Chapter III – Securing a Hideout


She noticed Ben stared. A lot. It was the only thing he seemed to know how to do in this new existence of no longer Kylo Ren, but not quite Ben Solo. As Rey haggled with an eight-limbed harch over the rent of a two-roomed residence that teetered alarmingly between hovel in need of some care and abandoned murder shack, Ben watched her intently. She felt his eyes follow every motion of her hands, every sweep of her arm, and more than once cast a 'quit it' glare over her shoulder.

Rey could sense he was confused why their ship wouldn't make suitable lodging, and hoped he hadn't seen her altering its record banks. Covering their tracks would be hard to explain if all she truly wanted was a bit of space from her comrades.

But Ben's curiosity faded as quickly as it had sprung. The muted edges of his mind – unable to grasp this uncharted reality forming around him – only seemed to sharpen into focus when he concentrated on her.

Or so she thought.

In actuality, Ben's brain was a flurry of activity, fully turned on for the first time in years. Colors were brighter, sounds louder, and minute details bombarded to an overloading degree. Their dizzying churn only seemed to still around Rey, calmed by the errant hairs dancing at her ears and the scrunch of her nose as she punctuated a point.

They had never existed as allies, and Ben discovered his instincts to dominate and control had shifted to ones radically tame. Support and defense had never held allure before, but the urge to bolster Rey was overwhelming.

Ben continued to observe, using the force to feel for any hint of ill-intent from the spider-like seller she was speaking to. None would harm her in his presence.

The harch, keenly aware of his audience, clacked his mandibles together in irritation, realizing the little terran before him may not have been native, but she was no newcomer to the traits shelters needed against the stinging desert whipping around them. He had showed her and her seemingly-mute companion numerous dwellings, and this was the last in his reserve. The man behind her, swathed in nondescript tan and leaning against a crumbled stone wall, would have seemed like a disinterested hireling waiting to bring her bags into whatever home she selected, save for his careful examination of her. The young woman didn't utter a word, pause in thought, or make a single gesture without him noting it, as if cataloging every nuance of her and filing it away for later was his sole purpose.

The purveyor also noticed how the man watched him anytime he neared the woman, how his deadened eyes would alight in a blaze of protective possessiveness if he so much as grazed her forearm in an attempt to show her some feature.

As they continued to barter, the harch could hear his exasperation give way to anger. He wasn't much for displays of temper, but the stubborn creature before him, currently palming her hips and radiating displeasure, was testing his restraint. "Look Miss," he tried to keep hold of his patience, but it was evaporating in the beating sun overhead. "You have very stringent demands. This is Carajam, not Tatooine. This is the best I can do."

The terran scoffed, blowing tendrils of escaping hair from her face. The pile of hair-fur – her species had great mops of it on their head, but hardly any elsewhere – was coming loose of its multi-bun arrangement. "Tatooine isn't some thriving center of culture and commerce," she said.

"Yes," he replied slowly, enunciating like she wasn't fully-grown and had strayed from her parents. "So, it should speak volumes when I reference it as one. Compared to this planet, it is."

At that, the man burst from his lean, appearing at the harch's side in a billow of sand shawl, his impassive face morphing to thunderous rage. "There's no need for insult," he announced. "She's offered a fair price," his tone darkened dangerously. "I suggest you take it."

The seller heard an unmistakable layer of threat in the innocent words, and his mandibles quivered as a shudder ran through his furry, round frame. "I-I couldn't possibly—."

The man craned down, fixing him with a frightfully calm stare. "Don't make me repeat myself."

"Ben," the woman admonished. Her frustration disappeared in a rush of wary apprehension, and she lifted her hands from her hips, bracing them out as if to stop him from doing more than bending close.

Her companion didn't spare her a glance—apparently halting his study—and glowered at the harch.

"I-I…," a deep survival instinct, long dormant amid generations of space-faring exploration, screamed shrilly for the seller to acquiesce. Immediately. "I accept your terms," he obliged.

