Nineteen years later, Luke Skywalker has vanished. In his absence, the sinister First Order has risen from the ashes of the Galactic Empire, and will not rest until they have complete control over the galaxy. With the support of the New Galactic Republic, General Leia Organa leads a brave Resistance. She is desperate to find her brother and gain his help in restoring peace. However, the First Order have also set their sights on the last of the Jedi…
To the galaxy, he is known as Kylo Ren. Killer of Jedi, master of the Knights of Ren, apprentice to the great Supreme Leader Snoke. He is a cunning, ruthless warrior. His power in the Force is unequalled. He is single-minded, fiercely determined, an unrelenting force of nature with the sole purpose of subjugating those who would deny the power of the Dark Side.
Most of these things are lies.
Today, as Kylo Ren sits in his meditation chamber, he wonders if he has ever felt weaker. The room is sparsely furnished, and dimly lit, suited for its calming purpose. There is a leather chair, and a projection console, and a polished, black plinth. Atop this dark pedestal is the current object of Ren's attention. The helmet has been mangled and dulled. The optical lenses have been smashed, the durasteel hull misshapen, the sections left of the mouthpiece jutting up like broken teeth. But it is not yet unrecognisable. This is the mask of Darth Vader.
Kylo Ren sits before the helmet, and bows his head to it. When he speaks, the reverence and shame in his voice are clear even through his own mask.
"Forgive me. I feel it again. The pull to the Light." A lie. Even when he had felt most certain in his purpose, he had always felt the Light trying to draw him away from it. Each day the First Order comes closer to its goal, to subjugate the New Republic, and establish itself as the ultimate power in the galaxy. But each of those days, Kylo Ren had retired to his private quarters more uncertain, filled with more grief and regret for those the Order oppresses. Each of those days, he had found himself staring at the same helmet, pleading for the help that never comes.
"Show me again the power of the Dark Side, and I will let nothing stand in our way."
Kylo Ren bows his head, and addresses the skeletal mask one final time.
"Grandfather. Please."
His grandfather doesn't answer him. Not any more.
There are any number of obstacles that stand in the way of the First Order, but there is one in particular that falls directly under the purview of Kylo Ren: Luke Skywalker, the last of the Jedi.
Kylo Ren has his own personal training quarters on Starkiller Base. The Supreme Leader had insisted on it. It wouldn't do to have the Jedi Killer training alongside the lowly stormtroopers. He is far more important, far more powerful, and his inferiors must not be allowed to forget it. However, in his infinite wisdom, the Supreme Leader has granted him one exception. Kylo Ren will be strong enough to face the last Jedi when the time comes – the Supreme Leader has promised that – but the prospect of facing one of the most powerful warriors in the galaxy alone seems nothing short of suicidal. Captain Phasma had agreed with the assessment, and to provide the finest of her men, the most promising troopers, to receive personal training from Ren himself. He knows far better than anyone how a Jedi fights, after all.
When they do find Luke Skywalker, he'll need the best, and he'll need them to be prepared.
"Soldiers." Phasma addresses her current selection of men, her voice clear and authoritative. A ripple of fear and excitement passes over the group. Three of them. A small, round pit of disappointment forms in his gut. He'd hoped there would be more. "You have been chosen to participate in this exercise to determine your potential as Jedi hunters. Be honoured. Most troopers will not have this opportunity. You have been selected because of your talent."
Kylo Ren turns to face the assembly. The three troopers stand to attention, identical in their pristine betaplast armour. Identical in their apprehension. Captain Phasma's impressive figure is plated in shiny silver armour. The chromium had been salvaged from a starship belonging to Emperor Palpatine himself. As if that wasn't enough to distinguish her, a knee-length black cape hangs over one shoulder, bordered in bright red silk.
