FN-2187 was trapped. Captain Phasma had been right beside him for the entire shuttle ride back to The Finaliser. When the lander had berthed on the Resergent-class Star Destroyer, she had ordered that he submit his blaster for inspection and make himself available for questioning when required.

  He could have been considered lucky. FN-2187 knew that if Phasma suspected he had anything to do with Nines’s death, he would be summarily executed. Instead, as he returned to his unit’s quarters, he found his assigned schedule completely vacant. Around him, each of the display cards on the factory-perfect bunks was blank. The quarters had already been cleaned of any memory of his deceased squadmates. Even the bunks of those who were in the infirmary were empty.

  FN-2187 stood in the silence of the room, and it all came crashing down on him. The stark walls of the room began to spin, and something started to constrict in his throat. The emotions felt like a physical weight. He needed to lie on the floor. He needed to press against the cold durasteel where he couldn't see the empty bunks anymore.

  He remembered that Oh-Three had been so insistent on the plan. Whispering to FN-2187 and Zeros in the group refresher, where the loud jets would cover the sound of their voices. He had been so full of hope. A plan so straightforward that it seemed like it couldn’t fail.

  And the dream. Once they were free, they could go wherever they wanted. No more pacification missions, no more loyalty tests. The three of them could finally be together the way that they wanted to be.

  FN-2187 broke into wracking sobs under his helmet. He had been terrified to take it off with Phasma watching, and now his brain couldn’t rationally decide if he was safe to do so.

  “FN-2187. Report to I-23-55.”

  The comm system embedded in the ceiling rang in a pleasantly neutral voice.

  FN-2187 stilled on the floor. That room was located near the political offices. It would be an interrogation room. A coolness spread out from FN-2187’s head down to his toes. His entire body felt numb. At best, he would have his loyalty questioned and be sent to the sensory tanks for field expedient reeducation. He couldn't take that. It would be the end of him.

  FN-2187 felt himself sit up into a cross-legged position, like an invisible thread was pulling at his legs and arms.

  He didn’t want to die. Even now, with everyone he loved taken out of his reach. He could feel his body moving as he breathed. The breaths were slow and deep, like the meditation they had gone through as children. There was nothing left for him here. He needed to escape.

  He couldn’t sneak out on one of the outgoing flights. The First Order was obsessed with schedules and lists. None of which he would be on. FN-2187 couldn’t pilot. He was on the officer track. His skills were in management and information.

  The gentle numbing sensation throughout his whole body made it feel good to think. The ideas didn't seem helpless or insane. They felt like moves in the right direction. FN-2187 needed something outside the system. There was one pilot on The Finaliser who would be more than willing to leave the Star Destroyer with a little additional baggage.

  Through the haze, FN-2187’s mind felt like it was clear in the same way that utter darkness might be considered clear. Once he had a single plan, ridiculous and unlikely, no other thoughts or criticisms could make their way into his mind.

  FN-2187 stood and marched into the corridor. Each of his movements felt strange, like he had forgotten how to walk and was merely pretending. He passed others in the hallways, both troopers and regulars, feeling like each of them was staring at him. But nobody challenged him.

  Time blurred as scenes half-witnessed through a thick engine fog.

  The directory had the detention rooms a few levels down. FN-2187 quickly navigated there in a mercifully empty elevator. At the service desk, FN-2187 started to frantically spool together excuses for why he might need to see the Resistance pilot who had been captured on Jakku. The serviceman’s eyes widened as FN-2187 approached, an expression of shock and fear plastered across his face.

  “Yes, Sir?” The serviceman got out between swallows.

  FN-2187 hesitated at the unexpected nervousness.

  “Where is the prisoner from Jakku being held?” He broke out, trying to sound confident.

  “Yes, sir. Cell Fore-83, sir. Lord Ren just finished with him, sir.”

  FN-2187 was startled by the ease with which the serviceman responded. He didn’t understand what was happening. FN-2187 caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the polished surface of the support wall behind the service desk.

  His helmeted face looked back with three distinct streaks of blood running from the brow to his chin. Crimson and stark against the white plastoid. Oh-three’s blood, from Jakku. The realisation that he had been covered in blood since he left his quarters shook the malaise covering his mind.

