Apparently, they'd got whatever information they wanted from her. Her name. That was all they'd got, all she'd given Krennic. All he'd taken.
Sometimes, when Ophelia Lacemaker closed her eyes, she forgot where she was.
Sometimes, when we closed her eyes, she felt the crackle, the surge, the burning, of that electrical current. And then she remembered where she was.
At least in her new cell she had a window. She'd been transferred from the interrogation chamber back to the room she'd first been put in. This room seemed much more like accommodation. Yes, it was more comfortable. But it was not more comforting. Accommodation implied an extended stay.
Usually, prisoners who went into the interrogation chamber were not capable of walking out themselves.
She, it seemed, was the exception to that rule.
She'd been sitting cross-legged on her hard bunk for a long time, and soon she had to allow herself a sigh. A low, guttural, powerful sigh.
Ophelia turned around, was on her knees, and now she could see out of the tiny window above her bunk.
Stars. Blackness. Distance.
In the week — had it been a week? — or so that she'd been on the star destroyer, they hadn't been in hyperspace. Until today. At least — she'd tried to listen to the rumble of the hyperdrive, and she hadn't heard that rumble until today.
She'd seen the odd Stormtrooper: they'd brought her her food, and taken away her empty trays. The food was bad but she was hungry. The Empire only gave its prisoners what was necessary to keep them alive.
She took her fingertips away from the window sill, flopped back down onto the bunk. It was hard but it was better than the metal frame she'd spent the best part of a day or two on. Besides, she had no one to complain to anyway.
The Stormtroopers were soldiers. They never talked to her, and they never replied to her when she asked them a question. They either didn't know the answer or they'd been ordered not to talk to the prisoners.
Sometimes she wished she could see their faces; she wished she could look into their eyes. But the only Imperials without masks were the officers, and she'd only spoken to Krennic.
He was never — it seemed — in the mood for answering her questions. But she hadn't seen him for a few days. Not since she'd been moved from the interrogation room.
It hadn't been a wasted trip though. Krennic's cold attitude — and the Stormtroopers' silence — played to her advantage.
She had not been searched. She'd simply been transferred from one place to another, and that meant she still had a few parts she'd scavenged from the interrogation droid.
Imperials, she knew, had a dislike for droids. Perhaps it wasn't even a dislike. They probably considered them beneath them. And she highly doubted that Krennic would've personally checked over that interrogation droid. No, he would have left it, and he would have swished his cape over his shoulders and marched away.
Ophelia jumped off the bed, lifted up the cold mattress and reached for those spare parts. She held the metal items in the palm of her hand. They were small but not insignificant. The mattress dropped back down with a thud.
She saw there was a panel next to the door. It couldn't be opened from the inside, of course. Or at least it wasn't meant to.
She purses her lips, thought of Krennic's gloved hand keying in those numbers on the panel in the interrogation room. She remembered, tried to remember.
She held those numbers in her head for a while, and then she went over to what counted for the refresher in the cell. It was small, white, uniform, and she stood in front of the smudged mirror. She sighed, held her breath.
The first thing she'd done when the Stormtroopers had delivered her to the cell had been strip off her clothes and wash. She'd stood, letting the water rush over her skin, almost scalding her, for some time. And then she'd cried, and then dried herself off, and got dressed again. And then the cycle continued for the next few days. The prison clothes were uninspiring and ugly but they were better than nothing, and they weren't clogged with the dust of Tatooine or scorched with blaster burns.
Then Ophelia took her hair down, tousled it, let it settle around her shoulders. She smiled, and that face she remembered, she recognised, smiled back at her. Full lips, rouged cheeks. Determined.
Then she crossed soundlessly to the panel. She squinted, held up the droid parts to the light — the starlight — and she chose the best fit.
What happened next was a blur of lights and alarms and noises. Shouting and sirens.
The ship was lurching, as if it were being pushed by something, as if it were caught in something. A battle? An ambush? She shook her head. All she needed to know was how to get off the ship.
She moved quicker this time. And she kept looking down, checking for rogue mouse droids ready to trip her up. She saw none, and she also saw very few officers and Stormtroopers. Evidently, they were all busy with something else, something or someone more important than she was.
And she was happy to take that.
Corridor after corridor, everything looked the same. Star destroyers were huge, empty, vast. She may as well have been in a cave on some distant planet, in some other galaxy. At least she would've been on solid ground. Not hurtling through the emptiness of space at some ridiculous speed.
She hadn't been running; she'd wanted to blend in. Sure, she was not wearing an Imperial uniform — she was wearing prison-issue clothes. But Stormtroopers, when they were around, were not too observant. She'd been lucky enough to slip by several check points, sneak past several corners and walk past several droids.
They hadn't seemed to notice her.
"What are you doing here?"
The question was direct, harsh, and definitely put to her.
She feigned ignorance, walked away, backed into a wall. She'd made it to one of the maintenance levels, and there had not been any workers in sight. Of course. They would all be droids, working in the background. There was one overseer, one officer, and that was apparently who had noticed her.
