Author's note: Took a bit longer this time, but here's Chapter 5! It's admittedly more dialogue-heavy than the last one, but that also means a lot of important character interactions.


Chapter Five

Through the bridge's main viewer, Phasma gazed out at the endless expanse of stars. Beneath her armoured boots, the Absolution hummed with power. Lacking the Empire's sheer industrial capacity, much of the First Order Navy consisted of old Imperial warships it had acquired and refitted in secret. Some, like the smaller, more manoeuvrable Turbulent class, had been in service for just over five decades. Others, like the sturdy, dependable Rejuvenator class, dated all the way back to the Yuuzhan Vong War of almost seventy years ago. Next to such venerable ships, the Absolution might as well be the cutting edge of naval technology. She was one of the Exonerator-class Star Destroyers introduced in the last twenty years or so, now the standard medium-sized capital ship of the Imperial Navy.

While the Exonerator class largely preserved the iconic wedge shape of the Star Destroyer, unlike the Imperial class that had brutally enforced Palpatine's rule a hundred years prior, there was no looming bridge tower towards the back of the triangular hull. Instead, the bridge was closely integrated into the ship's main section, giving the solid, V-shaped body a slightly layered appearance. From what Phasma had gathered, the shipbuilders had drawn much inspiration from the Nebula-class Star Destroyers that the New Republic developed when standardising its navy after seizing Coruscant from the Empire. Unlike the Nebula class, the Exonerator class' powerful engines jutted from the rear and a short, symmetrical pair of hefty, angular fins protruded outwards where they met the ship's main section. In those respects, the design hearkened back to the Venator class that had served in the Clone Wars of the previous century. Never had a Star Destroyer more completely resembled a giant dagger plunging through space.

Yes, Phasma was fortunate to perform her sacred duties from such a mighty vessel. True, the Fel Pretender's navy had far more Exonerators at its disposal and had started bringing even newer ship classes into service. Still, she was confident that, once the true believers in the Imperial Navy had heard the Supreme Leader's call to action, many more ships like the Absolution would join the First Order's ranks.

Phasma turned at the heavy footfalls behind her. An Inquisitorial stormtrooper had stepped onto the bridge. Like all such troopers, he was decked in a pitch-black version of the classic, plastoid stormtrooper armour with a red pauldron on the right shoulder. Attached to the armour's waist was a dark leather kama or command skirt with a red line along the edge much like that on Phasma's cape. The kama and pauldrons both displayed the First Order symbol with a downturned, flaming sword in the centre. It was an emblem that even the most hardened First Order fighters had learned to fear: the emblem of those tasked with detecting and eliminating apostasy within the ranks.

The black-armoured trooper came to a halt about a metre before Phasma. "Captain – I'm sorry to report that we've made no progress with the Resistance prisoner. We've tried beating the intel out of him, applying pain stimulators to his nerves, and injecting him with every truth drug aboard this ship, but he still refuses to talk."

Phasma gave a deep sigh. Evidently, the Resistance scum has a will of beskar – a pity that it serves an unholy cause.

"Captain", the trooper continued. "If I may ask – why don't we just execute him? We're certain that he knows something about our operations. Wouldn't it be safer to kill him and make sure that intel never makes it back to the Resistance?"

"It's not just what he knows about us, trooper. It's what intel he might give us about the Resistance. Lately their cells have become much harder to stamp out."

"Understood, Captain." The trooper paused to consider his words. "There is…one other possibility. We've received confirmation that several Knights of Ren have recently completed their missions and are returning to Darkwater. We could easily rendezvous with them in two or three standard weeks. Maybe they could use their Force powers to reach into the prisoner's mind directly?"

Phasma's whole body stiffened at the suggestion. Noticing his superior's reaction, the trooper leaned in closer and lowered his voice, making sure that others on the bridge were not in earshot. "Captain – I know that the Knights of Ren have several…theologically concerning ideas. I'm no more comfortable working with them than you are. Nevertheless, the Supreme Leader himself believes that the First Order needs their assistance, and in this instance, they do seem to have the right tools for our problem."

Phasma stood in silent thought. "Theologically concerning" is putting it mildly! Still, the trooper had a point: many Knights of Ren could use the Force to read minds, so they could very possibly help her find what she was looking for. Besides, she knew that the Force had blessed the Supreme Leader with tremendous powers of farsight. Perhaps, despite their heresies, the Knights of Ren had some cosmic role to play that the Supreme Leader could see but lay beyond Phasma's comprehension.

