Fun fact: I still love The Rise of Skywalker
So, I feel like this is a bit of an awkward chapter. Sort of me pushing two together, because on their own, I felt they weren't long enough, so forgive me for the pacing issue.
Thank you so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows!
Shall we?
Chapter Two
The Finalizer
The Unknown Regions
Sometimes, she dreamed.
There were fragments of images, words so muffled that they lost all form and meaning, and a feeling of warmth. None of them ever made sense, and by the time her eyes opened, she'd lost all interest in identifying their origin.
But the sound of laughter remained.
She would hear it on occasion, a light, airy thing echoing down the empty hallways or coming across her comms as she took flight into open space. It was always unexpected, and never failed to make her head turn in search for the source; it just felt so…real.
But that night, Demo's dreams had been as dark and silent as space itself. She woke before First Call, as she always did, with a clear mind and the same, silent determination that had been drilled into her since before she could remember.
Most stormtroopers were assigned to shared barracks, each receiving a single living pod that allowed enough space for them to sleep, while they shared a living space in between. Each room contained at least forty troopers at one time, eighty if the day and night shifts were combined. However, troopers of a certain rank or occupation were granted rooms. This allowed for a single bed with standing room, a personal refresher, and a closet. Knight Squadron shared a hallway with one another.
During required sleeping hours, the light switches were locked. Each room was lit with a dull, red light, dark enough to allow sleep but still enough to make sense of everything.
It was during this period that Demo would begin her day.
In the dark silence of her room, she would do push-ups and crunches on the floor, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, depending on what she felt inclined to work on. It cleared her mind, woke her body up, prepared her muscles for the day ahead. This was always the easy part.
When the lights came on and their doors unlocked, Demo was already in uniform: a deep black ensemble with red stripes on the pant legs and the arms. Her cap had the same saber patch from her flight suit. They were not wholly large distinctions from other units, but Knight Squadron were the only members of the First Order who still carried blaster rifles while in dress uniform. They were required to have them at all times, with very few exceptions; they were the same type as normal troopers, the new F-11Ds, but heavily modified, with a buttstock and an all-black coating. While in uniform, the pilots typically carried the rifles on their backs, though that did not seem to put the other members at ease.
When a member of Knight Squadron walked down the hallway, they usually found themselves unimpeded.
Following a tasteless breakfast in the mess hall – where the rest of Knight Squadron would catch up – the day would usually be filled with training, until a mission came in. Sometimes they went months on end without one, but they would always be ready.
On the easiest of days, there were sessions on new models of starships and blasters, and how they could be used to their advantage, but these were rare. Most training involved physicality. Obstacle courses, blaster training runs, flight training.
That particular day was for combatives, and while her squad mates fought one another in the training room, Demo squared off against a different foe.
Captain Phasma had nearly a foot advantage over Demo. She was larger, stronger, and about as stubborn as they came, but Demo had speed, agility, and patience on her side.
They circled one another on the floor, neither in their usual uniforms; they wore exercise attire, black tanks and shorts. Demo's hands and feet were wrapped.
It was a private sparring session for that reason. To see their captain so exposed might have been considered bad for her leadership. Also the potential for her loss. They just about broke even, Demo and Phasma, though most matches were halted before they could properly conclude. Neither individual knew what the other was like when pushed to the very brink. That was always what determined how a person truly was.
Demo twirled the long staff in her hands, getting a feel for the weight and balance. It was always the same weapon, had been for the last six years, but she always checked. She checked her weapons, her clothes, her room at night. There was always the possibility for change, and change was deadly.
Her eyes never left Phasma, dark gaze lingering on blue. She was looking for a sign, a sudden widening of the pupils, a twitch of the mouth, a grip that grew tighter. Phasma, as she predicted, was an eager fighter. The chromium of her armor may have reflected status among the stormtroopers, but Demo had always believed it was for pride, a need for attention, the sort of thing she could do without. Pride was the bane of patience, so all she needed to do was wait, and the captain would come to her.
She circled again, feeling the light mats beneath her toes, listening to the echoes of her squad mates fighting, and beyond that, the distant whir of recycled air churning through the ventilation, and then she drowned it out. There was nothing, only Phasma.
