Chapter 23: Good Guy

37 ABY

FN-2187 wasn't entirely sure how he had ended up in the First Order command center, flanked on either side by New Republic spies.

In fact, if you had asked him twenty-four hours earlier how he planned on spending his day, he would've told you that he expected to be sent out on patrol, again, followed by a shift on guard duty and a few quiet hours of evening leisure time when he might enjoy a makeshift game of Sabacc with the others in his division.

Makeshift, because none of the stormtroopers possessed a full deck of cards.

That had all been turned on its head when one of General Hux's pet Force-users had come skidding into the encampment on her speeder bike. FN had been preparing to leave on patrol when his entire squadron had been commandeered by Ren himself. They had scrambled down a snowy gulch, bent low, Ren swearing quietly every time their boots skidded on the icy ground, or their drawn blasters clattered against their hard plated armor.

FN had been shocked when they'd finally stumbled upon two small figures, crouched on the ridge overlooking the encampment.

Two? A whole squadron to bring in two individuals?

Looking back, that should've been the moment when he realized things were about to go sideways.

In the scuffle that followed, FN-2187 hung back, blaster raised. His programming had trained him to shoot to kill whenever the orders were given, but he'd always experienced a nagging sensation of uncertainty in these types of situations. Why are we attacking? he couldn't help but think. What are these two guilty of, aside from ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time? Sometimes he thought that knowing would make his lot easier to bear; other times, he worried it would only make it worse.

When the fugitives were subdued, FN-2187 fell into formation to escort them back to the encampment. The Jedi girl walked directly to his left. FN couldn't help but cast a sideways glance at her serene profile. She looked young. How young he wasn't sure, but certainly she couldn't be older than his own twenty-six years. The power he had watched her wield as she fought Ren and his Knight had been incredible; how could a woman so small fight so fearlessly?

They were entering the steepest section of the ravine when something very odd happened.

A voice that wasn't a voice ripped through FN-2187's mind. It was more of an intention than a word; a feeling that was very clear, if unvocalized: No!

He stumbled, nearly dropping his blaster.

To his left came a shout as KR-3389 pointed past him. "There are—" His words ended in a huffed exhale as the Jedi drove her shoulder into his chest. FN-2187 saw the girl flinch in pain, but spun around, searching the outcroppings to his right for signs of life.

There! Two grey-robed figures, nearly identical to the Jedi they'd taken captive. One was a young man with pale auburn hair and flashing green eyes; the other a tall woman with silky black hair scraped back in a high ponytail. Their eyes locked with FN-2187's for a brief moment before spinning in a single fluid motion and sprinting up the rocky slope behind them. FN raised his blaster, taking aim on the young man's back. His finger hovered over the trigger, torn with indecision.

And that was when he finally realized that things were about to go sideways.

Please, the voice that wasn't a voice came again. Please don't hurt him.

FN-2187 jerked in surprise, still prepared to fire. Do it or don't do it, he ordered himself. Just decide quickly.

The young man—or was he just a boy?—slipped, falling to one knee before scrambling to his feet again. His cloak flapped around his ankles, and FN-2187 was transfixed by the thought that a single blaster bolt would still those churning legs forever. He could kill a man that he'd never met, for something as innocuous as returning to search for his friend.

Think of the damage his escape could do to the cause, a voice that sounded awfully like Captain Phasma's insisted. It's not about what he's done before, it's about what he'll do if you show him mercy.

FN's finger quivered on the trigger.

How righteous can the cause be if it asks for such needless violence? he wondered suddenly. How just?

These contemplations passed through his mind in less than a second.

FN-2187 lowered his blaster.

He had initially intended to rescue the Jedi girl first. He wasn't sure if she'd be able to pilot an escape ship, but he figured that her Force abilities would be more helpful than a second blaster while securing that ship. Besides, he told himself, the pilot wouldn't leave without her anyways. It was how these noble-types operated.

Ren's continued interrogation threw a wrench into that plan, and he was forced to start with Commander Dameron.

He barely remembered catching a glimpse of the fighter pilot during the battle on Ilum, and couldn't remember anything particularly special about him. When he stepped into the cell where the commander was being held, his first thought was that Poe Dameron was…well, he didn't really know what the other man was, but he was something.

The pilot was seated on a low bench, his hands cuffed behind his back in a way that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders. His face was downturned, and a single ringlet of dark hair draped over his forehead; the rest formed a tangled, messy halo around his temples. His skin was lighter than FN's own, but held the remnant of a rich, caramel tan. His brows were thick and dark, drawn together fiercely over eyes that FN couldn't see. Stubble dotted his strong jawline.