With that realisation came her grudging reply. "Very well. Contact these Knights of Ren immediately – we'll continue our course along the edge of the Outlands and rendezvous with them en route to Darkwater. In the meantime, we'll keep interrogating the prisoner through conventional means. Tell me, is FN-2187 on sentry duty?"

"No, Captain."

"Then I think we should assign him a few shifts watching the prisoner. It's only fitting that a trooper who showed such exemplary skill and sense of duty on Ilis should help us keep an eye on our Resistance guest! The First Order could do with more fighters like him!"


Rey awoke in a cold sweat. It was far from the first time she had experienced nightmares. This time the images seemed especially unsettling: unfamiliar insectoid sentients crying out in pain as flames consumed the world around them; a black-robed figure kneeling before a large throne, upon which sat the gaunt humanoid from the holo-broadcasts – the one who called himself 'the Supreme Leader'; columns of soldiers in stormtrooper armour marching ominously towards each other as giant warships and clouds of fighters loomed overhead; a galaxy with fracture lines shattering like glass.

The desert winds of Jakku howled around the fallen Imperial walker she called home. Crawling across her makeshift covers and mattress, Rey reached for the familiar, amateurishly bound pile of sheets beside her 'bed'. It was her scrapbook. Education on Jakku amounted to little beyond the minimal reading, writing, and arithmetic training the scrap and salvage industry begrudgingly provided for its workforce. Still, between this and her own attempts to read the painted names and numbers on the wrecked starship hulls that peppered Jakku's surface, Rey had saved herself from total illiteracy. She had also discovered the joys of drawing. While she always had a knack for tinkering with machines, she could not say the same about her artistic skills: the crude sketches that filled many a page in the scrapbook said as much. Yet she could not deny the rush of warmth as her fingers brushed across the simple pictures, vividly recalling the excitement with which her younger self had gripped the pencil and let her imagination run free.

A smile crept across Rey's face as she turned the page to see a rough sketch from nearly a standard decade ago: her crude attempt to draw a Jedi. While she could not remember exactly what she had in mind when sketching the picture, from her younger self's clunky but spirited efforts to add detail, Rey surmised that the Knight was supposed to be a robed, human female holding a lightsaber. A scrawl surrounded the image, some notes clearly more recent than others. Carefully, Rey brought the open scrapbook closer to the lamp that weakly lit her 'room'. Growing up on an arid Outer Rim world like Jakku, much of what she had heard about the Jedi came from freight crews and pilots stopping by Niima Outpost. Every so often she would be lucky enough to enter the cantina at just the right moment to glimpse and hear an interviewed Jedi on the ageing holoscreen, but it was never more than some brief comments on whatever galactic affairs the reporter had asked about. The Jedi Order itself remained shrouded in mystery.

As a child, Rey seized every opportunity to follow the freight crews and other spacers who passed through Niima Outpost, eager to hear about the far-off worlds they had seen. Sometimes her youthful inquisitiveness annoyed them; other times, they were delighted to tell her all about the wondrous things they had seen while journeying across the stars. Every time, Rey would ask about the Jedi. Quite often, the spacers knew nothing about the legendary knights beyond their public image as devout mystics and galactic peacekeepers who possessed strange powers and wielded radiant laser swords called 'lightsabers'. On other occasions, they regaled her with intricate tales of Jedi feats and practices. For hours Rey would sit enraptured, committing the spacers' words to memory before returning home to preserve them in her scrapbook. Admittedly, some of these pieces of information puzzled her. One pilot told her that Jedi accessed their powers by taking spice to enter a deep trance. At first, Rey thought this was at odds with the rather ascetic appearance of the few Jedi she had glimpsed on the cantina holoscreen. Then again, she knew from other conversations with passers-through that the galaxy had many cultural and religious groups who used psychoactive substances in their rituals. Why would the same not be true of an order as spiritually devoted as the Jedi?

Another time, a trader explained to her that deep within each Jedi was a small symbiote imbued with microscopic organisms called 'midichlorians'. When a prospective Jedi was deemed worthy to become an initiate, specialist surgeons in the Order would delicately implant the symbiote into the candidate's body. If the procedure was successful, the spirits of the Jedi who had previously hosted the symbiote would live on within the candidate, granting them a kind of immortality. Again, Rey found this somewhat perplexing before remembering from the HoloNews interview snippets and from other spacers' accounts that the Jedi cherished the interconnectedness of everything the Force touches. Perhaps the symbiotes were how the Jedi achieved a state of connection with past generations of the Order? Having lived her entire life alone as an orphan on a remote and barren planet like Jakku, that mental image of being connected with all Jedi, living and dead, in a moment of pure serenity brought Rey a genuine sense of solace.