The man acknowledged him with a clipped nod, straightened, and let the wrath bleed from his features. "Good," he strode past the woman into the dwelling, unhitching the bag over his chest and disappearing inside without further exchange.

The harch gawked at the open doorway before turning to Rey. "Who is that?"

She tried for a smile, but it waffled and fell almost immediately. "We're here to find out."


After fishing out the required credits, Rey scooped up her own bag and stormed after Ben, bursting into the house and flooding it with her feelings.

Ben, righting a set of fallen chairs, winced. "You are upset," he intoned, testing the chair's legs and pounding one back into place with the heel of his hand. One of the reasons Rey had chosen this abode was because it came with a sparse collection of furniture.

"Yes," she seethed. "Care to guess why?" Throwing her pack beside his, she flounced over.

Ben could hear her irate protests ringing in his skull – spiked splutters of 'We don't want anyone knowing who we are!' and 'I was handling it!' the loudest among the din. "I know why," he mumbled, appraising the second chair.

His admittance caused her indignation to stumble, and she beamed the side of his head with a wordless glare, crossing her arms.

Ben waited, feeling her anger swirl.

"And?!" Rey finally asked.

He stayed quiet, pressing the new chair's seat to make sure it could bear weight.

"Ben!" His name broke into a near-shout.

And…, he sent her mentally. I have nothing else in the galaxy.

Confusion crimped her brow.

Except you.

A blush rose in her cheeks, dusting the bridge of her nose a pretty pink. Rey was still broadcasting, and he picked out 'Me? I'm nobody' before she pulled the personal parts of herself back into her own shell.

"That's no reason to put on such a display," she grumbled. "I've dealt with far worse traders on Jakku."

Ben nodded gamely, keeping his thoughts to himself.

And one day, I will burn them to the ground for it. Raze every trace of them from existence. Lay waste to their business, their contacts, anyone that even mentions their name. No one will ever threaten or belittle you again. If I'm to live, it'll only be on those terms.

Perhaps his motives weren't as tame as he'd originally supposed.

Rey bent to inspect the mismatched table, copying Ben as she tested its top, and entirely missed the savage hatred burning in his gaze.


Rey went right to work, wasting no time in covering the two holes meant to be windows with thick microfiber she'd pilfered from Resistance stores. Ben watched her pull out multiple sundry items from her bag next, his surprise strengthening to shock as the volume of gear grew. How had she known to pack so much, and where had she stowed it all?

Arranging her collection around her with decided satisfaction, she set about finding places for each piece, putting dishware – replete with bowls and utensils – atop the table, resting toiletries near a rusted, chipped washbasin, and bringing a cloth wrapped bundle he could see held knives and a mallet to the firepit badly in need of maintenance. She even wrestled a small water cistern free, housing it in a corner. Ben's jaw dropped at the final item, eyes boggling at its dimensions.

"Where—?"

Rey looked up. Misreading his surprise, she frowned. "I didn't steal any of this," she said defensively. "I uphold the scavenger code. I left Poe a note about the microfiber."

Ben held up a palm. "I only meant how'd you fit it all in?"

The lines in her face eased. "Well, you and I only have an extra set of clothes apiece, so, you know," she gestured vaguely. "Don't go ripping anything trying to fight my battles for me."

Ah, still mad I see, he mused. For all he had tried manipulating her as Kylo Ren, claiming he knew her better than she knew herself, he realized this time alone was going to grant him vast insights. He had a feeling the learning curve would be painfully-steep as he spied her furtively squirreling away the two lightsabers that had dethroned Palpatine under a pile of blankets he guessed would be her bed. Weapons that had saved the galaxy and forever inscribed her name in history were to be concealed and stowed as secret trinkets?

Ben looked around for a second set of blankets, and started, spinning with greater urgency. Wait… where's MY bed?!