You weren't quite sure how long you had been standing, back against the divider wall. You stared at the floor—he didn't acknowledge you, you didn't acknowledge him. Soon you felt your toes going numb, and you slid down to sit on the ground.
You could feel the heat of his gaze on you for a moment, but it flashed away just as quickly. There was no gentle coaxing for you to come to him; not now. Silence fell heavy on your shoulders and you closed your eyes for a while. You pretended you were resting against a tree in the forest—the cold, hard ground beneath you one of the rocks you used to perch on. It was almost as if you could hear the soft rustling of leaves nearby, or a bird in the distance. But they weren't there—not really—and your stomach twisted as you acknowledged reality.
You stared forward for a few moments, eyes crossing at the stark darkness of the walls.
"I didn't thank you for the clothing," you nearly whispered a moment later, almost more to yourself than to him. Your voice threatened to break; you cleared your throat, turning your head to look at him.
His eyes met yours, peering over his pad. You searched them like he searched yours, but nothing swam forward—if he felt anything, he didn't show it.
"I'm sorry." You looked down at your hands and set your jaw. "Thank you."
Little tears swam in your eyes—it felt like you were giving in, thanking him. And yet, somehow, it felt like the right thing to do. It felt kind, as if he was even capable of appreciating kindness.
You felt his eyes leave you after a moment; silence fell again, thick and heavy in your throat. Heat crossed your face, cheeks almost burning in embarrassment at his complete lack of response. You choked back the tears that had been forming, anger rising in your chest.
"Why do you hate me?" you asked, slumping back against the wall, feeling defeated. You turned your head to look at him, watching his thumb play at the side of the pad, hitting the 'off' switch. He set it aside, a soft sigh traveling through him. He was frustrated—you could tell—but he managed to restrain it.
"I don't hate you," he said simply. You waited for something more, but nothing came. Anger boiled over within you—he acted like he didn't owe you anything at all, let alone an explanation.
"Then why do you act like it," you hissed, more statement than question. He stood; you watched his feet approach through blurry eyes, tears slipping out of your waterline and down your cheeks.
A warm hand clutched under your chin, bringing your eyes up to his.
"Poor child," he murmured, a genuine kind of sympathy in his voice. "So lost." You huffed and sniffled back your tears as though you were above being touched by him. "Begging me for comfort; unwilling to accept when I give it." His thumb brushed your cheek before he dropped his hand away. "You're the only one who feels hatred here," he finished, both accusatory and reassuring in one.
He left you where you were, crumpled on the floor. You continued crying, feeling pathetic as he walked out of sight—to the refresher, you assumed wrongly. When he stepped back into view, he pressed your bear down into your hands.
"Stop crying," he started, squatting down to level with you. There was a harder edge in his voice now. "Sit at the table when you're ready to behave yourself. Dinner will be here soon."
"I'm not a child," you hissed, rage flaring within your ribcage. You threw the bear hard across the room; it slammed against the opposite wall and bounced off, coming to rest on the ground nearby.
He smirked knowingly as he straightened up.
"No, you're the picture of maturity."
He let the words burn a few seconds longer before walking away, this time disappearing into the refresher.
You shot all kinds of silent curse words at him, especially furious that he dared to be right. He had called you a child—and here you were, throwing a tantrum on the floor. It added shame and embarrassment to the mix right alongside the rage. Despite that, you couldn't stop; it wouldn't feel right to stop. He was holding you captive, playing with your emotions—you didn't know what to feel anymore.
He emerged after a few minutes, issuing a disappointed sigh when he found you still weeping on the floor. He stepped over you and took his place at the table, serving droids entering his quarters only a few seconds later. You heard only bits of what they said as you cried—you caught an "excuse me" and a "how rude" among the robotic babble, too occupied in your own self-pity to move aside.
You only bothered to look up when you heard the soft rumble of a stomach—not yours, you realized quickly. You blinked up at his figure through confused eyes, watching as he picked up a fork and began eating. It was another slap in the face to you; another reminder that he was human. Hungry.
"Didn't you eat today?" you asked, sniffling pathetically and tucking a stray bit of hair behind your ear.
"I was busy."
"You should make time to eat. Once a day isn't enough."
He leaned back in his chair, a strange expression on his face.
"You should eat before your food gets cold," he said, cutting across your in-depth analysis of his expression.
"I'm busy," you echoed stubbornly.
He snorted, an amused smirk crossing his face. "Eat," he repeated—much less of a suggestion this time—pointing to your dish.