And there it was, a shift of her foot, so subtle in nature that it wouldn't register to most, but the small things were what she noticed above all.
Phasma launched forward, swinging her staff hard and to the left, ready to take her down in one hit, but Demo was too quick. She ducked and rolled within the captain's guard, whipping her staff out to make a clean sweep of her legs. But Phasma moved faster than she anticipated, bringing her staff down in an under swing, forcing Demo to go on the defensive.
The staffs collided with a piercing thwack that silenced the others in the room; the vibrations shot through both of Demo's arms, but she kept her grip tight, watching as Phasma's staff slid slightly back and forth between her hands.
She looked up at the captain, watching her eyes, gauging her reaction.
In a split second, she decided.
Demo released her right hand, ducking to the left and back within Phasma's guard. The sudden shift made the captain lose her balance, as all her power had been laid into her staff. She fell forward, one hand catching herself on the ground, and in that second, Demo swung her leg out. Phasma's staff clattered across the ground as Demo rolled back out of her reach, crouching directly between the staff and the captain, her own held out, ready to defend.
Phasma watched her, clearly angered by how quickly she got through to her.
It was pathetic.
Demo stood then, taking her staff and pointing to Phasma's on the ground.
"Pick it up."
The men were watching now. They didn't cheer; they didn't show any outward emotion. All they did was observe, neutral, impartial, gauging. The other stormtroopers tended to cheer one another on, but not Knight Squadron. If a soldier couldn't perform on their own, then they did not deserve to be backed up.
"I don't need your charity," Phasma hissed, standing back up.
"Winning easily defeats the purpose of training," Demo replied. "Pick it up."
She backed away as Phasma gave in, reaching out for her staff. Almost immediately, she attempted a low sweep, but Demo had anticipated that move and blocked it easily.
They continued on. Their staffs clashed again and again, echoing across the room. Phasma shouted and grunted, attempting again and again to take Demo down with one firm hit, but the pilot knew better. She spent more time on the ground than most would have, keeping the captain's balance always slightly off, making her work for it.
She'd gotten Phasma on the ground once and attempted to incapacitate her, but the captain proved to have a stamina as large as her frame, and Demo found herself nearly tossed across the mat, saved only by her staff cutting into the fabric and slowing her into place.
They clashed for nearly an hour, both covered in sweat and burgeoning bruises. There were gashes on their knuckles and cuts on the exposed parts of their feet. Phasma had taken a nasty hit to the stomach, but Demo had received a cut on her eyebrow. It bled into her shirt.
And yet, they continued.
On and on, Demo could have gone. The ache in her muscles was exhilarating, the pulsing above her eye a testament to how much further she had to improve. Once she had been a child on these mats, knocked down again and again by her betters. Her arms and legs had been broken numerous times, her face gashed beyond count. Her blood covered the floors and the walls. This place was as much a part of her as she was of it.
It only ended when Demo managed to knock Phasma back to the ground. She put her knee in the captain's stomach and raised the end of her staff to her eye. Part of her was disappointed when the woman surrendered.
Demo did not help her up, as Phasma would not help her. They went their separate ways without another word, although she suspected a glance or two may have been thrown in her direction.
Taking a brief moment to clean up, Demo returned to her squad mates, and continued her practice sessions.
She ate lunch, she ate dinner, and went to work on her TIE. Each pilot maintained their ships as their gunners maintained the cannons. No one else was trusted to work on their ships; no one else was allowed to touch them under threat of the strictest of punishments.
Night, or its equivalent, came and Demo would find herself in her room again, staring at the same red light. She would clean what needed to be cleaned, stretch what needed to be stretched, and move to her bed for the six hours of sleep they were allotted.
That night, she dreamed. There were mountains in this dream, and fields of yellow grass stretching as far as the horizon.
And there was laughter.
There was always laughter.
Canto Bight
Outer Rim Territories
Zel Di thought of himself as a pragmatic Duros. He had to be. Life hadn't dealt him the best hand, and to get to where he was now, he had to crawl through the deepest pits of refuse and scum. And he rather liked staying where he was now.
During the Empire, he had been sold as a slave, working in the spice mines. He could still smell it some nights, the scent burning the back of his throat, making him cough and wheeze despite thirty years of clean air.