With a soft smile, Rey put away the scrapbook and turned off the lamp, letting the comforting image linger behind her eyelids as she slid back into the warm embrace of sleep.


The crackling hiss of plasma filled the air. Again and again, the silver-white blades met before the combatants pulled back, eyeing each other like jungle predators waiting to pounce. Steady, Trey, Calbhan whispered mentally as he brought his twin lightsabers into a defensive stance, keeping track of his two opponents' footwork and body language. Truth be told, Calbhan was not terribly fond of Jar'Kai dual-blade fencing: he much preferred keeping both hands on a single lightsaber hilt for maximum leverage. Still, he found it wise to carry an additional lightsaber: it gave him more options in combat and, while he might only rarely employ Jar'Kai in the field, it was extremely useful for training sessions.

Just like this one.

To Calbhan's left, the Imperial Knight apprentice Jaynus Provarn was trying to encircle him. Before the young human male could do so, Calbhan summoned the Force to leap backwards, keeping both students in sight and in front of him. At that moment, the third figure sprinted to close the gap, her footfalls barely audible on the spartan chamber's floor. With practised grace, Neela Dukzawi sprang upwards and brought down her lightsaber in an overhead strike, her twin lekku flowing behind her head. To the Twi'lek's surprise, Calbhan brought his dual lightsabers together in a pincer movement, catching her own blade between them before twisting and pulling the weapon clean out of her hands. Taking advantage of his pupil's shock, Calbhan focussed his energies before releasing them into a well-timed Force push. Seconds later, Dukzawi came crashing down on the opposite side of the room.

Calbhan returned to a defensive stance just in time to block a strike from Provarn. Unlike his fellow student, the young apprentice kept his feet firmly on the ground. With a steady, two-handed grip, he battered his master's guard with power blows, refusing to let Calbhan regain momentum. Good thinking, Calbhan remarked inwardly. He knows that, with only a one-handed grip on each of my lightsabers, I can't meet his strikes with equal strength. Just the tactic I'd use when facing a Jar'Kai practitioner!

Right when Provarn was about to meet Calbhan's left-hand lightsaber in a horizontal slash, Calbhan thumbed the power button. The silver-white blade vanished. Having over-committed to the strike, Provarn's blade drove on through the now-empty air. The apprentice frantically tried to correct his error, but it was too late. Calbhan brought his still-active right-hand lightsaber around and inside Provarn's guard, pushing his student's blade even further along its trajectory. At the same time, the Imperial Knight Master brought up his left leg and smashed it straight into the younger man's chest with a Force-augmented kick. The blow sent Provarn flying backwards. He came down right where a recovered Dukzawi was scrambling to retrieve her lightsaber. With a mighty crash, the pair tumbled to the hard surface beneath them, coming to a rest in an undignified heap.

Calbhan smiled at the comical sight before deactivating his blades. "Good progress! You've improved your teamwork and there were a few times when you put some genuine pressure on me!"

Walking over to where his students were still sprawling on the floor, the Imperial Knight Master stretched out his hand to help them up.

Dukzawi grabbed his hand and brought herself back to a standing position, trying her best to hide her embarrassment. "But let me guess…we still have a long way to go?"

"There's no shame in that, my dear apprentice," Calbhan replied warmly as he went to pull Provarn to his feet. "Trust me: even the most experienced Masters could do with some modesty about how much they still have to learn!"

"Even you, Master?", Provarn asked with a grin.

"Especially me," Calbhan responded with a playful smile of his own.

Just as the trio were starting to head for the exit, Dukzawi turned back towards her teacher. "Master…I've been talking to the other apprentices about what's going on with the First Order. I realise the Emperor says that the situation's under control, but I also know you've been speaking quite a bit with Director Zinn and that we've been working closely with Imperial Intelligence in preparation for the Emperor's visit to Kree'os. I guess what I'm trying to say is…I'm worried."

Calbhan suppressed a weary sigh. In truth, he had arranged this sparring session because he wanted some relief from all the tension the First Order situation was building inside him. While Emperor Fel would clear his mind by sitting or taking a stroll in the gardens, Calbhan preferred to throw himself into his lightsaber exercises. "I know exactly what you mean, Neela. I won't pretend that I agree with every decision the Emperor's made on how to handle the situation. Force knows I've tried to talk him out of a few of them! Still, we're sworn to obey him as the personification of the Force and, for better or for worse, he's made up his mind."

