A/N: here we have it! A fic from me after so long! I'm not entirely sure where this one is going but I do have some ideas mapped out. I hope you enjoy it! And yes I will return to my Maul fic at some point too :)
If only you could stay quiet. Keep quiet. Silent, even. It would be — should be — easy enough. Yes.
No.
The droning of the ship's failing, floundering, faltering engines, had long since been replaced by the harsh howl of the wind. She hated desert planets. And yet here she was. The Suns were hot, strong, and their rays were beating down on her back. Sweat formed beads, waterfalls, dripped down her forehead. She didn't dare even reach a a tentative hand up, wipe them away. No time for that.
As the wind shrieked and howled, whipping up dust and dirt, burning her eyes, she sank back, sighed. It was going to be a long night. If it had been any other place, any other time, any other person, she would've laughed.
After all, what kind of an idiot gets double-crossed, beaten up, and to top it all off, left for dead on some long-forgotten, far away dust ball?
She did. Apparently.
As her eyelids fluttered closed, she heard shouts and hollers. Brusque, quick. And she heard the clattering of boots. And then the buzz and fizz of blasters. Stormtroopers.
Oh, well. It was good while it lasted.
The presence of the Empire was somewhat of a given, and she wasn't too resentful. Empire, Rebels. She didn't really care who came across her. Who captured her. Either way, she would be dead.
But she did have a choice. If she remained quiet and still and lifeless, she would live.
And so she hunkered down low, crouched behind the container. Her fingertips were red, singed by the container's metal skin. But it was the only thing she could hide behind, in this desert.
After a while, the sweat on her forehead, in her hair, became unbearable, and she had no choice but to wipe it away. She didn't get it all, and she tasted salt.
The voices, footsteps and weapons fire were closer now. And she reached for her own blaster, knowing full well that it had enough left for one — maybe two — shots. And most Imps were accompanied by a substantial guard. She couldn't shoot her way out, and after what she'd been through, she couldn't be bothered.
She'd go quietly.
And then the footsteps stopped.
Her eyes —wide, blue — stared upwards, and she was punished only with the twin suns' deep glare. As she blinked, she thought it was sunstroke. But no. Stormtroopers. They were here. A vision in white, painfully bright, and she groaned when the soldiers stepped aside to reveal the officer they had apparently been chaperoning.
He was smirking.
"Aren't you going to get to your feet?"
She raised an eyebrow; she couldn't help it. As she clutched her blaster, she half-expected for it to be shot out of her hand. But she wasn't lying prone, wounded, dying, on the dusty ground. She was standing now.
"If you're going to shoot me, get on with it," she muttered, dropping her blaster. It hit the sand silently.
The officer tutted, shook his head. A gust of wind ripped through them, and as the smell of her own sweat hung in the air in front of her, she saw he had on a billowing cape.
Pretentious, much?
He raised a hand, and the Stormtroopers lowered their blasters. They looked confused. Or, at least if she could see their faces, they would've done. The Empire preferred its soldiers to be faceless.
And she also wished to remain faceless. It would be easier that way.
"I'd rather keep you alive," he said simply. She listened to his voice, for the wind had settled now, and she could detect no lasciviousness in what he'd said. Only threat. Perhaps that was worse. "Maybe it would interest you to know that you'll still be able to do your Empire a service?"
Still tasting salt, she bit her lip, and now there was blood too. "What do you mean?" she asked, eyes narrowed.
"Your Rebel friends will come looking for you. I could say a lot of things about them but they are tenacious."
"Tenacious?" she repeated, a snarl curling on her lips.
"Yes," he said. "It means brave, determined."
Was he really trying to have this conversation in the middle of a desert, with the sweltering heat beating down and punishing all of them? "I know what it means," she said quietly, slowly. She didn't want him to realise she was annoyed; he wouldn't get that satisfaction. "But you seem to think I'm a Rebel. I am not."
"Then you'll see no problem with accompanying my soldiers and I to our ship, will you?"
"I'd rather be on a ship than in this hell-hole."
And that smirk of his returned.
She stepped forwards, tucking the stray tendrils of hair behind her ears. She stole a glance back at her blaster, motionless on the orange ground.
"Pick it up," the officer ordered.
She started but faltered when she realised he'd given the order to one of the Stormtroopers. Obviously.
The officer had apparently seen this, and he raised an eyebrow. The Stormtrooper, oblivious, took the blaster.
"Let's go," the man with the cape said with finality, and she found herself walking ahead of the group, ever aware of the blasters behind her. "We're on our way back," he spoke into his communicator. "Prepare the brig."
The brig. That was never good.
As they walked on, her footsteps were not tentative. But the wind howled, and the heat from the suns was stronger than ever.
The heat on the planet had been oppressive, sickening. But at least she'd known where she was, where she stood. She could've got sunstroke, been eaten by some wild, ravenous animal. Perhaps those fates seemed more pleasant than whatever awaited her in the brig.
But it wasn't hot now. No. The air inside the shuttle was smooth, cool, and there was that whine of an engine once more. She didn't think she could cope with pure silence. Her thoughts would run away from her.