Time had proven him unreliable to his fellow slaves. He'd found himself in charge of them before the war's end, and when their mines were liberated, he found himself on one of a dozen ships taking the people to another world.
Only his ship 'disappeared.'
They were the first slaves he ever sold, and they were far from the last.
Where once he had been spat upon and beaten by those who thought themselves his betters, Zel was now at the height of his career. The Empire may have been gone, but the New Republic was hardly a shining beacon of stability and order. Cracks remained, fragments of the old days. There were far too many hands that had been greased during the reign of the Emperor, too many people used to the comforts of moral bankruptcy. The Rebels thought they had brought an end to the reign of terror, but they had merely closed their eyes, covered the filth with a pretty façade.
They forgot that foul things always thrived in the darkness.
Zel watched the fathiers race around the track, their calls chased by the sounds of applause and shouting from the stands below. He had a private viewing box. It wasn't that he enjoyed the sport – it was made for those who hadn't a mind for sport or basic work – but the box provided privacy and the sort of loftiness that his clients had come to depend upon. Dirty work had to appear clean to these upper-class types.
But he never dressed up for them. He had more power – and perhaps more money – than half the occupants in the casino city, but Zel always preferred the comfort of a sturdy work outfit. His money was spent on other things: ships, politicians, the occasional Twi'lek.
Plus, he enjoyed the incredulous looks on his clients faces when they walked into the box and found what appeared to be no more than space trash dirtying the luxurious seats. There was the perception of power, and then there was the possession of it. He held the latter.
Today, however, he had no meetings, no men or women to intimidate. He was simply waiting.
Despite the amount of time it had taken to cultivate his power, Zel had patience for nothing. He watched the races with a tight fist, and a hand that consistently played with the safety on his blaster.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Eventually, there were footsteps from behind, heavy and labored. He heard the sound of someone struggling, the classic small grunts that came from a prisoner that had no chance of escaping, but their mind would never let them submit. They always made the best workers.
"About time you showed up," Zel said, swinging his legs off the rail and standing. "You'd think I sent a bunch of green – what the kark is all this?"
Two of his men, both humans who were large in frame and small in mind, tossed down a boy. His mouth was gagged, and an inhibitor collar had been placed around his neck. He crashed to the ground, unable to get up, his arms and legs bound as well.
His men were bloody, beaten, and looked ready to fall over with the next breeze. They were alone, and he'd sent six out – a slave uprising. They were infrequent enough, and solved easily – usually. There were always more replacements out in the galaxy.
"Where are the others?" he continued, looking down at the boy. Bright eyes glanced up at him, defiant but still clearly frightened. Zel rested his boot next to his face.
"Gone," the right one, Yuran, said. "Nex was killed by one of the slaves, and the others…"
His gaze fell to the boy.
Zel stepped forward, glaring at both men. "I sent you to take care of the problem permanently. You could have done so without leaving your ship, but you sith for brains decided to indulge yourselves. My crew is not a band of mercs. Jeopardize my investments with your fondness for killing again, and I'll make you my next auctioning highlight."
He grabbed the boy by his arm, yanking him up until he stood on his own. "Why bring this one? I told you to take care of all of them."
"He killed them," Yuran continued. "Killed the others without touching them."
"We thought he might be worth something," the other said.
Zel looked at the boy – who appeared completely harmless and weak by any standard – and thought on it. His men may have been dumb, but they were stubborn too, took hits like their skin was folded durasteel. If this boy made them nervous, it meant something.
He remembered his youth, and tales of a man called Skywalker, and of those before him, the order of Jedi he had heard someone preach to him when he was younger than the boy before him. Some claimed they had strange power – some claimed they were like gods.
Zel didn't care for their claims, but he did care about what those claims brought him. Legends were worth money, and he knew the exact people who looked for those sort of legends.
The First Order, after all, was his favorite client.
The Finalizer
The Unknown Regions
General Hux could not help but smile to himself as he watched the holo that had been transmitted to him. Normally, there were proper channels to go through – no lowly slave trader was to ever contact him directly – but the images playing before him made him reconsider doling out punishment.
It gave him an idea.
