Above.
Twenty First Order Star Destroyers, eighteen-thousand TIEs: standard Hexects, Interceptors, Bombers, all swarming like so many migratory birds to nowhere. They were blocked by the scumships, the ARC-220s, various Wing models—weapons of the new Republic. The Empire made do with a fleet of some seven-thousand clawcraft and their heavy carriers, blasting both off and holding their ground, if only that.
New Station itself wasn't that big an affair—three main buildings all interconnected to the antenna tower, which extended some two-hundred feet at its highest point. At any given time, little pockets of Old Empire and First Order both retained partial claim to it, and day-to-day life was a constant back-and-forth of sieges.
Today, however, something had changed. A fresh New Republic wing had just dropped out of hyperspace. B-wings, modified Y-wings, deathtrap V-wings, folding P-wings, all led by a green-striped starfighter which seemed to move like light itself.
It had seen such ships before. During the Empire's reign, it had never been taken. Some months after a certain unfinished ball of death became a manmade supernova, it had been attacked. By Rebel scum, and… for about thirteen years, the Rebels and Empire tossed ownership back and forth like grenades. The already-confused galaxy was treated to a mismatched slew of old Imperial reruns and transmissions with even more archaic origins.
Enter the First Order. Not even the great Grand Admiral Thrawn could hold ownership of Net Station for long against those numbers, which were almost double that of the Empire and definitely double that of the New Republic's. They'd kicked the old tenants out and settled in, seeking only to silence the waves, occasionally providing some older material edited to a new purpose. Without a single dominating force but a territorial triumvirate, there seemed no other choice but to take the broadcasting station back. The HoloNet, no matter how little anyone wanted to admit it, had been one of the Empire's greatest mind control tricks, as well as the Republic before it.
...
Finn and Poe dropped into a narrow canyon when the ornithopters spotted them.
"Any estimate how long this thing runs for?"
"Five miles, maybe," Poe answered. "You're on binoks: are they following us?"
"No, but—ROCK!" The driver swerved as the watcher screamed.
"I see it! No need to get huffy about it," he laughed grimly. "And how are we?" Finn checked the binoks, didn't see anyone behind them. He twisted in his seat, looked upward, then directly ahead. He craned up again as something zoomed overhead. Not just any zhoom, but an ornithopter's flutter of wings and engines. They heard the sand disturbed, too. Some of it fell around them, on their helmets. Good thing they had them; some of those were fist-sized rocks.
They kept going.
It didn't take long for the 'thopters to drop troops.
"223rd, we have found the two traitors," was intercepted on their longcomm.
"How the hell weren't we aware of this earlier!?" Poe asked Finn. Rhetorical question.
"Regulations when a comm is stolen. That message was as much for us as it was for them."
Then the soldiers started dropping from the sky. On jetpacks they rained terror, slipping like black drops of acid through the two rock faces down into the canyon. They followed the two traitors, rifles trained.
Poe saw them. Finn saw them. Poe was driving, so Finn reached for their own rifle. He crawled to the back of the speeder and got into a suitable position.
"Remember: shoot to kill!" Finn nodded to himself. His crosshairs marked a leader, followed it, got a lock, he fired. Missed. Re-found his mark, fired again. Hit. The head Terry went down in flames, hit a jutting claw of rock and was scraped out of his armor. Finn followed him the whole way.
"Again!" I'm sorry, Poe. He did. There were six of them. He fired at the two or three clusters that formed, nicking at most one and getting some responding fire. Surprised that hadn't happened sooner. Poe kept them in a straight line; what other way was there to go? Finn kept firing. Again and again. Five of them down, another seven dropping from another 'thopter.
"Finn?" Poe called.
"Yeah?" Hesitantly.
"Finn, we're running out of canyon. Dead stop up ahead." Nothing could run forever, after all. He turned to his partner-in-crime. Poe gazed straight ahead at the iron-red wall jutting up some three-, five-hundred feet. Two 'thopters at the top. And an AT-AW.
They had no other choice.
"Poe! Stop, grab a rifle. We have a choke point!"
Poe took the idea in. It was a good one. Finn, I hope you're as genius as I know you are.
He swerved the speeder hard, almost slamming into the wall. He parked it. Reached for their equipment in the boot, pulled it with him as he took cover behind their new shelter. Finn crawled to join him. First Order jetters were now descending in waves. Without another moment's hesitation Poe and Finn fired into the airborne crowd. The two ornithopters above them were now moving to a wider gorge through which to drop their whole bodies.
But…
Finn looked up.
All-Terrain Artillery Walkers have certain modifications to truly make them all-terrain, including grips on each leg and the main body. It was now staring its cannon down at them. They'd spent enough time around AWs that they should've seen this. But keeping track of a turret walker bent over a high ledge whilst being swarmed by soldiers on jetpacks is not easy, as Poe and Finn would agree more readily than most.
They were surrounded.
"TRAITORS, THIS IS PATROLMAN SKORR OF THE FIRST ORDER! SURRENDER YOUR WEAPONS AND VACATE YOUR POSITION!"
"Are we going to do that?"
"Not a chance," Poe answered. "We'll make it difficult for them, at least. Impossible at best."
"I'll agree to that." They resumed firing. The Terries fired back. The ornithopters dropped more and more of the little black stains. All were firing. They hit the speeder a number of times the two renegades could never hope to count.
Then they whipped out bigger guns.
The AW fired a warning shot at the ground in front of them. Given, a warning shot from a First Order walker is a gesture of pacification. The shockshell blasted their eardrums, turned their vision to a sizzling wave of white, sent plasma through their spines, threw them against the rocks.
(FJOOOOMK)
Finn needed several moments to realize that he was not dead. Gasping, panting, ears ringing, he got his feet under him. "Poe? Poe?" he tried to say, but his throat seemed to have jumped out of his mouth in the blast.
He heard Phasma, though.
"Surrender, traitors. You don't deserve the dignity of death!" Distant. Amplified. Reverberating.
Still, behind what was left of the speeder, Finn scrambled, letting his white-clouded vision slowly clear. Poe was on the rocks. And one of those rocks was in him.
"Poe!" This time he was pretty sure the words were audible. His partner's eyes came open, blinked several times.
"Finn?" He nodded at his name. "Finn. Get going. Can't… stay here."
"Can't." Poe's eyes settled into a narrow stare.
"What? We… Stay together, die together."
"And would that be so bad?" Poe was speechless, blank. But he could tell that something had settled within Finn. And, knowing that the best they could do now was lose with the dignity this Captain Phasma would have denied them, something had. They'd reached an understanding with each other... and with Death.
"We still have our guns. Help me up."