"There has been an awakening. Have you felt it?"
He stood before his master, head bowed. Sweat lay heavy on his brow, the beating of his heart hard. There was another: a force-sensitive.
"Yes."
A leather-gloved hand clenched at his side. He would annihilate the spare as he had annihilated the rest.
"There's something more. The droid we seek is aboard the Millennium Falcon," Supreme Leader Snoke began. The hologram of his master shifted; the figure seemed to lean back before continuing, slower now, "in the hands of your father, Han Solo."
His mouth ran dry, heart skipping a beat beneath his chest. He wished to silence it as he had silenced many before. He set his jaw firmly, clenching and unclenching his fists.
"He means nothing to me," he breathed, head bowing further.
"Even you, Master of the Knights of Ren, have never faced such a test."
He blinked up at his Master, something uncomfortable growing in the pit of his belly—insecurity. Shame, perhaps.
"By the grace of your training, I will not be seduced," he assured himself more than the cloaked figure before him.
His Master paused, looming over the room with a thick, palpable presence. The air seemed to be seeping out of the room, suffocating the man more with every second he spent within it.
"And the girl?"
Something caught in his throat.
"Supreme Leader?" he asked questioningly. Hesitantly.
"The girl. Will you be seduced?"
The towering figure seemed to sneer, playing with prey before a slaughter.
The man spoke quickly, thick vocoder drowning out the unsteadiness in his voice. "She, too, means nothing to me," he said. "A whore," he spat, hatred lighting up the word.
"A whore," the Supreme Leader repeated after a moment, voice hollow. Cynical. "You possess curious feelings for a whore."
He blinked up at his master, who cut across him before he could issue a response.
"I perceive a problem. You have compassion for her." There was an unmistakable disgust in the older one's voice when it uttered the word.
He flinched behind his helmet, hands balling into tight fists at his sides. He swallowed hard.
"I will stomp it out."
Something seemed to shift in the air around him.
"We shall see," a dark whisper filled the room, "we shall see."
The hologram faded a moment later.
He gasped for breath as though oxygen had only just entered the room. Turning on one heel, he hurried out of the makeshift throne room. When the elevator reached its destination, he stormed down the hall with purpose.
"Sir—" Lieutenant Mitaka interrupted his thoughts.
The man shot his hand out, sending the other flying across the way. Mitaka hit the far wall and slid down.
"Not now," Ren ordered sharply, heavy footsteps carrying him further down the hallway and out of sight.
He had a singular goal as he marched down the dark corridors, sending unsuspecting officers and troopers scattering. As he approached his quarters, a strange heat rose in his cheat. It spread across his face, a burning sensation lingering on his features. He sighed heavily, punching in the code to his rooms with unnecessary force.
The girl sat up in bed when he entered, eyes wide and alarmed. She seemed to force herself to swallow, following his footsteps.
"Sir—" the stormtrooper guarding her started.
"Take her. Wait outside," he commanded, silencing the trooper.
The trooper exited quickly, grasping the girl by her upper arm and pulling her out of bed.
Burdened footsteps made their way to the black chair that rested next to the coffee table. He sat; the mangled mask of his grandfather stared back at him.
The man rested his head in his hands for a few moments, temples pounding. "Forgive me," he murmured, glancing up only slightly. His eyes went to the indent of her body in bed, crumpled sheets still pooled around where she had been only minutes before, innocent. Innocent and afraid. "I feel it again: the pull to the light. Supreme Leader senses it!"
He practically hissed the last words, frustration mounting. It was the closest he had been to prayer. He was begging for guidance. His head bowed again, thoughts still pounding between his ears.
"Show me again, the power of the darkness, and I will let nothing stand in our way." He forced a breath into his lungs. "Show me, grandfather, and I will finish what you started."
You stood awkwardly in the hall, as if banished from a classroom for being unruly. You tried to pull down the sweater to cover more of your thighs; goosebumps rose from the cool air. The tattoo was healing; its bandage was off now, and he had rubbed an ointment into your arm last night. You stared at it bitterly, wishing you could burn it off with your gaze alone. Folding your arms, your eyes flicked over the stormtrooper in front of you. His blaster was trained on you; you'd considered running, but imagined your captor had probably authorized non-lethal shots. Instead, you stood where you were, leaning up against the wall.
When the blaster door flew open, you could've sworn you saw the trooper jump along with you. You straightened up in sync with each other, your captor leaning into the hall.
"You're no longer needed," he dismissed the trooper, gloved hand closing quickly around your unmarked wrist.
He seemed to fling you into the room, causing you to stumble a few paces forward. You caught yourself and turned to face him defensively.
His expression was unreadable through the helmet, but waves of negative emotion radiated towards you; whatever his mood, it wasn't good.
"Did I do something wrong?" you asked, trying your hardest to sound cooperative, vulnerable.
No response greeted you, though you thought you saw a fist clench tighter at his side. You backed up a few places; the back of your knees hit the bed, but you didn't dare sit on it without permission. He seemed to survey you for a few moments. You couldn't see them, but somehow you could feel the heat of his eyes.
Then he raised his hands, and his thumbs hit the latches of his helmet. He set it down on the coffee table, eyes trained on you like you knew they would be. You forced yourself to swallow; he seemed to do the same.
"Are you—"
"Don't speak out of turn," he snapped, turning and walking into the kitchen area. He poured himself a glass of water.
You blanched; he had never much restricted speech before. You kept your mouth shut—you had already taken a week's worth of punishments. You didn't want to earn any more.
"I shouldn't even have you in my quarters," he spat a moment later, seemingly more to himself than to you. The color poured out of you even further. You bit your lip, tears welling again in your eyes. You didn't know what you had done wrong this time; you'd barely done anything at all today.
He dropped into a chair at the table, and your feet carried you towards him. You knelt as obediently as you could manage without hating yourself fully, looking up at him with concern in your eyes.
He seemed to think that was the worst thing you could have done. He swallowed a sip of water, tension etched across his features. He glanced up, then away—eyes flitting anywhere that wasn't to you.
But finally, inevitably, yours met his. They seemed to lock there, unspoken questions burning between you. His lips twitched; it looked like he was pressing them together, gulping down emotion.
You took a breath and learned into his knee, closing your eyes; you didn't want to see his reaction if it was going to be bad. The silence that fell seemed to freeze the room. You couldn't even hear his breathing as you waited for a reaction, an acknowledgement—anything.
Then you felt fingers softly—hesitantly—brush the back of your hair.
You placed your open palm lightly on his calf, nuzzling his leg. His fingers worked their way into your hair less subtly then, almost pulling you closer. You were the one on your knees, yet you felt—somehow—like you had the power in that moment; you were bringing him comfort.
You waited for a few moments until warmth had crept into both of you. Then you turned slightly, daring to look up at him. "Are you okay?"
He regarded you curiously for a few moments, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "I thought I told you not to speak out of turn," he murmured, voice altogether lacking threat.
"I'm sorry," you said obediently; you knew he wasn't truly angry—just going through the motions. He gave a stiff nod, fingers stroking the side of your face.
"Can I do anything?" you asked, genuine in your offer.
His eyes searched yours for a moment, and his lips curled down into a little frown of denial.
"No."