Reaching behind him, Kylo Ren takes the training saber from the shelf. It would stun them, if it made contact, but do no permanent damage. He'd wondered if either Hux or the Supreme Leader would take issue with that, but it seems no one wants to waste the best of their soldiers. Ren ignites the saber; the blade is dimmer than that of his normal lightsaber, and less volatile.
"You must not let the saber touch you. To touch the blade of a Jedi is to suffer death or injury." Phasma conveniently excludes the fact that this blade is harmless. "You will spar with Lord Ren. You will attempt to disarm him. Do you understand your objective?"
The three troopers state an identical affirmative.
Phasma's gaze falls on the first trooper. "FN-1064, step forward."
The trooper steps out of the line, and their baton crackles into life. Ren feels fear and panic radiating from them, so strong he almost expects to see it coming off them like steam. Eventually the pressure builds too much, and they make a panicked swing of the baton. Ren knocks the baton out of the way, and jab the saber into their side. The entire "fight" lasts less than fifteen seconds. Pathetic.
"FN-2199, step forward." There's a hint of disgust in Phasma's voice.
The second trooper advances, their baton snapping into a reverse-grip position. Ren readies himself. Nine-nine jabs the weapon forwards, a strike easily avoided. They swing right, Ren parries with ease, and lunges forward. Nine-nine dodges, and the fight continues. They hold their own longer than Six-Four, but they are overzealous. They finally jab the baton towards him, lunging too far forward, and Ren brings the saber to their neck.
Nine-Nine collapses, stunned. They were too aggressive, too sloppy. But they have promise. With a little more training, more discipline…
"FN-2187, step forward."
The third trooper steps up. Their hands are shaking, and their fear is strong, strong enough to raise the hair on Ren's scalp. But their stance is bold and steady. They do not waver. Good.
They swing the baton right. Ren steps aside, with ease, and he parries the back swing, knocking the trooper off-balance. Eight-Seven quickly compensates, stepping into a defensive stance. Ren follows. Eight-Seven shifts their weight onto their back leg, and forces their other arm out. The baton follows, swirling wildly on the magnetic handle. Ren brings up the saber to deflect it. The baton misses by millimetres. And before he can make another move, something hits the small of his back. The sharp sting of electricity stabs the point of connection. He hits the mat. Hard.
The room falls into stunned silence. Ren looks up, searching for an explanation. It quickly becomes apparent. Eight-Seven had steadied the dull end of the faulty baton with their free hand, and rammed it into him. They stand utterly still, the baton raised at the end point of its path. Their helmet is blank, but Ren can sense their shock. They hadn't expected to knock him down either.
It takes them a moment, but Eight-Seven manages to rouse themselves before Ren does. They drop the baton, and hold out their hand to him.
It should mean absolutely nothing. It's a tiny gesture, a formality. It's common practice, isn't it, to help a sparring partner to their feet? But Kylo Ren is not a common man. He knows that. FN-2187 must know that. So what is this, a bid for attention? An attempt to distinguish themself? A mockery? But Kylo can sense nothing in the Force, no malice or cunning in FN-2187's mind. Just an earnest desire to help, and now, confusion at Ren's behaviour. Why would they think he needed help?
Why would they dare to offer it?
Captain Phasma's voice breaks into his trance. "FN-2187, stand down."
Eight-seven glances over their shoulder, but lingers, reluctant. Their hand haltingly withdraws, fingers closing in. Still prepared for Ren to take it. He still could.
"FN-2187, stand down!" And they snap back to attention. The hand closes in a fist, and goes back to their side, an offer rescinded. Kylo Ren looks at them now, and sees just a stormtrooper.
Only they're not "just a stormtrooper."
"Troopers, stand to attention."
FN-2187 turns on their heel, and re-joins the line of troopers. The three return to formation, identical once again in stance and intention. That odd, kind stranger disappears back into conformity.
Kylo Ren gets to his feet, and retrieves the training saber from the floor.
