When Ben came to, a blinding flash forced him to squint, sudden in the prolonged darkness that he'd inhabited in his dreams. Hazy fingers of sunlight cast the shadows of gates across the ground–every speck of dust illuminated, waltzing through the air without any set path or destination except to waltz; float.

Stone bleachers lined the outside of an arena, clustered with species that he both recognized and didn't. Hundreds of them erupted into a loud cacophony of excitement that drummed against his ear canal, muffling the sound of his own bated breaths. A heavy heart thrummed with caution, anxiety rippling goosebumps across his arms, even in an overwhelming heat. Every singular hair stood on end.

The ceiling above his head stretched high, a rocky dome adorned with stalactites looming above like teeth–threatening to clamp their jaws down and run him through. Sharp formations of rock jutted from the walls, mirroring the uneven terrain of the ground and ceiling in equal measure.

He grimaced, yanking at his hands only to find them bound, attached to a short chain that held him against a stalagmite and to a height that he couldn't see. One pull let him know that its structural integrity held up. Annoying.

Initially, he'd reacted as he'd expected—a renewed sense of urgency that made his head jerk up, look around; slowly at first, taking in the outline of the rocky cavern, an ache nipping at the length of his spine and jutting between his ribs. He'd breathed in a hiss, a groan shuddering through his body as another ache split through his skull at his meager attempts to focus.

Despite it being a fool's attempt, he beckoned his saber.

And like a fool he was, it didn't come.

After that discovery, he'd merely slipped into a calm serenity that left him pushing to stand taller with a look on his face that was equally ill-suited–two parts fighting over his concern for Rey, the other reminding him that he was in a situation of his own. Apparently, slumped against the wall in between two stalactites, he'd decided on the former.

She had called him Kylo Ren—indiscreetly, but that feeling was there; the feeling that he would never change. He'd bring the downfall of the Resistance, and the Jedi. In the past, he'd believed that Luke Skywalker and Rey were the last of the Jedi. He'd never stopped to consider himself–whatever he'd been compared to what he'd believed at the time.

Logically, it shouldn't have complicated things. He'd shot at her, swung a saber at her, and nearly killed her and her friends more times than he could ever count, but he'd given his heart to her in ways that he didn't quite understand and likely never would.

But she'd called him Kylo Ren and somehow that made things feel as if they were suddenly traversing several lightyears backwards. He felt ambushed, like they had gone through this back and forth until he'd finally relaxed enough that she could throw this idea of personal freedom and liberation on him knowing that he would be too weak to push back.

That wasn't what she did. She'd been open and honest and had wanted him to be, too. One look and pleading, and it was over. He'd been turned.

Infuriating or flattering, there was no in-between for how that look affected him. He'd always watched so intently, so earnestly, even when she behaved like a puppet on strings obeying a master's every whim. That way she erupted into a mumbling stupor when she made a choice on her own. It was one of the times when she'd been reduced to her most vulnerable, when she knew that she was a mess, and willingly opened up everything about her for him to see…

And Ben would sigh, and he would smile and he would play the cruelties of the world off as a drizzle bouncing off of his head.

It was easy to be blinded by it and not see what lay underneath. Ben thought that he saw too much of her at times, and much like a star, Rey had been one such point in a constellation that faded back into the farthest reaches of the galaxy. He could look, but never would he be able to reach that far.

It didn't matter in the end, he guessed. They had separated, and she never felt farther away than now.

A malfunction in the engines or a jam in one of the controls had sent the Falcon careening, alarms blaring and flashing lights demanding corrections for too many systems for one man to handle. He'd remembered flying, steering the Falcon as far away from the planet as it could manage–which being infamous for doing the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs, it didn't take long to jump to hyperspace and make for the outer rim.

After that; nothing. Now he was here as a result of acting emotionally.

Pathetic. He truly was.

One second, he was bound, then the next he was free. Barely managing to catch his footing on the rocky crags of the arena, masked faces spilled from every corner–charging with a murderous gleam in their eyes and a desperation for a pointless victory that would give them freedom, money–or most likely, neither. Ben's fingers scratched against his palm in a familiar itch, willing himself not to succumb to the Force to solve every problem.

