Chapter Text
Night sweeps over the desert, sucking the heat out of the sand. Poe Dameron tugs his jacket a little closer, glancing out the door at the sky. The stars wink back, bright and clear against the black. Jakku is nothing like home, but there’s a familiarity in actually seeing constellations, even if they’re completely alien. He spares a moment to feel homesick, before turning back to his host.
A sympathetic smile greets him. Lor San Tekka looks like a man who has seen more than his fair share of misery in the world, but he bears it with a certain grace that Poe recognises from his time in the Resistance. Amongst those who have lived through the Empire’s idea of a perfect galaxy, it’s common.
“Poe Dameron. I can only assume this must be something of the highest importance, for the Resistance to have sent its best pilot to me.”
“It is,” Poe assures him, glancing outside again - this time to BB-8, who beeps assurance back at him. No eavesdroppers, then. “A certain...mutual friend of ours has found something in his travels. A reference to an object called a holocron.”
San Tekka’s eyebrows raise. “There are many such objects. I have passed those that I have found on to our travelling friend, over the years. But I fear most have been lost to time, or malice.”
“We have reason to believe this one might be a little more traceable.” He grimaces. “Our own historian was pretty insistent that we’d find it here on Jakku.”
“Ah, yes. Your historian. You’d think he’d have a better grasp on diplomacy, all things considered.” San Tekka sighs, saving Poe from coming up with a way to respond to that. It’s not like he’s wrong, but some things he probably shouldn’t agree with. “Did your historian provide you with any further information about the nature of this holocron, or am I expected to guess?”
His historian had, in fact, provided him with an exhaustive list of details. His historian had been halfway through describing the likely dimensions of the holocron, when Poe had - gently - wondered aloud if it wouldn’t be a better idea for him to go searching for it.
That little question had earned him a flat stare and a tight ‘it’s better if I don’t.’ Poe hadn’t pushed the matter, which is how Poe had ended up on a desert planet explaining the size, appearance, and last presumed location of the holocron to San Tekka (cube-like, crystalline, on board an Imperial transport to be delivered to an Imperial research facility, both of which were blown at some point surrounding the Battle of Jakku).
“I’ve been to the facility,” San Tekka says, nodding slowly. “My best guess would be that it never made it there.”
“You think the ship it was on went down?”
“More chance of that than it escaping. The Battle of Jakku was a rout - although I don’t need to tell you that, best pilot in the Resistance.”
Poe ducks his head, concealing a grin. He’s not one for bragging, but there’s no point in false modesty, either.
“My advice? Head to Niima Outpost. There’s a community of scavengers there that have been picking over the bones of that battle for thirty odd years now. If they haven’t found something yet, they might know who did - for the right price.”
“Credits?”
“Food, if you can. Other supplies. Some of them may take credits, but it isn’t your best bet. ”
That spoke to the kind of place Niima Outpost was. Part of taking on missions for the Resistance means gritting your teeth and leaving things as you find them, but it’s hard to come face to face with the galaxy’s misery time and time again without trying to do something about it.
He is not, Poe muses, a very good spy. A groan escapes him, but he squares his shoulders. He believes in the Resistance. He even believes in the man who sent him here.
“It is a little like looking for a grain of sand in the desert,” San Tekka admits. “But I wouldn’t encourage you if I thought the task was impossible, and I do not think you would have agreed to come if you thought it was a fool’s errand.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” His smile comes easier than he thought it might. “Mind if I ask what makes you so confident, though?”
The old man smiles back. “Call it a good feeling. Besides, I know Ben Solo. He never would have let you come here in his stead if he was anything less than certain that you’d find it.”
FN-2187 hates the desert.
He decides this about two seconds after he steps foot in the desert, and the sand manages to work its way under his armour. Which is at least climate controlled, but there’s something about seeing the glare of the sun bouncing off so many white-domed heads that make his brain think he’s supposed to be hot,
The sand - which has to be some form of advanced warfare that the First Order doesn’t know about because it only exists on Jakku, and who the crap would subject themselves to this planet long enough to capture it? - niggles its way under his clothes as well, sticking to his skin. Behind the mask, FN-2187 grits his teeth, and pretends that’s his biggest problem.
Nothing to do with the blaster he’s got in some poor villager’s face.
