Star Wars: Awakening

Imposition and Invention

It’s been six months, since the sparring match.

For six months, Kylo Ren and FN-2187 have been meeting in secrecy. It began with “training sessions” after dinner, every few days. Eight-Seven would finish his meal quickly, and make the short trip to Kylo Ren’s private quarters, and the pair would fill the brief minutes before Eight-Seven had to return to the barracks with quiet conversation and pleasant touches. Kylo rarely spoke of himself, at least at first, but he’d sometimes comment on the things Eight-Seven said. (He remembered Kade Genti, too; he used to read the comics with a friend he didn’t name). After a few weeks, Kylo had been able to secure longer meetings. Sometimes Eight-Seven would bring his dinner to Kylo’s quarters, and they would eat together. Kylo never ate as much as Eight-Seven, and he’d often let the latter hoover up the leftovers from his tray. Other days, Kylo would arrange for them to train together, in his private training rooms, of course. They would spar or wrestle, for as long as they could stand it before they collapsed into smiles and soft kisses.

Kylo never bared his teeth on the rare occasions that he smiled. Once he almost had, the tiniest sliver of white flashing between his lips. But he’d caught himself, it seemed. He’d forced his lips tightly closed. Like he was ashamed.

The Jedi-hunter training has also continued, with mixed success. Six-Four had been unceremoniously dropped from the training program, and replaced with Seven-One, much to Nines’ chagrin. Progress is slow, but the trainees are improving, in both technique and confidence. Nobody had been able to replicate Eight-Seven’s victory, not even Eight-Seven himself. Perhaps it really had been a stroke of pure luck that he’d been able to floor Kylo Ren. Perhaps it had been something more important.

They’d been happy, or so Eight-Seven thought. He hadn’t been truly content, but he couldn’t be, not here. This life isn’t his, just something he was choked and forced and sculpted into before he could understand why. But Eight-Seven had thought that he and Kylo had found some joy together. He’d thought they were building something, amidst the swathe of destruction that the First Order was cutting through the galaxy.

Maybe he’d been wrong. Kylo hasn’t spoken to him in weeks.

Star Wars: Awakening

Unmasking

(also on AO3)

“Which do you fear more, space or the ocean?”

Eight-Seven looks up from his meal of “synthsust” and cubed vegetables. Seven-One (FN-1971) is sitting across the table from him, dark eyes full of mischief. Eight-Seven smiles back, though he doesn’t have an answer. He’d never had particular thoughts about either of them.

“Ocean, definitely,” Slip (FN-2003) answers, from next to Eight-Seven. Apparently, they’ve thought about it more than he has. “Least nothing’s gonna eat you in space.” They punctuate their answer by taking a huge bite of their meat. Slip had developed a strong fear of being eaten alive ever since facing down a pair of simulated rathtars in a training session – he’d fallen behind, as usual, and they’d all discovered just how horrifyingly detailed a simulated death could be. He likes to joke about it, laugh it all off, but he has the bunk below Eight-Seven, and he can hear him tossing and turning in the night. Moaning about unseen horrors. “Weyw,” Slip continues, through his mouthful, “nuffin smolenuff ‘at yud no’ess.” A piece of meat flies out of his mouth, sails over the table and strikes Zeroes, sitting opposite them, on the cheek.