  The other crew had been staring at him in the halls. The elevator had probably been empty because nobody wanted to ride with a blood-soaked trooper. FN-2187 didn’t know what was running through the serviceman’s head, but his fear made sense.

  Then the rest of the serviceman’s words struck him. Lord Ren had just been here. He might still be on the floor. The sudden audacity of his situation struck FN-2187. Lord Ren would recognise him. He had seen him on Jakku. Was the prisoner even still alive?

  He realised he had been frozen, staring at his own reflection. The serviceman looked on nervously before patting his own uniform.

  “Please. Use mine, sir,” said the man, offering a small yellow handkerchief which looked strange and alien amongst the silver, grey and dark shades of the Star Destroyer.

  Unable to speak, FN-2187 nodded his head and wiped the helmet down before handing the red-stained cloth back to the serviceman. He stiltingly gave the man a single nod. FN-2187 marched further into the detention level.

  He couldn’t stop. By now, he would be late to his interrogation. Lord Ren terrified him, but FN-2187 might be below his notice this time.

  FN-2187 stopped before the cell door marked with an 83. He didn’t feel anything. He remembered the roiling blows across his body caused by Lord Ren’s anger at the little settlement. Surely he would be able to feel something if Ren were talking to the pilot mere meters away.

  He slammed the door button before he could convince himself otherwise. Inside the pilot was locked into an upright gurney. His face was bloody and tender, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and his hair was matted with sweat. Ren was nowhere in the room. The prisoner was flanked by two troopers who looked on at FN-2187 curiously.

  “Lord Ren wants the prisoner.” FN-2187 got out after a moment's silence.

  “We didn’t receive any transfer orders,” said the left trooper, confused.

  FN-2187 hesitated before words came blurting out, “I was scared to ask him to do paperwork.”

  The trooper snorted behind his helmet.

  “I get that. We just watched him interrogate the prisoner. He pulled stuff straight from the guy’s mind.”

  He gestured with his chin to his partner, and they began to unshackle the pilot.

  “I felt like my head was about to split open. I could see things that weren't there”

  FN-2187 nodded tersely as they cuffed the prisoner’s hands behind his back and pulled him unsteadily to his feet. The man swayed. His eyes looked vacant and drained, moving slowly as he was pushed around.

  The troopers led him by the shoulder until he had been pushed into FN-2187’s waiting arm.

  “I’m writing you up for a citation,” said the left trooper. Petty satisfaction crept into his voice.

  ”Make sure those transfer orders are in by the end of the shift, and that will be as far as I need to take it.”

  “Of course, thank you.”

  FN-2187 led the pilot from the room as the troopers began to pack away the cell. The pilot shuffled unsteadily as FN-2187 pushed against the small of his back. FN-2187 tried to insert more purpose into his movements as the two of them left the detention level.

  “Turn here.” Ordered FN-2187, spying a narrow service corridor and pushing the prisoner into it.

  Slamming the light panel, FN-2187 let the corridor plunge into dimness, the only light coming from the open hallway. FN-2187 spun the prisoner, pushing his back against the wall so that he could see his face. The corridor was thin, and the two men were almost chest to chest in the confines.

  The pilot's eyes were sharper and focused. FN-2187 realised that he had only pretending to be near unconsciousness.

  “Listen carefully,” FN-2187 whispered through his helmet ”If you do exactly as I say, I can get you out of here.”

  The pilot’s mouth opened slightly in surprise, brow furrowing.

  “If…what?”

  FN-2187 glanced at the hallway again. They didn’t have much time. He tore off his helmet, letting the pilot meet his naked eyes instead of the off point of the faceplate.

  “This is a rescue. I'm helping you escape.”

  Then another thought came to him.

  “Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

  The man's dark eyes lit in understanding.

  “You’re with the Resistance?!”

  “What?! No, no, no! I'm breaking you out. Can you fly a TIE fighter?”

  The man almost scoffed in the tiny space.

  “I can fly anything.” The pilot's eyes darted around FN-2187’s features and armour, searching and breathing in. He hesitated.

  ”Why are you doing this?”