At the sound of footsteps, his head jerked up. A cocky mask slipped over his face.

His eyes were the color of dark whisky.

"Come to torture me for information?" he asked lightly. "Took you long enough."

FN-2187 leaned forward and wrenched his helmet off.

"Woah," said Poe. "Didn't know you guys were allowed to do that."

"We're not," FN said, stepping further into the cell and allowing the door to close behind him. "But I don't plan to stick around long enough to face the consequences."

A sharp look came over Poe's face. "You finally accumulate enough vacation time to get the hell off this junk heap?" he asked casually.

"Something like that," FN responded, producing an RFID chip that would deactivate the energy cuffs encasing Poe's arms. "I'm going to get those off of you," he said, gesturing. "Please don't attack me. You won't make it two minutes without my help."

Poe cocked his head to the side, scanning FN's face in a way that made him feel oddly warm. "What's your angle, trooper?"

"I'm staging your rescue," FN said, puffing out his chest. "I thought that was obvious. I've had enough of the First Order. I want to do something good for the galaxy."

Poe squinted at him. "You need a pilot."

"I need a pilot."

"This armor sucks," Poe Dameron complained, not for the first time. "I can't move my arms. It's no wonder you can't hit the broad side of a barn."

"Watch it," FN-2187 responded, "or I'll take that helmet back and let you run these halls in terror until Captain Phasma finds you."

"You wouldn't," Poe said, sulkily. "We're allies now. Friends. Buddies."

"Sure," muttered FN, presenting his identification card to one of the officers outside Rey's cell.

Getting the armor for Poe had been challenging enough. It was one thing to stage a rescue, and another entirely to turn his weapon on one of his own. It's fine, he told himself. GR-6660 will be fine when he wakes up. Naked.

The officer glanced at his identifier and gestured for them to pass into the cell. So far things were going smoothly.

Perhaps too smoothly.

If FN-2187 had thought things were going sideways before, nothing compared to being frog-marched in front of General Hux and sentenced to death. Feeling Poe's shoulder brush his own as they faced down Captain Phasma and Commander Ren wasn't helpful.

The arrival of a third dark-robed figure was…an uncertain development.

"Is anyone going to tell us who he is?" Poe asked, leaning his head towards FN-2187's. "Or are we just supposed to guess?"

FN glanced down at the Jedi girl. Rey. Her eyes were locked on the new arrival with an intensity that he found almost frightening. The figure's words echoed through FN's mind: touch her, and you won't just wish you were dead. You'll wish you'd never been born.

Unbidden, he remembered taking the girl's hand to pull her along behind him. She had seemed oddly unsteady, as if a strong breeze would have blown her over. He had just been trying to help.

Now he felt strangely nauseous.

The figure dropped his cloak to the ground, and Finn heard Poe suck in a breath. The man standing before them was tall, with dark, tousled hair that reached nearly to his shoulders. His eyes were a clear, pale brown, and his angular face was dotted with beauty marks. The air around him seemed to vibrate with suppressed energy.

"What?" FN asked. "Who is he?"

"A friend," Poe whispered. "I think. This could get interesting."

Commander Ren jerked forward suddenly, released from the strange power that had held him. He spun around, taking in the new arrival's face. FN-2187 didn't have a single credit to his name, but if he had, he would've given it up to get one look at the expression behind Ren's mask.

"You have no business with her, Ren," the tall man said, taking a step further into the room. "Your business is with me."

Commander Ren seemed to finally summon the ability to speak. "Basilisk," he spat, in a strangled voice. "Don't just stand there, you idiots! Kill him!"

The squadron of storm troopers behind FN-2187 lifting their blasters and prepared to open fire. The man raised a single hand in a seemingly feeble attempt to protect himself. With an unexpected clatter of armor and dropped weapons, all fourteen of the First Order's finest soldiers were thrown across the room, as if the grav-generators had suddenly changed direction and pulled them into one of the walls.

With a roar, Ren spun on the man, slashing out with his red lightsaber. The man swayed back on his heels, summoning what looked like a sword hilt with no blade from his belt. The saber came to life in a flare of blue—its edges were ragged and seemed to jump with the same ill-contained energy surrounding its bearer. Unlike Ren's weapon, it had a cross guard consisting of two spits of blue flame.