Something small twisted in your stomach; he'd ordered separate food for you—and it must've been before you'd started giving him trouble, as he hadn't touched the datapad since. You forced yourself to swallow, pushing yourself up and sitting down in the chair across from him. Your eyes dipped to your bowl; it was some kind of pasta, tossed in a buttery-looking sauce along with various vegetables. Then your eyes flicked to his; the same, but with chicken—a larger portion overall.
"I need protein," he said, drowning out the sound of your jealousy. He seemed to sense it. "Want some?" He cut a piece, stabbing it with his fork.
You knew what came next; though your mouth ran dry, you nodded. "Yes, sir."
Something glimmered behind his eyes, and he pulled out the chair to your left—his right. His fingers curled, gesturing for you to change seats. You shivered slightly as you stood and walked around the table, that uncomfortable sense of intimacy creeping into your belly.
A wave of relief rolled over you as he simply handed you his fork. You returned it quickly, eager to forget he was capable of sharing. The feeling ebbed and flowed; when it receded, it was to that same awkwardness from before.
"Aren't you going to tell me about your day," you managed to choke out, desperate to break the silence.
He finished chewing and seemed to lean back in his chair a little.
"Isn't that what you're supposed to do, at a dinner?" You stumbled over the words, stabbing your own food and shoving it in your mouth to prevent more nonsense from flowing forth.
"I…" your eyes hopped to his as he began to actually answer. He looked thoughtful for a few silent moments, then spoke again. "We're looking for a droid."
You swallowed. "What?"
"Not one of our own," he clarified, seemingly reading your mind again—you wished he would stop that. "A Resistance droid, we think."
"The Resistance is real?" you exclaimed before thinking, sounding a lot more excited than was good for you.
He scowled, a warning shot fired in your direction. "Unfortunately."
You ate in silence for a few more moments, thinking over the new information. "Why are you looking for it?" you asked carefully, trying not to sound too invested in any answer he might give—just conversational and polite.
"We're looking for someone." He seemed to give intentionally short answers; enough to make some semblance of conversation, but not enough to reveal real information.
Nor enough to make you feel important, you realized, flinching.
"Who might that be?" you barely dared to breathe.
He set down his fork now, setting his jaw. He looked angry—maybe not at you, though you saw some frustration there—but at someone.
"Luke Skywalker," he breathed, teeth clenched.
"He's real too?" you asked through a smile, which fell much quicker than it came; you had the strong urge to clap your own hand over your mouth. His eyes jumped to yours just as quickly, fury burning within them.
He leaned into you threateningly, fingers wrapping around your wrist and tugging you closer to him. "Careful, little girl," he breathed, voice low. "You're dangerously close to treason."
Tears swam in your eyes again, though you managed to blink them back.
"I'm sorry," you whimpered. "I only know about him from stories told in Tavuu. They're probably fake. I don't know that much about Galactic history—"
His fingers had fallen away from your wrist, holding up the other to quiet you. Leaning back in his chair again, he took a deep breath. "Tell me what else you know."
You felt a slight brush at the back of your head, and words flowed freely from your mouth. It seemed silly to hide things from him, despite the fear pounding through you. "I know about Palpatine. He became the Emperor. He killed his Master." He gave a small, stiff nod in acknowledgement. "He took an apprentice of his own. Vader. They built up the Empire, made weapons. The 'Death Star'. But the Rebellion fought back, bringing the Empire down." He nodded again, more stiffly. "Somehow, Vader managed to have two children." He visibly tensed. "Luke," the fire burned in his eyes, "And a princess in the Republic, Leia."
The pressure in the back of your head was suddenly gone, and you slumped forward a little, gasping for breath. He had forced your mind open—why, you didn't know. None of this could be new information to him; at most, it was remedial history. You had only ever picked up bits and pieces of what you were sure most people knew. But his reaction to your last words was clear and visceral; fury had risen in his eyes at 'Luke', and something stronger flared in him at 'Leia'. When you'd said it, a wave of stress seemed to radiate off him and slam against you. He didn't like that you knew about these people—especially her.
"I'm sorry, I only wanted—" you started.
"Be quiet," he snapped harshly, standing and pacing a few steps forward. He turned on his heel. "I never want to hear you say—no, think—anything positive about him, or her, ever again."
"Why?" you murmured before you could stop yourself, pushing yourself against the back of your chair, wishing you could get away.
He took a step towards you.
"Because they're enemies of the First Order." His voice contained that same order—an order that you stop so much as thinking about something. It made you angry: his confidence that he had the right to command you in such a way.