Supreme Leader Snoke was indeed a purveyor of this Force that the Jedi of old used, although he did not parade it, and he certainly had a practicality when it came to all things military. He did not indoctrinate them on the subject or display its flashy gimmicks every chance given. Rather, it seemed a more personal fascination. Kylo Ren, on the other hand, would replace every one of his troops with a lightsaber wielding freak if it gave him an edge.
This boy, however, might prove to be his undoing.
He was powerful, and he was young, a mind fit to be molded like their stormtroopers were. If Snoke found a new favorite pet, one that he himself could equally have a hand in training, the First Order would be snuggly in the palm of his hand, rather than a scrap to be fought over.
"He's impressive," Hux said, shutting down the hologram.
"It's disturbing," Captain Phasma replied. She stood across from him, blaster at the ready as always. Though he could not see through that chrome helmet of hers, the general knew she was frowning, though she wasn't exactly capable of smiling, an excellent trait amongst his officers.
"Of course, nothing like that has a place in our ranks, but there is potential," Hux said as he stood, walking around his desk, hands tucked neatly behind his back. It was an old habit of his, instilled in him by his father. Some things never died, even when the people were long gone. "Knight Squadron will escort the boy here, and then I want your men prepared to take custody of him."
"Are you certain they can be trusted to handle the task, sir?" she asked, her attempted tone of neutrality an utter failure.
"They can at least be trusted to be subtle," Hux replied, looking her uniform up and down. When had he approved that armor anyway? "Don't allow your misguided jealousy toward DV-7892 to get in the way, Captain."
"Sir."
Captain Phasma stepped away then, turning toward the door in time for DV-7892 to step through them. For a brief moment, he believed something might take place, but he'd heard they'd been at one another earlier. Perhaps another time then.
He'd give them a solid minute before intervening. He was curious.
DV-7892 came to attention before him, dark eyes emotionless as always. They were a better mask than Phasma's helmet.
"General."
He watched her a moment before nodding satisfactorily. "I have an assignment for Knight Squadron."
Canto Bight
Outer Rim Territories
The mission was simple: escort the target to Canto Bight, act as his personal guard as he acquired the package, and then escort the package back to the Finalizer. It was so simple, Demo briefly considered why their unit was being designated to such a mundane task. But General Hux ordered the mission, and they would follow it to the letter. There was no other way to proceed.
The target was a senator from Hosnian Prime, Kaid Dexshi, a supporter of the First Order and known frequenter of the casino city. His ship had rendezvoused with theirs on the outskirts of the city, in the rolling dunes that covered most of Cantonica. The sun had already set, cooling the air rapidly as a rough wind sent a chill up Demo's spine. But she did not allow it to outwardly affect her.
"I am a member of the senate!" Kaid shouted over the prevailing wind, gesticulating rapidly toward his assistant, an Aqualish who was typing away at a datapad. "I am the reason the Republic hasn't up and gutted the First Order where it stands. They owe me and yet here I am doing errands for them, risking my reputation. The general better have a good reason for bringing me out here to…"
His tirade cut off as he faced down Knight Squadron. It was just the four of them, dressed in dark blue uniforms typical of Dexshi's security detail. Demo rarely met anyone outside the First Order without her helmet on, and was admittedly chafing at the fact that this childish senator was looking at her face to face. Gunner stood just to her left, his short, blonde hair blowing slightly in the wind. Fuse and Seven stood behind them, both with no hair to speak of.
"Well, let me guess, the general isn't here," the senator huffed, hands on his hips. It made his stomach stick out further. He clearly benefited from his good reputation in the Republic. "What about your commander?"
"I am the commander of Knight Squadron," Demo said, stepping forward. The others came to attention at her movement.
The Aqualish looked up briefly.
"No, you're a puppet," Kaid Dexshi replied, pointing at her. He stood nearly a foot taller, yet wavered in the breeze. She smelled alcohol. "I want an actual officer, with thoughts and opinions, not some mindless drones."
"Is there something about the mission that you do not understand, Senator?"
"No, the general was very clear. He-"
"Then there is no need to speak with our superior officer."
Had it been lighter out, Demo probably would have seen the man's face turn red. Perhaps she had insulted him; perhaps he simply could not handle the truth put so blatantly. Either way, it did not matter to her. They had a mission to complete and every second spent catering to his complaints was another potential moment of failure.