She didn't see much of the officer while they were on the shuttle, and so she concentrated on the Stormtroopers and their armour. The white plastoid looked basic, cheap, and she could see scuffs and scratches etched into the material. Evidently, the armour wasn't very good. That fact might come in useful later on.
Shackled though she was, she could help but smile. Who was she kidding? Who did she think she was? Even if their armour had weak spots, she wouldn't have stood a chance. She'd be dead and out of the airlock before she could even stand.
At last the shuttle became still, and when she stole a glance out of the small window, she saw only the blackness of space — desolate, empty.
Unforgiving.
And then the shuttle was being swallowed, consumed, by something large and grey and impenetrable. She knew enough of the Empire to know that their officers didn't tend to deal with simple lower-class riff-raff. No, they were reserved for the more important military prisoners and political saboteurs. She apparently came under one or both or those categories.
That meant they had landed in the loading bay of a larger Imperial ship.
"Are we on a star destroyer?" she asked, almost forgetting for a moment — over-awed — that it was not her place to ask questions.
The trooper nearest to her gave a grunt, and she took that to mean something along the lines of, Yes, you stupid Rebel.
The shuttle's doors opened with a hiss, and the officer — cape flapping unceremoniously behind him — came strutting out first. He didn't even wait.
Then he turned, waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "Take her to the brig."
One of the troopers took her roughly by the arm, and she was marched through the landing bay.
She snorted. It was a star destroyer. At least she got that right.
And the air was even colder — biting, bitter — in the cavernous hallway that led away from the hangar. Here, there were no noises of ships landing and taking off, of stormtroopers shouting orders at one another, of droids whistling and beeping as they wheeled about.
She fell into step behind one trooper and in front of another, footsteps measured and precise and brisk. She blinked, warding off the stark brightness in the corridor, and her eyes started to water. And then the trooper ahead of her halted suddenly, and he raised a hand to a control panel.
The door slid open.
She was shoved inside.
"Rebel scum."
And she heard no more.
Harsh, interrogative lights bore down on her, into her, and she blinked furiously. She pursed her lips, considered, thought. How long had it been? She wasn't hungry and she hadn't fallen asleep so it couldn't have been more than a few hours.
And that was a few hours that she couldn't afford to lose. That she needed.
With a huff, she got to her feet, and she began walking around her cell. There was nothing much to see, apart from a cold metal bench. She managed to complete quite a few circuits — it was only a small room, after all — and the door slid open with a sudden, expectant hiss.
Two Stormtroopers — possibly the same two as before, possibly not — were standing in the doorway. Evidently, she realised with more trepidation than relief, she was considered dangerous or important enough to need two guards.
That was something, at least; she had no idea how that information would help her. Yet.
"Am I being transferred?" she asked.
One of the troopers seemed to look at her; he seemed to be considering her question. "Yes," was eventually all he said in response.
Had to think about that one, did you? she thought, rolling her eyes.
Star destroyers, and Imperial ships and compounds in general, we're not known for their comfort. She guessed that even the officers slept in bare, laconic bunks, and the pure white was beginning to give her a headache.
She was marching again. Or rather being marched. She slowed, tried to catch a glimpse around a corner or hear a distant conversation.
But the trooper behind her jabbed a blaster into the small of her back, and she was forced to grit her teeth. The one in front of her turned off to the side, and he began talking urgently with another trooper.
That only left the one. Behind her. With the blaster.
Perhaps she wasn't that dangerous? Perhaps the Empire didn't see her as a worthwhile threat.
A smile — wicked, overconfident, hubristic — twisted her face, and she took a swift step to the side as they approached a corner. And then she wasn't marching. No, she was running. And the engines were thumping and thudding, and troopers were calling dissonant, desperate orders.
Star destroyers were labyrinthine, and they were not deserted. The Empire had taken many planets, and many of their inhabitants, and many had gone willingly or acceptingly. Those people were the officers and the stormtroopers, and they believed in what they were doing. Or, at least, they preferred it to the alternative. And many of those people — thousands — were on that ship, in that corridor.
She stepped, misjudged, was about to come crashing forwards onto her face. Everything went black for a moment, and she saw a mouse droid whizzing away, beeping frantically as if scared. The little droid almost mesmerised her, and she was so distracted that she thought she had found a wall, somewhere to lean against and to catch her breath.
"The interrogation cell is on the floor above. I assume you got lost?"
The voice was cool, callous, haughty —definitely an officer. And the black boots, white suit, holstered blaster, and cape…
"Perhaps if your soldiers weren't so incompetent I would've got there without getting lost."
He shrugged, as if to say, I'll deal with them later.
Those poor troopers, she suddenly found herself thinking.
"Director, Sir," came a voice from beside him. "She clearly intended to do you harm. I suggest we fast track her to interrogation."
He held up a gloved hand. "If I wanted your opinion, soldier, I would've asked you."
The trooper stepped back, and was silent.
"Well, I didn't intend to trip over that stupid mouse droid," she muttered. "And how was I supposed to know you were right around the corner? You as much walked into me."
Apparently, he'd heard enough. "Trooper," he said, turning to the stormtrooper who had spoken up earlier. "Take this rebel to interrogation. I trust you'll both arrive in one piece?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a sneer form on his lips, and then, with a swish of his cape, he was gone.
And she was on her way.