Just then, Provarn chipped into the conversation. "What I don't understand is how the First Order's drawing so many people into its ranks. For all their differences, if there's one thing that most Imperial, GA, and Confederate historians agree on, it's that Palpatine's reign was a catastrophe. It's not hard to find out the atrocities he committed. How can Imperial citizens ignore all that and put their trust in some self-appointed 'Supreme Leader' who they only see in frankly weird holo-broadcasts and who doesn't even tell them his name?"

Coming to a stop just before the exit, Calbhan turned to the two apprentices, assuming a suitably serious tone. "Jaynus – why did Emperor Jagged Fel establish the Imperial Mission?"

"To aid devastated and impoverished worlds?", the young man answered with furrowed brows.

"I mean from a political perspective."

"Oh! To spread the Empire's influence by coupling material assistance with the promotion of Imperial values."

"In other words, the first Fel Emperor established the Imperial Mission to win hearts and minds. He knew that wars, natural disasters, and economic deprivation had left entire planetary populations searching for ways out of their hardship. He also understood that, to create and solidify a political base, he needed to offer people a vision – a set of values and aspirations that could found an entirely different way of living. In short, Jagged Fel knew that, to win the struggle against the Alliance and other galactic powers, the Empire had to present itself as a viable alternative and, to do that, the Empire had to start winning the battle of ideas."

Some of the puzzlement lifted from Provarn's face. "I think I follow, Master. You're saying that the so-called 'Supreme Leader' is gaining support because, like Jagged Fel, he's put together a moral and political vision, found the sorts of people that vision would appeal to, and created a means of promoting that vision among them?"

Calbhan nodded and continued. "Now, imagine yourself as an Imperial citizen who doesn't think they've benefited from the Fels' reforms – someone who feels the foundations of their life chipping away beneath them. Do you think you might be attracted to the First Order's promise of a united galaxy where no Imperial citizen is neglected, and where everyone's life serves a cosmic purpose? Might you find appeal in the idea that there are shadowy forces conspiring to deny you such a life? That you can be part of a righteous struggle to free the galaxy from their machinations and take back what's rightfully yours? Maybe you'd start nostalgically reminiscing about what they paint as the Empire's golden years? Perhaps you'd even start to wonder if all the negative things they say about Palpatine are nothing more than propaganda? A hundred and fourteen years ago, when Palpatine made his Declaration of a New Order to dissolve the Old Republic and inaugurate the Empire, he had almost the entire Senate on its feet chanting 'Safety, Security, Justice, and Peace!' We all know that Palpatine's promises were self-serving lies, but with the Republic's public institutions mired for centuries in apathy and corruption, and with the galaxy bearing the fresh wounds of the Clone Wars, lots of people were ready to place their faith in him. With all proportions guarded, today there are plenty of Imperial citizens who feel just as abandoned by Bastion as those Republic citizens who felt abandoned by Coruscant."

Understanding and trepidation crept over Dukzawi's azure features as she re-entered the conversation. "Then the situation really is much worse than the public announcements say."

For a moment, Calbhan let both students' eyes meet his own, dropping his usual air of quiet confidence. "My point is that we shouldn't assume that the First Order's supporters are nothing more than simpletons. The grim reality is that perfectly smart and reasonable people can get sucked into dark places when they feel that those in power are ignoring their grievances…and this 'Supreme Leader' knows exactly how to appeal to them. He knows how to talk industrialists into covertly supplying him with ships, funds, and materiel. He knows how to find ultra-conservative academics at Imperial universities who can help draw bright but disaffected students into his underground networks. He knows how to captivate serving and retired military personnel with promises to restore Imperial glory. He knows how to speak to the frustrations of citizens who feel they've lost everything that gave them meaning and stability in life. In brief, he knows how to offer people an alternative. A horrifying alternative, but an alternative nonetheless…"


Flame…smoke…blasterfire…wherever he turned, the flash of rifle muzzles greeted him. The stench of death lingered among the piles of ashes around him. And the screams. He fell to his knees covering his ears, but still he heard those horrible, whistling screams. Sprawled across the scorched ground before him was a morbid carpet of blue, insectoid bodies. His breathing quickened as he took in the sheer scale of the carnage. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a voice telling him to get a grip and start shooting. Then something rose before him. A face…a dead-eyed Ilisian face.

The face of Chief Teq'ah.