Ophelia swallowed, breath shuddering. She'd only gone that way because she'd thought it would be deserted. And she'd partly been right. For, she'd thought back to the alarms she'd heard before, only moments ago, and she remembered the Stormtroopers changing through the corridors. Battle stations.
All maintenance crew would be redirected to the deck, ready to man weapons. The droids had been left in maintenance. And droids were usually more obedient. And less observant, she thought, and the thought made her wince.
But this officer wasn't giving up. And he clearly resented being left in maintenance with a load of — inferior — droids.
"What are you doing here, Rebel?" came that question again.
She looked around, and the alarms continued to blare. She would find nothing to help her here. Only herself.
So she took a breath, a deep, shuddering breath, and she stepped closer towards him.
He was young, brunet hair covered up by his ill-fitting cap. She noticed his insignia. Not very experienced. Probably eager to prove himself. Eager to please.
She put on her best damsel-in-distress act. "You've got to help me," she whispered desperately. "There was some sort of power surge, and everything went black. And then the ship — we are on a ship, aren't we? — began to shake. There was so much smoke in the corridors, and I found myself here. I guess I'm lost."
The officer raised an eyebrow, hand wandering preemptively to his blaster. "You're wearing prison clothes. Why?"
This was going to be easier than she'd thought. She sighed. "Because I was — I am — a prisoner. The doors were overridden by this power surge."
He didn't look quite convinced. He snapped his fingers, waved over a droid.
The astromech came trundling over.
"Was there a power surge?"
The droid beeped affirmative.
"Really?" He stroked his chin, apparently endeavouring to appear thoughtful. "I don't think I felt the ship shake."
The droid beeped something else, something that sounded vaguely urgent.
"I know it's a big ship, you stupid droid," he snapped.
The astromech whistled, rolled over to one of the displays. The display crackled, fractured, and then the officer seemed to realise.
"Ah," he said finally. "The power surge has affected the lower decks." He paused. "But why?"
"Perhaps it's Rebels?" Ophelia offered.
He frowned. "I suppose they're probably looking for you."
"I'm not a Rebel but if you'd find that easier to understand, fine."
He raised his eyebrow again, and then he reached for his blaster. "Yes, it would. Now, this must be your doing. You've somehow contacted your comrades. And they're coming for you now."
"They're not."
"Well, they won't succeed anyway."
"I don't care."
He snorted, pushed the astromech out of the way. It whistled some noise of annoyance and then went on its way. He studied the records for himself. The droid wasn't lying. Ophelia wasn't lying. There had been a power surge. Hence the alarms and the sirens.
The upper decks were probably preparing for some sort of attack. Enemy boarding or enemy fire. Either way, it wouldn't be good.
"Well, I'm going to get off this ship before we're overwhelmed by enemy fire," she said with finality. She made for the door.
But the officer had raised his blaster. "Not so fast."
"Are you coming?"
"Am I coming?" Another raised eyebrow. "With you?"
"Who else with?"
Silence.
She rolled her eyes, was almost through the door. He fired. The blaster bolt hit the door panel, and it slid shut. Great. Now they were both stuck.
"Well done," she snapped. "What are we supposed to do now? Wait here and die? Or get captured?"
"My fellow officers will be in here shortly. They'll deal with those rebel insurgents. They'll deal with you."
"They couldn't deal with me in the brig," she muttered.
"You said there was a power surge."
"And you really are as stupid as you look."
His eyes widened, and she charged at him, knocked the blaster out of his hand. He stayed still, as if frozen somewhere between disbelief and rage.
She only smiled. "Now, I'll need your uniform."
"My what?"
"Your uniform." She sighed, pointed the blaster at him.
He stared at the barrel, frowned. He tried to reach a hand behind himself, fingers stretching and straining for the computer system.
She cleared her throat and he seemed to remember the blaster trained on him. So he sighed. And he took off the cap. And then the jacket and the trousers.
"You can keep the boots," she said, smiling wickedly. "Your feet are probably bigger than mine."
The officer swallowed, cheeks red. He blinked, and then he realised she was going to put his clothes on. So he looked away, humiliation burning through him.
When he looked up, he saw she'd since dressed.
"Don't I look good?" she said, a smile broadening on her lips. She gathered her hair, tied it up, put the cap on. "What's your name?"
"Fortnum," he said quietly.
"Nice to meet you. Now I'm heading to the hangar, and I'll soon be out of your hair."
"You can't seriously think I'm going to let you walk out of here?"
"I can, and you will. Now, since you've gone and shot the door to pieces, I'll need your override code."
"Well, I won't give it to you."
"Then you won't get out either."
He sighed. "173992683."
She got him to repeat it, and she keyed it into the door. Then she sloped back, blaster still in hand, and she pressed her lips to his cheek.
"By the way, which way is the hangar?"
Cheeks still red, he caught her gaze, felt the warmth of her breath. "The level below this."
"Thanks. See you later."
She slipped through the door, fell into step with the Stormtroopers.
It wasn't long before she saw the hangar. So many ships. So many opportunities.
So many Stormtroopers.