"Good thing I'm not a part of the First Order," you hissed back, fingernails digging into the armrests of the chair.
You had fucked up. You had really fucked up. You knew it the instant his face seemed to clear of any emotion—the minute he drew up to his full height. He approached you, deathly silent, and leaned down so his face was level with yours.
"Is that so?" he asked softly—too softly.
You shook your head no violently, the word spilling out of your mouth like a desperate prayer, but his expression didn't change. There was a white-hot kind of flame behind his eyes and a terrifying resolve on his face.
"You will wait here. Silently," he added, and that familiar tingle sprang into the back of your head. Your body complied even while your mind screamed, watching him pull on clothes in your periphery. He stood in front of you a few moments later, fully dressed; his cold helmet hid the only part of him that made you think twice about wishing him death. Strong, gloved hands wrapped around your wrists, pulling you to your feet as the compulsion faded.
"Please don't hurt me," you choked desperately through panicked tears as he pulled you out through the blaster door. He marched you down cold, dark hallways, people around you clearing quickly. The addition of a crying, screaming girl in Kylo Ren's arms seemed to affect no one—no one stepped forward to help you, simply scurried out of his way.
"You're needed," you heard him say to someone you couldn't see. Your captor led you down the hall a bit further, shoving you into a room—a room that looked like a torture chamber.
"Please don't," you screamed, tears completely clouding your vision as he strapped you to something cold and unyielding. "Please," you begged, "I want to live. I'm sorry. I want to live—"
A gloved thumb wiped your tears with surprising gentleness. "Hush," the mechanical voice of his visor spoke. "This will only hurt a little. You're going to be fine."
You searched his mask for any sign of a lie, but you couldn't tell; it stared back at you as cold and emotionless as ever.
"I'm not lying," he answered, apparently listening to your thoughts again. "Calm down." It sounded almost reassuring.
Just then, a large man in a black uniform walked into the room. He held something in his right hand as he neared you, pushing a metal tray closer. Your mouth ran dry; it was a tattoo gun.
"Please don't," you begged again, somehow even louder this time. You pulled hard against your restraints, pleading with the man who stood next to you, his visor pointed in your direction. "Please don't."
"It won't hurt much," he repeated calmly, gloved fingers stroking the side of your face.
"What would you like, sir?" the man in front of you asked.
"The insignia," your captor spoke simply. "Left wrist."
The man nodded, drawing the needle closer to you; you screamed louder, desperate to pull your arm out of the metal—
"You will be still," a static voice said—yours repeated it back to him, arm becoming limp and compliant. Your head lulled to the side where it had been, eyes glassy and forced to stare ahead. You gazed into the dark fabric of your captor's robes as you felt the needle press into your skin; you had no choice but to allow it. The humming of the needle and the pain it brought became duller over time, fading into the background as a gloved hand stroked your cheek, occasionally brushing tears aside. Even gloved, his hand felt oddly warm. It felt almost comforting, distracting you from the needle.
When the invisible force seemed to subside, you hunched forward, gasping for breath. Your eyes rushed to your wrist, which now bore the same insignia the tattoo artist wore on the upper arm of his uniform.
Your lips parted in a silent scream, only vaguely hearing your captor dismiss the man.
"…and leave that there," you caught at the end. The man stepped out, and you heard a soft hiss—the remaining man had taken his helmet off. He set it aside, moving in front of you to take the vacant seat.
"I hate you!" you screamed, tears welling in your eyes. You pulled hard at your restraints again; he stared at you, jaw tensing, letting you battle against the cool metal. He knew you wouldn't escape—and you knew it too. You stopped after a few moments to catch your breath, the inevitable defeat only making you cry harder.
He released one hand—your left—and brought it to his lips, kissing over your fingers.
"You took your punishment so well," he murmured, an almost-reassuring tone in his voice. "You're a good girl."
You flinched, bile rising in your throat. You turned your head away and spit on the ground.
He sighed softly, parting your middle and ring fingers. "Would you like something to make it better?" he asked gently, thumb rubbing the skin between them.
"No," you growled, trying to tug your hand out of his. He scowled before picking up the tattoo gun. "You will be still for me," he purred.
"I will be still for you," your disembodied voice repeated.
He nodded, pressing your middle and pointer fingers down and out of the way. Then he turned your hand, pressed it into his lap, and began permanently writing something into the side of your ring finger.
No. No no no NO. But the screaming in your head did nothing to stop him; your body was under his control, still and obedient.
He pulled away a few moments later, lifting your finger to your field of vision.
There, scrawled in a perfect script—his own handwriting—was 'Kylo'.