It wasn’t like this in the sims. Not detailed enough. The sun never threw up light like a soldier pushed past his limits. The enemy combatants never whimpered quite like this, desperate eyes searching his mask like they thought there might be something under it.
The sand. Seriously, no training ever thought to pour sand in his boots.
“Captain Phasma.” The old man’s voice is surprisingly steady, for a guy whose whole settlement is one wrong move away from extinction. “Your brutality is renowned. I can only assume you require something from us, that you haven’t opened fire already.”
“Your pathetic little settlement isn’t worth my firepower.”
“But it is worth your presence.”
Man, what are you doing? The thought rings in FN-2187’s head before he can stop it. Phasma backhands the guy so casually, you would have thought she was offering to shake hands. He staggers, but doesn’t fall. Red paints his mouth.
FN-2187’s right foot itches. He holds his blaster steady.
“The First Order is seeking to reclaim an artifact. A holocron.”
“I’m - afraid you will have to be more speci--”
“It contains a list of names.”
FN-2187’s right foot itches. He holds his blaster steady.
The old man sighs through the blood. FN-2187 hadn’t realised simply breathing could be so defiant. “Even if I did know where such an object was - which I do not - what makes you think I would hand over a list of Jedi children to the First Order, Captain?”
Phasma doesn’t even turn her head. Why would she? Her orders crackle through every headset for those not close enough to hear her voice directly, and there’s no reason to assume the stormtroopers won’t follow them to a T. No reason at all.
FN-2187’s right foot itches. He holds his blaster steady.
“Kill every tenth villager.”
Lor San Tekka closes his eyes as screams rise up around them with the heat. Like he knew this was coming. Like he knew there was no other way for it to end. “I don’t have the information you’re asking for! Killing these people serves no purpose!”
“It's not for civilians to decide what the purpose of the First Order is.” A blaster fires. A scream shatters the air, but Phasma is unfazed. All in a day's work for the pinnacle of the First Order.
More blasters. FN-2187 is supposed to be redeeming himself after not firing his blaster on a mining village. He moves around with his fellow soldiers, shouting wordlessly.
He still hears it. A woman clutching at her daughter. Please, she sobs. Please. A cacophony of sounds threatens to overwhelm him. His fingers tremble, and don't touch the trigger.
“Ah.” The exhale is soft, pleased with itself. FN-2187 is supposed to be focusing, but he finds his head turning towards a figure in black leather. For a guy dressed like a badass, the figure sure has been unobtrusive, almost shrinking in on himself.
He unfolds now, pushing back his hood. The only word for him is...pale. Pale eyes, pale skin, hair that looks like someone held him upside down in bleach for too long. There's a restless energy about him. FN-2187 looks at him, and knows there's something wrong.
“The droid has it,” he says, starting unerringly at San Tekka.
The first note of irritation creeps into Phasma’s voice. “What droid.”
The pale man barely seems to notice her. “The pilot's droid.”
San Tekka stirs, and FN-2187 wants to scream because both Phasma and the pale man clock him.
“No.” The pale man frowns. “That's wrong, isn't it? I’m sorry. He hasn’t found something, he’s looking for it.” The frown is wiped away by a beatific smile. “Poe Dameron. Best pilot in the Resistance. He’s going to Niima Outpost.”
The wrong feeling only increases in the back of FN-2187’s throat. He swallows, fighting the urge to hurl. And for a moment - just a moment - the pale man’s eyes scrape over him.
Another shot drags a collective wail into the world. Lor San Tekka slumps, falls face first to the ground. FN-2187 is glad. He’s seen what point blank blaster fire can do to a man’s head.
“Fall out,” Phasma barks. Then, so quietly that he’s sure he’s not supposed to hear it-- “You’d better not be confused again, Aalto Ren. The Supreme Leader will be displeased.”
“I’m never confused,” the pale man replies, his eyes already skipping over the mixed crowd of villagers and troopers. The villagers are scooting back,. And there’s trauma in their gaze, but anger as well. FN-2187 thinks that they’d better get back on the damn shuttles before one of them gets their hands on a blaster of their own.
A gloved hand swims in front of his mask. Fingers smear down the front of it, and when his vision’s clear again, Aalto Ren is there.
“You didn’t shoot last time, either,” he says.