Eight-Seven's eyes snapped open. Beads of sweat trickled from his brow as he steadied his breathing. Slowly, he brought himself into a sitting position. Glancing up and down the rows of bunks, the rest of the Third Platoon seemed sound asleep. All around him, he felt the quiet hum of the Absolution coursing through hyperspace. How long it would be before they reached Darkwater, Eight-Seven did not know. As much as he appreciated space travel, he looked forward to having solid ground beneath his feet again.

Several standard days had passed since the mission on Ilis, yet Eight-Seven's nightmares had only grown more frequent and intense. If his nerves were less wracked by the horrific sounds and images, Eight-Seven would have laughed at the absurdity of his situation. A stormtrooper of the FN Corps, trained by Captain Phasma herself, kept awake by bad dreams like a frightened child! Yet Eight-Seven knew that this was no laughing matter. Ever since that first taste of action in the field, he felt a gnawing unease in the pit of his stomach. Outwardly he seemed fine. He performed his assigned tasks with the same diligence as ever. But that did not stop the strange feeling of wrongness welling up inside him.

Scanning the outermost bunks, Eight-Seven spotted a familiar figure resting peacefully. Just as Eight-Seven's feet touched the cold floor, he froze. What if he thinks I'm going crazy or just don't have what it takes to be a stormtrooper? He shuddered at the memory of his schoolteachers berating him for his poor grades and in-class behaviour, telling him that he would never amount to anything. Joining the First Order had let him feel that he could do something with his life. The last thing he wanted was to show that he was no less hopeless as a stormtrooper than he had been as a pupil. After a moment in thought, Eight-Seven rose from his bunk and quietly made his way towards the end of the row. Embarrassing as it might be, his problem clearly would not go away on its own. Having enjoyed so few close bonds with people growing up, Eight-Seven was unsure if he would ever call his platoon-mates his friends: he simply did not have enough first-hand experience of 'normal' friendships to make the comparison. Nevertheless, he felt and appreciated their camaraderie as brothers-in-arms fighting for a holy cause. And if any of his platoon-mates might be willing to hear him out, it would be the one curled up on the bunk he had finally reached.

"Nines!", Eight-Seven whispered as he nudged the sleeping stormtrooper.

The red-haired soldier murmured for a few seconds before turning to face his platoon-mate. "That you, Eight-Seven?", he grumbled through slow blinks. "It's still lights out…"

"Sorry for waking you. I couldn't sleep and I wa-"

"And you figured that, if you don't get to sleep, I shouldn't get to sleep either?"

Eight-Seven's face flushed slightly. "Again, I'm really sorry – it's just that…there's something on my mind that's been troubling me ever since the Ilis mission and…I don't know who else to turn to for advice."

A smile crept across Nines' lips. "Well, I'm honoured that you place such value on my advice, but next time, please pick a more convenient time!" Sitting up, Nines glanced along the bunk row, careful to keep his voice quiet. "Anyway – what's the problem? As far as I can see, that mission's given you plenty of things to be proud about. For kriff's sake, you saved the captain's life! If anyone in this room's proved themselves as a Bloodwolf, it's you!"

Bloodwolves. That was what they called the Third Platoon. From what Eight-Seven had gathered, bloodwolves were predatory animals from the planet Rena, renowned for their lethality and fierce sense of loyalty to their pack. A fitting name for a stormtrooper unit.

Taking a sharp breath, Eight-Seven chose his words carefully. "Yeah, but…I don't know. I guess when I first put on the armour, I imagined we'd be fighting on some far-off battlefield to liberate our fellow Imperials…I didn't imagine us killing defenceless civilians."

Seeing the anguished confusion on his platoon-mate's face, Nines shifted to sit on the edge of his bunk, facing Eight-Seven directly. "I know exactly what you mean."

"Really?" A surge of hope and relief coursed through the trooper.

"Oh yes," Nines continued, keeping a warm expression on his weathered features. "That din of screams and blasterfire…I'm ashamed to admit it, but I don't think I was completely prepared for that. And just when I'd finally raised my blaster, I saw the faces of four villagers, backed up against a wall, cowering in fear of me. I just froze. Kriff, there were moments when I genuinely considered just randomly firing shots into the darkness and hoping that'd be enough to satisfy Phasma!"

Nines lifted himself from the bunk to stand in front of Eight-Seven, adopting a compassionate tone as he continued. "Tell me, Eight-Seven: what are we fighting for?"

"A united, just, and peaceful galaxy?", the younger stormtrooper answered, his voice wavering ever so slightly.