  FN-2187 felt heat rise to his face. They were close together, and he suddenly felt nervous.

  “Because it's the right thing to do.” He tried.

  The pilot's chin lowered to look at FN-2187 properly, seeing right through the feeble lie.

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  “You need a pilot,” he said with confidence.

  FN-2187 looked down abashedly. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed. He was helping this man escape from torture and certain death.

  “Hey.”

  FN-2187 looked up. The pilot had broken into a rugged grin, eyes filled with adventurous determination. He flicked his head in an unsuccessful attempt to clear one of the dark locks of hair from his face.

  “We’re gonna do this,” he whispered.

  His eyes were locked like vices. Consuming the space between them.

  FN-2187 could only nod.

  *****

  The hangar was vast with generous manoeuvring space. A row of Special Forces TIE fighters stood in their berths. The Resistance pilot was secluded in a small maintenance space while FN-2187 kept a lookout. The hangar wasn’t busy, but there was regular traffic of both navy pilots and technicians.

  He needed some sort of distraction so that they could get to one of the fighters before anyone raised the alarm.

  The lights in the hangar blared an ugly red, and a wailing klaxon broke out. Everyone in the hangar stopped and glanced towards the lights and sirens. Oh. They must have realised the pilot was missing.

  “Ok, now,” he said a little stupidly.

  The pair walked quickly into the open hangar towards the closest two-man fighter. The resistance pilot took the lead, using his arms to pull himself up the steep stairs to the cockpit. His cuffs were open where FN-2187 had unlocked them back in the maintenance cubby.

  FN-2187 heard someone shouting something behind him as he followed the man into the TIE. The resistance pilot was already in his seat, flicking at switches with what looked like a checklist datapad in the other hand. His jacket was off, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to above his elbows.

  “I always wanted to fly one of these things. Can you shoot?”

  “Blasters I can!” replied FN-2187, pulling himself into the gunner's chair, back to back with the other man.

  “Okay… Same principle! Use the toggle on the left to switch between missiles, cannons, and mag pulse. Use the sight on the right to aim, triggers to fire!”

  FN-2187 looked at the aim controls in front of him. It was littered with indicators and buttons.

  The TIE lifted from the hangar floor as the hum of the engines spun to life. FN-2187 felt the haptic buzz of the inertial dampeners. With a roar, the TIE lurched forward towards the open hangar, only to jolt with a violent swing as a horrid metal clang came from FN-2187’s left.

  FN-2187 turned his head to the noise but saw only the inside of the cockpit. Kicking himself, he looked down at the controls. One of the indicators showed a diagram of the fighter with a blaring section on the wing. The clamp warning indicator was blinking indignantly.

  “I can fix this!” yelled the pilot from behind FN-2187.

  Their antics had not gone unnoticed. Other pilots were rushing to their TIEs, and a squad of stormtroopers had jogged in from a security door.

  FN-2187 realised that he was viewing the scene through the sights of the weapons. The rotation of the ship limited the aim cursor. The pilot was swinging them back and forth. Soon, he would be able to open fire. The troopers were spreading in a tight formation. In the centre of the formation, two heavies were rapidly assembling a large repeating blaster.

  FN-2187 felt his hands tighten on the grips. He might have met some of the troopers in that squad. They might have little handkerchiefs under their armour. Nines’s murder had been something he had tossed and turned about in the weeks before it happened. Behind the controls of a laser turret, as the cursor swept back and forth, it felt different. It would be like wiping away dust. Ugly and impersonal.

  The troopers down there might have been like him, raised from near birth. To be less like a unit and more like a family. To treat the First Order as the only glimmer of light in a dark galaxy.

  The repeating blaster on the ground finished assembling. The heavy behind the controls aimed it up at the TIE. A wicked twang filled the cockpit as the clamp broke away. The cursor listed with the newfound freedom. FN-2187 slammed on the triggers with a white-knuckled grip.

  The undercarriage laser turrets buzzed with the force of their output. The superheated plasma packets crashed into the squad with billowing explosions. The white-armoured troopers were thrown aside, entire halves of their bodies blackened and shattered by the heat of the blast.