He prattled on a little while longer anyway, complaining about how the Empire would have never treated him in such a way. She only tolerated his insubordination out of respect to her own orders. Escorting the senator meant they went wherever he did, and if he meant to dither in the sands of Catonica, then that was where they would remain, however ill-suited to the mission it was.
Eventually, he sighed and fell silent, a telltale sign that a decision had been made. He squared up with Demo, giving her a firm onceover, before doing the same to Gunner; he barely bothered acknowledging the others.
"You two only," Kaid ground out. "I don't need to walk into Canto Bight with a personal army."
Demo nodded once, turning to Fuse and Seven. "Put both ships in orbit."
Both troopers nodded, each turning to a ship. While the set up called for a pilot and a gunner, the TIEs could be reconfigured to give the pilot control over both. It was useful when necessary, but time had proven having one person assigned to one aspect of the ship was more efficient; it resulted in more kills and less ship damage.
Demo and Gunner followed the senator into his ship, a small but luxurious cruiser with sleek lines and an obscenely golden hull. The interior was no less gaudy, bright and covered with fine art. Cushioned seats lined the outer areas, while a small holo at the center played a local Nuna-ball match. A small bar was located near the door to the cockpit – where the Aqualish disappeared to – which the senator had clearly used already.
"Both of you, sit," Kaid commanded, making his way to the bar. "You stand around like that, you're liable to make me nervous."
They did as told, both sitting next to one another on a small couch. The white leather groaned under their weight.
The ship took off not long after.
It was a quiet, short journey to the casino area. The senator did his best to ignore them, and they paid him little attention. Gunner had tapped his fingers on her knee once, spelling out a short sentence in their code.
'The First Order does not need him.'
'Only for now,' had been her reply.
Canto Bight was a cacophony of fake laughter and shrill conversation. Kaid wound them through the crowds with practiced ease, taking them past gambling dens and a number of bars. Each area felt no different than the last, filled to the brim with aliens that eyed her and Gunner like they were the dirt beneath their feet.
Demo's hand was itching to reach for the blaster pistol at her hip – a luxury the local officials had granted them out of courtesy to their slightly fatter pockets. There was too much noise, too many distractions. It was the perfect opportunity for something to go wrong. Had it been the general she was escorting, she would have cleared the building out before he even stepped inside, but the fact that he was not the one here was the only thing keeping her hand in place.
They made their way to an observation deck over a racetrack. Demo briefly glanced some creatures running around – fathiers if memory served – to the sounds of shouting below. The box they approached was silent, occupied by a single Duros. Two guards stood just down the walkway, eying them.
Kaid entered the box and sat next to the Duros in question, while Demo and Gunner remained standing, squaring off with the guards. They looked like typical pirate scum, unsuited to the life they had just walked through in the casino. There was an arrogant air to the duo, but at least they remained silent.
The Duros began to chuckle.
"Using senators as errand boys. I have to admit, I like the First Order's style."
"I'm not here for small talk."
"And I'm not here to cater to you Republic types," the Duros replied, standing and looking down at the senator. "Look around, Senator, we're all equals here. Just some of us aren't in denial about it."
The Duros walked out of the box then, stepping in front of Demo. She stared forward, as she always did, but got the distinct impression that she was being measured.
"These are fine specimens," the Duros observed, moving on to Gunner. "Young, strong, intimidating. They'd sell for higher than anything I have in stock."
"They aren't for sale, Zel," Kaid replied, sounding annoyed. He, too, climbed out of the box and stood next to the dealer.
"Of course they aren't. They're not yours to sell," Zel said, looking to the senator. "You think I don't know First Order stock when I see them? It's the dull look in the eyes that gives it away. That is the look of pure obedience. It's better than any slave. They aren't forced to suffer; they are made to think they want it."
The Duros chuckled again, bending to her height so they could look eye to eye. "Doesn't matter that I've told them any of that. They can process the words, and yet it doesn't register to them at all. There are droids with more defiance."
Demo watched Zel step away, fingering a death stick he'd taken from his pocket. "If your First Order can do that to this cargo, you've got quite a weapon on your hands."
Kaid looked between the two, uncomfortable. "The First Order is offering one million credits to-"
"I know what they're offering," Zel said, cutting him off. "The deal has already been made, credits transferred. This was only meant to be a pick up. Looks like you've made someone angry, errand boy."