It wasn't the easier alternative, but he wasn't trying to be traded around by the mobs of the courts if he could help it. That was if someone with a vendetta against Kylo Ren didn't try to kill him.

The thought only made him feel more pathetic. He knew the answer to that possibility already.

But someone had a vendetta–the way two figures shoved Ben into a pillar, one diving toward his arms and the other knocking him in the calf with a hard-toed boot. While he buckled, a knee shoved hard against his hip to keep him down.

Above him, dust residue peppered his hair and clung to his shirt. Bleary-eyed, Ben threw himself out of the way just in time to avoid a blade to the stomach. His side landed against the terrain, jagged pieces of rock slicing his palms. He grimaced, nose scrunching, and kicked off with a hard shove of his heel into one of their stomachs. The blade was yanked from their grip, the edge of it slicing into their armor before he turned it over and rammed it through the cracks.

One bloody heap was left in the remnants, another blurry figure starting for him. Nearby, a blaster skid across the ground, bouncing off jagged edges and other bodies until it slid to a stop a mere few inches from his hand. He bid the force to bring it to him as the other loomed overhead, a towering figure that stumbled over the first victim but held their weapon steadfast.

Ben's finger grasped the trigger, and the back of his mind sang a gentle tune.

With a renewed fury that had been grasped hold of him long before his reign as Kylo Ren, he squeezed the trigger just as the weapon came crashing down over his head.

A few empty clicks sounded from it.

Jammed.

Irritated, he threw the broken device at their head, a harsh shove through the force shuffling them back. Wrenching a blade from the broken body at their feet, he gave his second assailant the same treatment. A splash of blood and another loud thud signaled his very fragile victory, barely managing to stand before he noticed a wave of attackers hidden around large formations of rock–dust being kicked into the air along with the chaos and rendering him nearly blind while he jabbed at the debris in his eyes.

Ben ran.

The blaster was scooped into his hand in his retreat. Another assailant rounded the corner. The grip of it slammed into their nose, a burst of blood streaking across the rocky crags followed by a gurgled cry and a harsh crack . A knife swung blindly with Ben rearing back to avoid it. Rough fingers wrenched the weapon from his assailant's hands, crouching just as his assailant swung again.

Ben thrust the knife into their kneecap.

Another loud scream bounced off of the cavern, ear-splitting. It eased his mind, like music to his ears and the reassurance that he was alive. It calmed him in some way through the adrenaline, a roar of blood and rage in his ears that yanked all rational thought from his mind.

Tightened knuckles sailed into their throat.

They stumbled back, fingers grasping for their throat as they buckled. Ben retrieved a lost weapon from the ground. One hit to their thigh, one rib, and then the other. The back of the knee… He didn't stop until they'd held their hands in surrender, making a meager attempt to retreat by shuffling backwards on their haunches.

Ben looked down on him, every movement not met with the same cunning calculation that made him who he was. His actions were based on nothing but pure, unbridled hostility—all survival instinct and nothing more. He fought with the intention that they would suffer, every muscle relaxed with an absence of control. He drove the heel of his boot into the knife's grip, pushing it in farther.

Empathy, let alone guilt, was a concept lost on him for the moment. It made it easy to forget about Rey, if nothing else. He'd deal with the horror in her eyes if she could see him like this later.

One last scream shook the cavern to its core. No sympathy was given from Ben; an absent expression devoid of mercy. A blaster toggled with the roll of a wrist, a shot that split through the air in a crackling heat just passing his left shoulder.

Ben whipped around, meeting an almost comical face head-on. Blonde hair curved around a rigid face, facial scruff carefully kempt, albeit contrasting starkly with the fashion of his hair. While Ben had to look down at him, the man held a confident authority, and a goofy grin all tucked inside a ridiculous outfit… uniform ? In a field of bloodshed and war, it was as if a Porg had suddenly entered the field.

"You're worth a lot of credits." He yelled despite the minimal distance. The fighting continued around them, regardless.

"Not if you can't spend it," Ben retorted, brows drawn into a harsh scowl. His hand moved to his side, another grasping for a weapon, or beckoning one to his aid–whichever happened to listen first; body or mind.

The man laughed, incredulous, throwing a barked order over his shoulder.

"Ren's a comedian." He smirked, expression suddenly contorting into a deadly seriousness. "Blast him."