"That's right. The Supreme Leader's shown us the light we need to bring to the galaxy if we're going to save it. Doesn't that mean that the Resistance – and anyone who aids them – is denying everyone else the chance for salvation?"

"I…I suppose so…," Eight-Seven replied, still unsure where his fellow trooper was taking the conversation.

Nines brought a reassuring hand to Eight-Seven's shoulder, his blue eyes brimming with sympathy as he met his platoon-mate's gaze. "That's what we have to remember. Guilt and innocence aren't always obvious. Those villagers might have seemed innocent, but they weren't. They were putting their own selfish desires ahead of the galaxy's only hope for redemption. That's what I realised in my moment of hesitance on Ilis. That's how I remembered my duty. That's how I pushed through that sickening feeling in my stomach, aimed my rifle at those four villagers, and pulled the trigger. Their deaths were a tragedy. I wish we could have avoided it. But it was a tragedy they brought upon themselves. It's never easy to do what's morally necessary, even for people like us who've seen the light, but whatever uncertainty you feel now, it'll get easier. I promise."

A chill ran down Eight-Seven's spine. Summoning all his willpower, he put on a grateful smile. "Best I get back to sleep now. Thanks for the talk, Nines."

"Anytime, Eight-Seven."

Nodding politely, Eight-Seven silently headed back towards his bunk, somehow even more disturbed than when he had woken from his nightmare.


Yaqeel inhaled then exhaled the fresh air as she took in the scenery. To her left and right, verdant forests met clear water to form a tranquil lakeside. The contrast with Coruscant's endless cityscape could hardly be starker. Directly before her stood a majestic fortress. Admiring the intricate stonework and looming towers, Yaqeel recalled reading in Takodana's database entry that, many centuries ago, this castle had housed Jedi. Somewhere deep within the building's catacombs, their millennia-old remains lay still. Now these ancient walls contained what Yaqeel could only describe as a galactic sanctuary and meeting place. In the first decade of Jagged Fel's reign, the Empire and the Alliance negotiated several neutral zones along their shared border, hoping this would alleviate fears that the Empire's increasing commercial and financial presence in neighbouring sectors was simply a prelude to annexation. The Takodana system fell right within one such neutral zone and, if the numerous door signs strictly warning against violence were anything to go by, the castle's present owner was keen to remind people of that neutrality.

Stepping through the archway, Yaqeel glanced down to make sure her lightsaber was out of sight. Though her attire was still subdued, she had made sure to change into a less overtly monastic outfit than her standard Jedi robes. To look the part of a travelling trader, she had gone for a dull blue merchant's tunic with dark leggings and a light, grey weather cloak. Striding down the main corridor, she eventually reached a large, dimly lit room. Here and there, a gentle fire or stream of sunlight through a window penetrated the darkness. Across the numerous tables, a mix of species were eating and drinking to various degrees of merriment: humans, Rodians, Weequays – even a couple of fellow Bothans. Weaving between the tables and patrons to reach the bar in the middle of the room, a glimpse of orange caught Yaqeel's eye. Seconds later, a smile of recognition flashed across the Jedi Master's face.

"Excuse me", Yaqeel called as she leaned across the bar. "I know you're busy, but there's some business I'd like to discuss with you."

"Always happy to talk business," replied the small, orange- and leathery-skinned biped behind the counter. The bartender kept her tiny eyes on the colourful drink she was pouring for the characteristically tall and gaunt Munn seated before her. Atop her head sat a pair of goggles attached to the grey cap that covered the back of her head. "You might have to wait until the bar's a little quieter! But do tell! How can I help you?"

"Depends – do you still trade in Jedi antiques?"

The moment she heard those last two words, the diminutive barkeeper turned straight towards Yaqeel, lowering her goggles to peer at the old Bothan through thick layers of corrective lenses. Seconds later, her wrinkled features started beaming. "Emmie!", she called to the bronze and rather primitive-looking protocol droid serving drinks at a nearby table. "Something's just come up – could you tend the bar until I come back?"

The second the ancient droid answered in the affirmative, the bar owner gestured for Yaqeel to follow her into a quiet backroom. Once the pair were out of sight, she turned with joy towards the Jedi Master. "Yaqeel Saav'etu! Why, I haven't seen you since that business with Master Durron and the Neo Bando Gora! What was that – forty years ago?"

Yaqeel grinned at the memory. "Believe it or not, it's now closer to fifty! It's good to see you, Maz!"

"Likewise, my dear Jedi! Sorry it took me a moment to recognise you!"