That shut the senator up. His mouth formed a thin line, hands balling into fists. They would undoubtedly hear more of his complaints on the way back.
Zel produced a small card, holding it out to Kaid. The senator stared at it for a long time before snatching it quickly, his anger and embarrassment evident.
"Cargo's already being loaded onto your ship. Keycard will get you into the container," Zel said, leaning down. "If I were you, I wouldn't open it until you're clear of the system."
The senator huffed, turning away. Demo and Gunner stepped aside to let him pass between them before turning about and following.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Senator Dexshi!" the Duros shouted, no doubt making certain someone, somewhere heard the remark. Demo watched their target bristle.
It was a remarkably shorter trip back to the ship. The events that had just unfolded, as brief as they had been, had clearly taken a toll on the senator. He barely spoke to anyone that they passed, snapping at any catering staff that happened to get in the way. Occasionally, Demo could hear the man muttering something under his breath.
The senator's ship was hardly the only one on the landing platform. Luxurious spacecraft from all over the galaxy where parked on the large permacrete surface. It was hardly empty either. There were a few aliens about, each taking the time to show off their craft to one another, bragging about the statistics of their latest purchase, yet no one paid them any mind as they walked by. Canto Bight made it a business to both know everything and nothing at the same time.
Standing at the end of the loading ramp, the Aqualish was nervously tapping its fingers together. It waddled up quickly to the senator, speaking rapidly in its language.
"What do you mean the landing gear is malfunctioning? We've already landed!" the senator shouted. His aid made a few more gestures, voice higher. "Alright. Yes, yes, fine. You, go with this idiot and help fix the damn thing."
Kaid had pointed to Gunner, either assuming he was stronger or better able to work with the ship. He looked to Demo for confirmation and she nodded. She knew he could take care of whatever problem they had.
Demo followed the senator back into his ship, noting the large, dark crate that was now sitting in the center of the room. It was made of durasteel, and had the smallest of openings to allow for air. Otherwise, there was no way to see inside. She watched it for a moment as the senator went on a rant about how they'd dragged dirt into the ship.
She wondered what sort of cargo it was.
"That Duros is going to find he's not as powerful as he thinks. That kriffing piece of space scum is going to wish he'd stayed in the hole he crawled out of," Kaid ranted, turning back to her. Demo put her eyes back forward, but was clearly caught. "So there is a bit of life in there. Well, why not, I'm curious too. Let's see what General Hux has me running around the galaxy for."
Demo was about to caution him against it, given his actions directly affected her mission, but Kaid had already taken his keycard and swiped it across the small control panel. Something beeped and the lid unlatched, sliding backward automatically.
Scared, hazel eyes looked up at her.
Demo blinked.
"A child!" the senator shouted. "They sent me all the way out here for a child!"
"They sent us all the way out here for a child!?"
Demo stepped back, as if physically smacked by the voice in her mind.
She blinked, and suddenly she was no longer on the ship, but in a small home…
The stormtroopers looked down at her, their armor once white and pristine now worn and browning, the edges chipping off. She should have been afraid – maybe she was already – but she wouldn't run. She couldn't. She was too busy shaking the shoulder of the woman on the floor. Her blue eyes were lifeless. A blaster wound smoldered in her chest.
"Mama!" she cried out, shaking hard. "Get up!"
Someone grabbed her arm, pulling her up with a force that pained her shoulder.
"Mama!"
The woman never moved, and soon she was gone from her sight.
"MAMA!"
She hit the stormtrooper, again and again, until he finally hit back…
Demo unholstered her blaster pistol, leveling it on the senator. He never got the chance to cry out as she fired, striking him in the chest. He fell over a chair, dead.
She didn't move. Her blaster remained in place, pointing at the beings in her memories. Her breath was hard, eyes wide. She could feel a tear falling slowly down her face.
What had she done?
What was happening?
"Trin," whispered a voice in her mind. It belonged to the woman, the woman with blue eyes bright as the sky, no longer dead, but scared. "Run."
I hope that all made sense to everyone. If you have any questions regarding anything, feel free to ask!
Thanks for reading! Until next time!