"You may leave," he says, flatly. He listens to them file out, footsteps in mechanical unison, and the door clamps shut behind them. He can sense their relief as they leave his presence, and Phasma's lingering irritation, but his own mind is full of fog. He stands in the dull, grey training room, and wonders what vibrant thing had just happened.
Hidden away in the unknown regions of the galaxy is the planet once called Ilum. Torn away from its orbit, it sails through the empty darkness, the only clue to its existence the trail of disappeared spacecraft it has left in its wake. Parts of the surface look much the same way that they had for eons before; snow-covered plains giving way to thick pine forests, rising into craggy, grey peaks of rock in some places, and dipping into great valleys in others. But the world's former beauty is far outweighed by the scars of its conversion. The mountains had been hollowed out, the glaciers eaten away for water and space, the living earth of the planet tunnelled into and turned outward for the First Order's sinister purposes. Across the equator, the crust splits into a canyon hundreds of miles wide, and stretching down into the planet's very core. And in this livid wound the Order has set their greatest weapon. Their killer of stars.
The durasteel halls of the base proper are often a flurry of activity. Officers rush to and fro, carrying everything from weaponry to intelligence, pairs of troopers march along their patrols, and droids weave between them all to their various destinations. The activity is hurried, but all carried out with military precision. Kylo Ren and Captain Phasma cut an impressive path through the bustle as they walk towards his quarters. A few of the officers that pass by turn their heads to stare at her, as though impressed or surprised she would dare to stand so close to him. Phasma ignores them all, of course, instead focussing entirely on her conversation. A conversation that Ren quickly realises he's stopped listening to. He shakes himself mentally, and turns his attention back to her assessment of her progress.
"…early days yet, my lord. In the time you gave me before your first session, I could only assess a handful of training squadrons. I hope to find some more impressive soldiers in the future."
Ren frowns behind the mask. It had been a tight deadline, but Skywalker could be located at any time, and he'll accept none of their excuses. They must be prepared.
"I expect nothing but your finest, Captain." A compliment and an ultimatum. It's a task she can easily fulfil; she knows her army, and many of the best troopers are already under her direct command.
"You shall have them, of course, my lord."
He almost ends the conversation there. It would be the sensible thing, but his curiosity is growing too intense to ignore. "What about that last trooper? Eight-Seven?" he asks, keeping his tone as non-committal as possible.
Phasma's answer is clinical and matter-of-fact, but he can sense the frustration that she is masking with such expertise. "What you saw today is typical of FN-2187, my lord. He is talented, but he is soft. He insists on shielding other members of his team from the consequences of their failures. Frankly, if I had found more suitable troopers, I would not have brought him before you."
Kylo Ren bristles, for a reason he can't quite decipher. Captain Phasma knows the subject far better than he does, after all. And why should a Knight of Ren concern himself with defending the honour of a lowly stormtrooper? "He was the best of today's selection, Captain," he says, curtly.
"In the training room, my lord," she argues. "I don't have high hopes for his potential on a real battlefield, if he continues to display such behaviour. The First Order is only as strong as its weakest member."
He can't argue with that. The Supreme Leader had told him much the same thing, many times over the years. They reach the door of his quarters, and they both turn to face each other.
"Bring him to my quarters, tomorrow evening." It's out of his mouth before he even thinks about it. He can sense the captain's incredulity beneath his reflection in her chromium-plated helmet. It's lucky he can only see his own mask staring back at him, and not his mouth agape in surprise at his own nerve. He quickly adjusts himself. "Perhaps my approach may convince him to be more pragmatic."
Her head cocks ever so slightly to the side, the barest suggestion of doubt. But she knows better than to question him. "Of course, my lord. I'll have him brought from the mess hall immediately after dinner."
Captain Phasma bows her head, respectfully. She turns and walks down the corridor, her red-bordered cape flowing behind her. Kylo Ren waits until she turns a corner, and opens the door to his own rooms.
He stands before his grandfather's helmet. Darth Vader is unhelpfully silent.