Chapter Eight: Sleepless
Kylo sunk lower into the command chair in the shuttle's cockpit, wrapping his cloak around himself in a makeshift blanket as he let his bent legs fall wide, trying to get comfortable. His helmet rested on a nearby console, removed with the intent of getting an hour or two of sleep before Rey roused.
The scavenger, he corrected silently. She isn't a person with a name. She's an obstacle to be forded—a pawn to be moved.
Kylo brought a gloved hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
No, he corrected again. She's a terrorist who should be neutralized. I am stalling.
Why hadn't he taken her memory of the navigation chart and killed her? Why was he sitting here, thinking of her?
You know why, a small voice answered, one he thought he'd quashed long ago.
Kylo snarled into the empty cockpit, launching himself from his chair with a furious shake of his head.
He had conquered so much, quelling the traitorous call to the Light time and time again, overcompensating with acts of violence and genocide so atrocious it would appease the most ruthless, antiquated Sith masters.
And yet….
Rey made the call a siren's song with her ridiculous ribs, bloodied knees, and infuriating mettle. Her presence piqued his curiosity, grounding his constant, screaming conflict and allowing him to hear the honeyed notes of faint Force whispers for the first time in years. Kylo could feel her so clearly through the power life seeped into the air, an occupancy he couldn't ignore.
Forget the wreckage of Starkiller Base.
She would pay for inflicting such an indignity upon him.