"That's all right, Maz! Last time you saw me, I'd only just taken on my first Padawan and…well…let's just say my fur hasn't been that brown in quite some time!" Whereas you don't seem to have aged a day! Yaqeel added mentally.

Maz chuckled. "Oh, I think the grey gives you quite an air of distinction, Jedi Saav'etu! Or is it Master Saav'etu now?"

"It is, but that doesn't mean I'm in any less need of your expertise!"

"Yes, your Jedi antiques." Realising their conversation might take some time, Maz pulled a couple of wooden chairs up to a small workbench and perched herself upon the nearest one. "I take it that wasn't just a ruse?"

"Not entirely", Yaqeel confirmed as she sat down on the other chair. "I take it you know what's been happening with the First Order?"

Maz grimaced. "Yes…sadly, I've had quite a few people pass through here, fleeing systems in the Imperial Outlands where First Order attacks are becoming more frequent. While my…history leaves me with little sympathy for either Coruscant or Bastion, I genuinely dread to think of the decades of progress those reactionaries would wind back on both sides of the border if they came to power."

Yaqeel shuddered at the prospect. "The short version is that the First Order's working with a sect of Force users called the Knights of Ren. These Knights have been stealing Jedi and Sith artefacts. I just came from a Jedi site they raided on Dantooine. I still don't know what the stolen artefacts are for, but if you have any idea where the Knights of Ren might be meeting their First Order contacts to show them the loot, it could give me some crucial leads."

Maz sat in thought for several seconds before standing up. Gesturing for Yaqeel to stay seated, she walked through an unassuming door at the back of the room. About a minute later, she came back with a curious, hexagonal object, plated in dark gold with strange symbols engraved along each side. Returning to her seat, she placed the ornate item on the workbench.

Yaqeel's brows furrowed as she examined the symbols more closely. "Those are Sith hieroglyphs!"

"That they are," Maz answered with a knowing smile. "But don't worry – it's neither dangerous nor especially old. I got it from an antiques dealer who stopped by some years ago. He was convinced he'd discovered some wonderfully ancient Sith talisman and wanted me to date and valuate it. While the exterior metals and craftsmanship fooled the first few instruments I used, I eventually confirmed that it's a well-made forgery! I'm serious: it's no more than a century old and, while I don't have any Force talents of my own, I'd bet the rest of my inventory that, if you examine it now, you won't find even a trace of Sith sorcery!"

Extending her reach through the Force, Yaqeel nodded in agreement. The object had none of the tell-tale dark side residues she would expect to find on a Sith artefact: the hieroglyphs were merely decoration.

"If you ask me," Maz continued, "it's most likely a fancy paperweight some Sith aficionado made in the early New Republic era!"

Only decades of Jedi discipline stopped Yaqeel from bursting into laughter. "That's an amusing story, Maz, but what's this…paperweight got to do with me?"

"Simple: you'll need something that can get you an audience with the First Order contacts you're looking for." At that, Maz leaned in closer, keeping her voice low. "If anyone asks, you didn't hear this from me. As you might imagine, my patrons tend to get a bit loose-tongued after the fourth or fifth drink. Going by what I've overheard from my less…scrupulous customers, if you want to offer merchandise to the First Order, you should head for a planet in the Imperial Outlands called Jakku. It's backwater even by Outer Rim standards, but you should find it on your ship's star charts easily enough. I've never been there myself, but from what I gather, it's a desert world with only one spaceport. The cantina there's a hotspot for under-the-table transactions, including with the First Order. This ornamented paperweight might not be a genuine Sith talisman, but it looks enough like one for them to take you seriously as a dealer in ancient Force artefacts!"

Yaqeel flattened her ears in gratitude. "I knew I could count on you, Maz! You don't know how much you've helped my investigation!"

Grabbing and pocketing the fake artefact, Yaqeel rose to her feet and seized Maz in a warm, tight hug. "I'm sorry this reunion was so brief, but you have my word that, if I can help it, it won't be another fifty years before the next one!"

Maz smiled as she hugged the Bothan Jedi back. "May the Force be with you, old friend."


Poe winced as he pulled himself into what he hoped would be a less uncomfortable position. Muscles ached throughout his battered body. While the small and isolated holding cell made it difficult to judge the passage of time, he knew it had to have been at least a few hours since his captors' last visit. Even now, he felt a lingering daze from the serums they injected. Still, for all the beatings and psychoactive substances Phasma's goons had given him, he had not said a word. It would take more than some uniformed bullyboys with bright lights and truth drugs to break a devoted freedom fighter.