  They were willing to kill him for merely escaping. It didn’t matter if last cycle he had slept in the same ship, armour in his foot locker. He was a deserter now. He should stop pretending he was one of them.

  A vindictive snarl formed. It felt like all the tension from the past hours, no years, finally had an outlet. He toggled the cannon and drilled the aim cursor across the remaining TIEs, attempting to be rapidly launched. They evaporated under the firepower of the laser cannons. The pilots inside were buried in hot slag.

  They were rapidly moving towards the hangar exit. FN-2187 spun to align with the control room overlooking the hangar. It would be filled with technicians and officers, most of whom would have spent their whole careers behind consoles. FN-2187 managed to plug two cannon shots into the window before the TIE cleared the hangar. Reducing the room to a scorched mess.

  The viewport expanded into a vast view of space as the TIE blasted out of the Star Destroyer and into open vacuum. FN-2187 saw the view twitching and flipping as the resistance pilot played around at the controls.

  “Woooahhh! This thing really moves. All right, we gotta take out as many cannons as we can, or we're not gonna get very far!”

  The joy in his voice was palpable. FN-2187 felt a similar sort of giddiness. His heart was racing, and his hands felt sore from gripping the controls. He wanted to jump up and see the pilot’s face, but he barked out a quick affirmative reply instead.

  “I'm gonna get us in position,” the pilot continued, “just stay sharp!”

  The stars in the viewport blurred as they realigned on the fixed emplacements on the surface of The Finaliser. FN-2187 had never seen the ship from this view, even in all the years he had served on her. Shuttles didn't have passenger windows. The dagger-shaped vessel was massive, almost three kilometres long, with the lower deck jutting out like an underbite. The TIE twirled as it passed in the small gap between levels before arcing to skirt along the underbelly of the Star Destroyer.

  “Up ahead! Up ahead! You see it? I've got us dead centred. It's a clean shot.”

  “Okay, I've got it.”

  FN-2187 could hear the blood rushing in his head as the cannons approached rapidly. He couldn't tell if he was panting or not breathing at all. Eyes darting, he lined up three execution points and pulled the trigger.

  Cannons erupted into plumes of rapidly scattering debris, the TIE slicing through the new cosmic scrap into free space. FN-2187 whooped in joy. A feeling of heady power bowed him.

  “YES! You see that?! DID YOU SEE THAT?”

  “I saw it!” said the pilot with a grin in his voice, “Hey, what's your name?”

  “FN-2187”

  “FN-wha? Chit-spit, you’re a birth trooper.”

  Birth trooper? FN-2187 had never heard that term before. The tone was one of shock.

  “I ain't using that. FN, huh? Finn. I'm gonna call you Finn! That all right?”

  He couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

  "Finn. Yeah, Finn, I like that! I like that!”

  “I'm Poe. Poe Dameron.”

  Finn felt himself almost giggle.

  “Good to meet you, Poe!”

  “Good to meet you, Finn!”

  Poe ran the TIE in a large banking arc, giving Finn a view of three burning plasma warheads heading in their direction. He shifted to the point defence toggle and tried to gauge the distance for a firing solution.

  “One's coming towards you. My right, your left. Do you see it?”

  “Hold on! I see it!”

  He plugged the nearest two warheads, which scattered into iridescent plasma bursts.

  “Nice shot.”

  A side glance saw their trajectory. They were headed back to the planet. That was a deathtrap.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “We're going back to Jakku. That's where.”

  “No, no no! We can't go back to Jakku! We need to get outta this system!”

  He tried to turn in his chair to face Poe. One of the warheads passed close enough by that Finn thought it was giving him a tan.

  “I got to get to my droid before the First Order does!”

  “What, a droid?!”

  “A BB unit! Orange and white. Cutest thing you ever saw.”

  “I don't care what colour he is! No droid can be that important!”

  “This one is, pal.”

  “We need to get as far away from the First Order as we can! We go back to Jakku, we die!”

  “That droid's got a map that leads straight to Luke Skywalker! Worse, Ren knows about it.”

  “Who’s Luke Skywalker?”

  Poe made a strangled, indignant noise of surprise before there was a rocketing shudder through the TIE. The haptic buzz of the inertial dampeners faltered, and Finn felt his body thrown in the restraints. Then there was only darkness.