The man stepped forward into Ren, putting his full weight into an overhanded blow. Kitsa leapt to join the fight, but FN-2187 was distracted by movement to his right—Poe scrambling to get his hands on one of the fallen blasters. To FN's left, Rey was still crouched on her knees, muttering quietly under her breath, eyes squeezed shut tightly. FN wondered if perhaps Ren's torture had broken something in her mind.

The first of the fallen troopers scrambled to his feet, and went down again almost immediately in a blast of sparks as Poe's first blaster bolt found its target. "Here!" the pilot shouted, tossing a second blaster to FN. He caught it clumsily, panic tugging at his gut. Can I use this? he wondered. Can I kill my own brothers and sisters? Blaster fire whizzed past his ear and he ducked, grappling with the safety of the weapon.

As he felt it click off, time seemed to slow, and several things happened very rapidly.

In the corner of his vision, Phasma hefted her silver spear. FN flinched, throwing himself to the side. His shoulder hit the ground and he twisted, realizing with a cold shock of horror that he hadn't been the weapon's target. It left Phasma's hand, alight with electricity.

Across the room, the tall stranger made a terrible sound, stretching out a single hand. The look on his face was a devastating mixture of fear and anger. Ren's saber caught his shoulder, and he was driven back by the combined weight of the Commander and his Knight.

Rey looked up, startled, and FN swore that he watched a look of cool acceptance slide over her face in the split second it took the spear to reach her sternum.

FN only saw what happened next because he was mere feet from Rey's crouched form. Had he been further away, or in the thick of battle, he wouldn't have believed what his own eyes were telling him. One moment the spear hung in the air, its tip poised to pierce the Jedi's heart. The next, the space in front of her appeared to ripple. The spear's point slipped into an invisible opening and disappeared. Inch by inch the rest of the weapon followed, winking out of existence as if it had been swallowed by a microscopic wormhole. FN stared in open-mouthed disbelief as Rey opened her eyes, pressed a single hand to her untouched chest, and looked up into Phasma's blank mask.

A moment later, a thin cylindrical baton detached itself from Ren's hip and soared into Rey's hand. The Commander roared in surprise, momentarily distracted as he reached for his now-empty weapon's belt. "Impossible—" he began, eyes fixed on Rey and the golden lightsaber bursting to life in her grasp. With a fluid flick she rotated the blade, slicing away her binders before igniting a second blade—a saberstaff—and advancing on Phasma. The Captain staggered backwards, drawing a blaster as Rey moved inexorably forwards, deflecting blaster bolts from Phasma's weapon and from the few stormtroopers who Poe had yet to subdue.

Commander Ren howled again, this time in pain. FN whirled around in time to watch the Commander's sheathed saber hit the ground, still wrapped in the grip of his flesh hand, which had been severed at the wrist by the stranger's shuddering blue blade. The commander listed to the side, clutching the stump of his arm with his remaining cybernetic limb. Kitsa screamed, throwing herself at the stranger, who raised a hand and tossed her aside with almost contemptuous ease as he advanced upon her master.

The Basilisk, Ren had said. FN-2187 understood suddenly that this was the assassin who had hunted the Knights of Ren for as long as he could remember. It appeared that his mission was nearing its completion. He lifted his saber to strike the killing blow.

"Ben, no!" Rey screamed, turning her back on Phasma for a split second.

The Basilisk flinched at her voice but didn't hesitate. His saber swept down.

Commander Ren's helmet rolled to a stop at FN-2187's feet.

"Rey, look out!" Poe shouted.

Finn tore his gaze away from the Commander's decapitated head in time to see Phasma's blaster bolt rip through Rey's shoulder from behind.

"No!" he shouted, lunging at his Captain with hands outstretched. She was poised for a second shot, but his yell caught her attention, and she angled the weapon up, squeezed the trigger, and FN felt a beam of liquified plasma whistle past his left ear. The smell of singed hair filled his nostrils as he landed hard on his stomach. Rolling to his feet he saw Phasma scrambling backwards as the Basilisk stepped towards her. Her foot caught on Kitsa's limp body and she sprawled backwards onto the floor, looking up into the face of her enemy.

If you can see the Basilisk's eyes, you're as good as dead.

But the Basilisk wasn't looking at Phasma. He crouched over Rey's prone form and lifted her up into his arms. FN-2187 felt like an intruder as he watched a mixture of emotions washing over the man's face: grief, love, frustration, fury.

He looked, FN thought suddenly, like the type of man who would have faced his own death quietly. But perhaps every fearless warrior had a weakness.

"Ben, they're getting away!" Poe shouted. Finn looked up to see the rest of the storm trooper squadron sprawled across the floor. Blood made dark puddles around their bodies. Phasma and Kitsa were gone. "We need to go after them!"