He took a sharp breath, masking the short, stabbing pain in his ribs as he glared at the stormtrooper watching him from the other side of the transparent barrier. While Poe's time among the Resistance had accustomed him to working with Imperial citizens, little could suppress his sheer revulsion for that infamous white armour. Whether worn by Fel loyalists or First Order members, to Poe it would always be a symbol of everything his ancestors had risked or given their lives to fight against: a reminder of how much further the republican cause still had to go.

Just then, the heavy door on the guard's side of the barrier creaked open. In strode a trooper in identical armour. Exchanging little more than a nod, the first stormtrooper exited the room, closing the door behind him as the new arrival took his place.

"New guy, huh?", Poe asked after a few more minutes of silence, letting a defiant smile creep across his face. "Must be quite the power trip, standing there with that blaster rifle while I'm in here with nothing but my bare hands and devastating good looks! Then again, you must be used to this sort of thing. Tell me: does slaughtering defenceless villagers make you feel big?"

The trooper tensed up. At first, Poe wondered if his cheeky outburst had just earned him another beating. Yet the armoured soldier did not move towards him. That was when Poe started to notice something off about the trooper's body language. His limbs and head were rigid, but the tension did not seem to come from vexation at Poe's impertinence.

It was as if he felt genuinely uncomfortable at Poe's question.

Kriff, those truth drugs must have messed up your senses even more than you suspected! Poe remarked bitterly within his mind. He's a clerical-fascist stormtrooper! If he ever had anything resembling a conscience, it got beaten out of him a long time ago!

Then again, Poe's trail of thought continued as he studied the trooper even more closely, it's not like I have a lot of ways out of this cell…if there's even a tiny opening here, I might as well give it a push!

At that, Poe shifted his body into a less guarded pose and adopted as amiable a tone as he could muster. "You know…if there's something you'd like to talk about…I'm all ears. It's not like we have many choices of conversational partner in here!"

The stormtrooper stayed silent.

Poe pondered his options for a few seconds before resuming. "Look…I don't know exactly what your superiors have planned for me, but no matter what, I'll probably be dead in a matter of weeks. The way I see it, if we're going to be seeing a lot of each other in this cell regardless and anything you say to me will follow me to my grave, then there's no harm or shame in saying whatever's on your mind. I'm not here to judge – just to listen."

Still no response.

Sensing that he was getting nowhere fast, the Resistance fighter changed tack. "The name's Poe, by the way. If we're going to be keeping each other company for several hours a day, I figure we might as well know what to call each other."

The trooper remained as quiet as ever. Realising this was probably his last real chance to break through the trooper's guard, Poe poured every ounce of artificial sympathy into his voice. "I know we don't have any reason to trust each other. But we do have one thing in common: we're soldiers who signed up for something we believe in. That's got to count for something, right? And who knows? You might be surprised how much I understand, even if I am a 'heretic'!"

Another minute of silence passed. With a resigned sigh, Poe closed his eyes and rested his head against the cell wall. Oh well, he muttered inwardly. It was worth a shot!

Then he heard it.

"FN-2187."

Poe's eyes shot open as he spun to face the trooper once more. "What was that?"

Moments later, the armoured figure spoke again with more than a hint of hesitancy. "My designation…it's FN-2187. But people round here just call me 'Eight-Seven'."

Poe suppressed a laugh. "No offence, but I think I'd find it just a little awkward calling you either of those! Do you have a name?"

Another few seconds passed before the trooper answered, his voice still betraying his uncertainty. "Not exactly…I mean, I had a name before I joined the Stormtrooper Corps and I do remember what it was but…I don't know. I just don't feel ready to start using it again."

"That's perfectly fine!", Poe replied as he edged closer to the barrier for ease of conversation. "Hmm…the first part of your full designation is 'FN', right? Well, how about I call you 'Finn'?"

For about half a standard minute, the stormtrooper stood in silent thought. Then, to Poe's surprise, he placed both hands on his helmet and began to lift it off. For the first time, Poe gazed upon the face of his watcher: a human male, no older than his early twenties, with dark skin, brown eyes, and short, black, coiling hair. With a tone Poe could only describe as 'reluctant openness', the young man finally answered.

"'Finn' sounds good to me."


Author's note: At last: Finn and Poe's first meeting! I was somewhat surprised to discover that the term 'fascist' exists in the Star Wars Universe (in both continuities!): I can only assume it has a different etymology in-universe than the Latin word for 'bundle of sticks'!

As always, please leave a review if you've been reading so far!