of sharp, jagged edges cutting into his skin. The soft body of the organism was sliced apart by its own shell, and then any remaining life was squeezed out by the boy's strikingly strong grip.

He opened his fist, releasing the mashed pulp of the creature to the ground, the remains covered in the dark red blood that had wept from the cuts on the boy's hand. The boy felt gentle pressure on his back, and turned to look at his father.

"Ben… are you ok?" Han Solo asked, grabbing his son's hand and examining the cuts the broken shell had left. "Why'd ya do that?" he inquired, glancing from Ben's hand to the shattered remains of the small creature, then back to the hand. He carefully removed a piece of broken shell from Ben's skin, and then tore off a piece of his own shirt and began dressing the wound.

"Why not?" the boy replied, his voice soft. The lacerations on his hand were obviously painful, and blood seeped through the makeshift bandage. Despite this the child showed no outward signs of distress.

"You stepped on him," Solo said. "It didn't want to hurt you."

"And you just hurt yourself more," Leia pointed out, coming up her beside her husband and inspecting her son's hand.

"I hurt him more," the child said insistently, his voice sounding almost proud of the accomplishment. "Now he can't hurt me again."

Han's face darkened slightly, a cold chill going through him. "You can't just destroy what you don't like," he said slowly, "Galaxy doesn't work like that."

The boy kicked the remains of the sea creature back towards the surf, leaving only wet blood in the sand. "Maybe it should."

Leia kneeled in the sand "Ben," "we need to respect all living things. Even those that can hurt us, and those we do not understand."

"You've killed people," the boy pointed out.

"That's different," Han said. He thought for several seconds, trying to come up with a clear way of explaining how both Leia and he were justified in what they had done. One day he was confident his son would respect the valiant stand his parents took against the Empire, but for now the stories of what they had done made it challenging to instill a sense of right and wrong in him. "You know how your mom and Uncle Luke tell you about the Jedi?"

"Yeah."

"Well you know the Jedi a very powerful. But they only use that power when they need to," Han said.

"Who decides when that is?" the boy asked.

"Jedi spend a great deal of time studying the ways of the Force, and the ways of the Galaxy," Leia said.

"One day, when you are older, you'll have the judgment to make those decisions," Han added. "It takes a while to figure this stuff out, Jedi or not. But right now, you need to be careful. Best just to live and let live, ya know?" He gave his son a toothy grin. Inside though, he was somber.

Something was not right. He loved is son unconditionally; there was no question of that. Most of the time he was the boy he was expected to be: cheerful, positive, curious. But there were hints of shadows beneath the surface. The boy's strange tolerance for pain, his inclination towards violence; the words that seemed innocent and honest, but with a strange darkness behind them. They were all hints of something that Han Solo had come to dread.

The boy could sense this, unsure how to process the strange feelings he felt emanating from his own father. The bond he so desired simply could not form under such conditions: instead of love he felt pain. Uncertainty. Fear.

"Come on, Ben," Han said, putting his arm behind his son. "Let's get you cleaned up." Solo and the boy began walking away from the coastline with Leia immediately behind them. Suddenly, there was a brilliant flash of red as if the sky had opened up with a hideous form of lightning. It was blinding, and the entire landscaped was obscured.

As the red faded, the boy and Han Solo were gone, leaving only Leia. She was starring into the distance, her eyes fixed on something far away.

"He didn't want to hurt you."

A/N: I wanted to try something a little different this chapter; please let me know if you enjoyed the flashback.

Parchment, as always, thank you for your exceptionally kind review. It always brightens my day to hear from you! I am so glad the last chapter was to your liking!

Also, I know everyone is anxiously waiting Rey's arrival. It is a few chapters out, but it is in the works. I'll be honest, I have re-written it twice so far trying to get it right. I'm not sure if I'd call it true Reylo, but they will be exploring a very special and unique bond with each other as events unfold. I am excited about the new dynamic she will add, and hope everyone will enjoy it!

Thanks again to everyone that has taken the time to read, favorite, follow, and review!