Something in FN-2187’s gut tells him he’s not talking about the miners.
Heat oozes through the air, casting everything everything in a hazy shimmer. Rey lifts a hand to shade her eyes, to almost zero effect. A sigh large enough to seem at odds with her frame escapes her, but she grabs her sled and begins the trek up the side of the sand dune anyway.
Something stirs off to her right. Grimly, she ignores it. Jakku has more than her fair share of dangers, but in this case, she can trust her instincts. She keeps climbing.
It takes a good half hour to get to the top, between her staff and the sled and the sand slipping under her feet. Her face itches. The back of her throat feels like it’s sticking to the top of it, but she can’t drink yet. The towering husk of a Star Destroyer looms over her, the only witness to her discomfort. After however many years it’s been, most scavengers have given up on this particular beast.
More for Rey. She pushes off towards one of the many gaping holes, and thinks she hears a sigh. She grits her teeth, glances up at the achingly open sky overhead as if to ask why me, and stops.
“This is only because Unkar paid six portions for what I found last time,” she warns. “I’m not making a habit of this. I can’t afford to go crazy.”
They might not want me back.
She waits, daring the world to respond. It doesn’t - at least not verbally. The memory of the sigh lingers, though, and she’s not sure if the lack of response makes her feel better or worse. Either way, she turns from the Star Destroyer, picking a direction at random. She feels like an idiot, but not as stupid as she felt the first time she did this.
Of course, she’d been desperate then. Now, she’s just…
listening.
She crests another dune, and shock just about punches the air out of her. She’s lost count of how many times she’s visited this particular site, but the wind has never cleared a whole shuttle before. Rey’s on her sled before the more sensible part of her can worry about decades-old traps (or more recent ones laid by other scavengers). Call it a gut feeling, but somehow she knows that she’s the first person here since the days after the Battle of Jakku.
“How--?” She bites her lip on the question, unwilling to descend any further into madness.
Cracking the kriffing shuttle open takes longer than she would have preferred, and the sun starts to dip perilously low in the sky. Rey allows herself a careful ration of water when she finally gets into it, after the stale hiss of air has knock her back. She secures the hatch, makes sure there’s no way she’s going to get trapped, and lowers herself inside.
Everything is sideways. That’s her first thought, before the skeletons register.
“Ugh.” She feels a little - awkward, rummaging around their final resting place, but the third thing she notices is just how intact the thing is. There’s enough in here to keep her going for weeks. Maybe even a few months, if she can keep it hidden and doesn’t devalue the hoard by bringing it to Unkar all at once.
And there are storage boxes. The memory of finding military rations in a similar situation bites at her, and she lunges for them. The first one she comes to is locked, so she detaches it completely for later inspection, and continues picking over her find.
It’s only later, when she’s hauled what she dares back to her own little base and booby-trapped the rest, that she remembers it. Rey doesn’t think she can be blamed - there had been rations, after all. She hauls the storage box over, balancing the thing on her crossed knees as she carefully inspects it. Imperial storage in particular has a tendency to explode at the worst times, so she takes extra caution when she’s slicing the lock.
“Aha!” The footlocker makes a happy click sound, and she grins up at her fighter doll. Something in the corner of her eye tugs at her attention, but she keeps her gaze firmly on the doll. The doll does nothing in particular back, which is a comfort. Dolls aren’t supposed to respond.
She faces the storage box away from her, justin case. One swift motion opens it up, and--
Nothing happens.
On the plus side, Rey’s pretty glad nothing blew up. On the minus side, it’s kind of anticlimactic. She gives a little sigh of her own, rubbing her forehead as she peers over the lid. The changes that it’s more rations are slim - the Empire was hurting for a few things by the time the Battle of Jakku rolled around, but someone had invested in long-life food somewhere along the line. When she did luck into a hoard, no one had bothered to lock it up. But she’s come across some good things before - computer spikes, credits, even a weapon or two.
This one has cubes.
She frowns, leaning in closer. They’re like nothing she’s ever seen before, blue and gold and sort of like they might be see-through. Gingerly, she picks one out of the box.
It feels...right. Which is a stupid thing to thing about a cube. Rey holds it up to her dim lightsource, squinting like that’ll make it make more sense. But the cube remains a cube, with no discernable way of opening it, and no ports to imply that it might attach to something else.