"No," the Basilisk—Ben—gritted out. "We're leaving."

"But this is our chance! If we take them to your mother, the New Republic can—"

"I told you we're leaving," Ben snarled, rising with Rey's body in his arms. "My ship is in the hangar."

"Ben, it's our duty—" Poe's voice cut out abruptly, and he made a strangled gasp.

"Commander Dameron," the Basilisk said, in a voice that brooked no argument. "You will provide covering fire as we move to the hangar. If you try anything else, I'll leave you here for dead. Understand?"

Poe jerked, as if released from an invisible hand. He massaged his throat, glaring at Ben. "What the fuck, Ben," he snapped. "You—"

But the Basilisk had already turned on his heel and swept out of the room, taking Rey with him.

FN-2187 glanced sideways at Poe. "A friend?" he asked disbelievingly.

"I said, 'I think,'" Poe answered snarkily. "Come on, Good Guy."

Together they followed the Basilisk out of the command center. "We're two floors up from the hangar bay," FN explained. "The fastest route would be to take the turbolift and—"

The Basilisk—Ben?-wasn't listening. He was already stalking down the corridor, black cloak swirling in his wake. Poe and FN-2187 hurried to follow. FN wasn't entirely certain what sense he was using to detect the swirling pulse of rage surrounding the tall man, but he knew that it was there. They hurtled down a set of service stairs, boots clattering on the durasteel-grated steps. Rey's head lolled back, and the man paused to adjust his grip, bringing her cheek to rest again his chest.

"We should descend another two levels," FN-2187 explained. "This level leads right to the mess hall."

Ignoring him, the Basilisk burst through the door at the bottom of the steps and strode into the hall without pausing.

The room was, to put it lightly, an absolute disaster. Scorch marks marred the walls and tables, and several fallen troopers littered the floor. FN-2187 gulped, staring after the Basilisk's retreating back.

"He did this?" Poe questioned, drawing even with FN.

"It's like they say," FN responded hoarsely. "If you're close enough to see his eyes, you're as good as dead. Let's go."

Across the mess they hurried, and down another set of stairs, FN and Poe nearly jogging to keep up. They were just a hundred meters from the hangar bay doors when the first squadron of troopers came around the turn ahead, weapons lifted. "Lay down your weapons!" their leader shouted.

For the first time, the Basilisk stopped. "Get out of my way," he snarled.

The squad leader didn't pause to exchange more words—he fired.

The bolt of plasma streaked towards the Basilisk.

And stopped.

Like the blade of their rescuer's unstable saber, the streak of pure energy crackled and jumped as a great Force held it in place, midway between the escaped prisoners and the approaching troopers. Its brilliant red light flickered off the walls of the corridor, casting the Basilisk's face in a stark crimson glow.

"Get. Out. Of my way," he ordered.

The first trooper stared at them in disbelief, as frozen as the bolt of plasma suspended before them. Then there was a clatter of falling weapons as the entire squadron dropped their blasters and fled back in the direction they had come.

The Basilisk ducked around the flickering bolt and continued onwards, hardly looking to see that Poe and FN were following him. Behind them, the plasma was released from his invisible hold and sped into the far wall, exploding in a burst of sparks.

FN jumped in surprise.

The hangar was in a state of chaos. Like the mess hall, it bore signs of a recent fight, though in this case FN could see that the walls were scored with cannon fire, and both ranks of tie-fighter docks had been utterly destroyed. Clearly subtle wasn't a word in the Basilisk's vocabulary.

Perched in the center of the flight deck like a great pale insect was an old Imperial scout ship.

"Is that the Star Herald?" Poe demanded. "How did you get your hands on that thing?"

"Can you fly it?" the Basilisk asked, ignoring his question.

"Can I fly it?" Poe echoed in disbelief. "Who do you think I am? Of course, I can fly it!"

But the Basilisk was already ascending the landing ramp, leaving FN-2187 and Poe to race after him once more. Someone really needs to tell this guy to take shorter steps, FN thought wryly.

He paused at the threshold of the ship's loading bay, and cast a last, searching look back at the hangar. I am leaving the First Order, he told himself firmly. I will not serve their evil any longer.

As the landing ramp began to retract, he swallowed hard, stepping back into the belly of the ship. But who am I leaving with?

A/N: hello :') 'tis I. I apologize for my absence...work life balance has been virtually non-existent for the last little while, so it's been tough finding time or energy to write. I bring to you: an unedited version of a chapter which I wrote many months ago. more soon I hope.