  *****

  Finn opened his eyes and sat bolt upright. His body was hot, and his mouth was filled with something gritty. The air stank of tibanna gas and burning hyperfuel. He was blinded for a second as his eyes adjusted to the horrid glare of the sun.

  He was in an enormous desert, with dunes stretching into the horizon. A luffing noise behind him was a large black chute rising in the wind to crest the next dune. Finn could see that his seat had been ejected from the fighter as they crashed. He undid the buckles of the seat, falling to the sand. It was hot even through the armour.

  He looked around, blinking grit from his eyes.

  “Poe? Poe!”

  Beyond the black parachute, dark smoke was marring the blue sky. Finn scrambled forward over the dune. On the other side, the warped wreckage of the TIE lay half embedded into the sand, a choppy skid almost a kilometre long showed how the fighter had ploughed through the desert.

  Debris was scattered around the crash like shed scales. The red leather of Poe’s flight jacket sat peeking out from a broken wing panel.

  “Poe!”

  Finn stumbled to the wreck, almost tripping in haste. He reached for the jacket and tried to dig for a figure underneath. Pulling the jacket, Finn fell backwards as it came without any resistance. It was empty. Poe was nowhere to be seen.

  There was the sound of tearing metal, and the entire wreckage shifted, sinking a span into the sand. The dunes around the debris spat with displaced sand, almost like a bubbling liquid. Finn felt his foot fall into something before he pushed back on his hands until he was further up the dunes.

  The whole fighter was slipping now, the prow raised upwards as the heavier aft of the vessel plunged into the desert. There was something under the sands. It was consuming the ship.

  “Poe! POE!”

  The final inch of the TIE dipped under the sands, and all the scattered debris was similarly sucked under in its wake. The desert felt suddenly silent, the entire crashsite marked only by scorches and streaks in the sand.

  Finn looked on in horror. A muffled explosion boomed beneath the sands, forming an eruption of grit pluming into the air. The rain of sand cascaded down across the desert. Covering the last of the tracks of their passage.

  Finn didn’t know how long he sat there. It had been going so well. He peeled each of the white armoured panels off his body, casting them into the sinking pit. Watching them disappear without a trace, wondering what it would feel like.

  Eventually, he pulled on Poe’s jacket. He had barely known the man hours, but his chest wrenched as the jacket hugged his shoulders. He shook out his limbs, stiff from inaction.

  Clambering to the crest of the dune, he could see the distant glitter of metal. A low-built settlement, mostly tents and antennas.

  A settlement meant water. He wouldn’t survive long under this sun without it.

  He felt like a cloth wrung dry. He set his feet to walking anyway.

  *****

  Finn’s eyes felt like sand. His lips stuck together every time they touched. Each stumble forward seemed like it was being dragged out of him.

  He kept his gaze fixed on the small well he had sighted what felt like hours ago. He thought it had been a mirage. But the closer he got, the more real it seemed. Brackish and muddy. A large fat beast with tiny beady eyes was drinking at its edge.

  Finn fell to his knees at the well, already feeling the coolness radiate off the water. He cupped a handful of the filthy water and brought it to his lips. It was like drinking dirt mixed with crushed batteries. Finn almost spat out the first mouthful, forcing himself to swallow.

  The soothing relief of the water was a balm. Finn plunged his entire face into the well, splashing the water down his neck. A delirious little grin came across his face. He smiled at the large beast he was sharing with, meeting its eyes as the thing dully slurped. He guessed this thing wasn't some other thinking species, but Finn wasn't an alien expert.

  It didn’t hurt to be polite, so Finn nodded before looking away.

  Across the sandy square, there were tents and lean-tos. Finn was at the edge of a shanty town or village. His blurry eyes cleared as he blinked away the gunk. He could see vague outlines of people sitting in the shade and watching him like curious vultures.

  They all kept one eye on him while their hands were working away or hidden from sight. All except for one. A young woman wrapped in a pale cloth with a large staff across her back. She was looking over her shoulder, clearly running away from something.

  At her heels: an orange and white BB-8 droid.