Her stomach rumbles. She sighs, dropping the cube back into the box with its friends, and shoving the whole thing aside. Maybe it’s something that’ll turn out to keep her fed for a year, but it won’t feed her right now.
It’s a sign of the times that the Resistance base is full of people.
General Leia Organa can still remember launching the enterprise against the rising threat of the First Order. A handful of dusty old bags who still gave a damn - maybe too much of a damn - about wiping out the last remnants of the Empire before they became a whole new one.
Luke hadn’t been there. I want to look to the future, Leia. Not linger in the past. Had he always been that much of a hopeless idealist, or had that come after the whole Vader situation had resolved itself?
She snorts, a quiet amusement. Thirty years later, and Vader still haunted her steps. There was a situation that wasn’t going to be resolved any time soon. His legacy touched all parts of her life, in one way or another.
Which was why the Resistance base is full of people, rather than those few dusty bags still playing at being heroes. More and more people realising that you don’t get a future that you don’t fight for.
A sharp flare in the back of her skull stops her in her tracks.The old, familiar fingers of fear grip her mind, and it’s all she can do not to break into a run. But panic doesn’t help. She can at least agree with her brother on that front.
“General Organa--!” A girl, with blonde hair wrapped in a style that reminds her of a younger, more foolish version of herself, clatters around the corner. Leia gives her a sharp nod of something approximating thanks.
“I know. I’ll be there.”
‘There’ is the residential building. ‘There’ is a room that manages to be slightly apart from all the rest. ‘There’ has a door blown right out of the frame’. Leia doesn’t hesitate to step through.
A stooped figure slumps over a desk, hands knotted in his hair, body held still. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge her, but she feels a shift in the Force anyway. In what direction, it’s hard to tell.
“You’ve made a mess,” she says, leaning against the ruined frame.
“I’ll fix it.”
“Obviously.” She gathers her worry and her fear up in a little ball, and shoves it to the back of her mind. It has no place here. “Are we gonna talk about this now, or are you going to make me wait?”
Another flare, but this one is milder. Frustration, as he drags his hands from his hair to give her a flat look that’s almost as impressive as her own.
Almost. Kid’s got a while to go yet, says a voice that sounds suspiciously like Han.
“Lor San Tekka is dead,” he bites out. “I led the First Order right to him.”
Finesse has never been his strong point, she thinks ruefully, as the bottom of her stomach drops out. It’s an old feeling, a familiar one. She’s never had a chance to forget death, in this lifetime.
“It’s a loss,” she says, processing. Grief will have to wait until a later that probably won’t come. “And Poe?”
Frustration creeps into his face. There’s a shake to his voice that he’s been suppressing, until now. “In the wind.”
She nods. That could be good news, or bad news. Leia’s pretty sure that until she sees the body, she won’t believe Poe Dameron is dead. The kid’s got too much flash to go down without half the galaxy knowing about it somehow.
Slowly, she reaches out. She can never be sure if it’s a good idea, physical proximity. She can only go with her gut, and her gut tells her to comfort her son.
“This is what it is to be a leader, Ben.” Her voice rasps on his name. “You make the best decisions you can. Sometimes people die. And sometimes, you save more.”
The remnants of the door rattle, rise - and abruptly fall still again. Ben turns away from her, back to his datapad. A beat passes, before one large hand covers the one on his shoulder.
“This is a fool’s errand.” There’s a crack in his own voice, a wealth of emotion he won’t let himself show roiling beneath.
“So call it off.”
He stiffens. A small, sad smile graces Leia’s face. She tugs her hand from under his, pats his fingers once or twice.
“If it’s worth doing, do it right. Don’t waste his sacrifice.”
Long into the night, Ben Solo stares at his datapad. Files pile on top of each other - history, mechanics, last known location. At some point, he sends a request and payment for a new door. The bits and pieces of the last one compact themselves, crushing together into a ball smaller than his head.
Your failure is a symptom of your weakness. The voice in his head is matter of fact. Like it speaks only the obvious. You know what you must do to be strong.
When the sun rises, so does he. The X-wing is ready in a matter of minutes. He suspects his mother has something to do with that.
Artoo beeps at him, curious.
“Set course for Jakku.”