CRUCIFY ME . ー k. ren, p. dameron; tlj [HIATUS]

iv: CAPTURED.

CAPTURED.

"Well, well," Poe said, a devilish grin on his lips, "Speechless, are we, Troia Ren?"

This was very unlike him- he hardly ever had the gall to say that to anyone, let alone possibly the most powerful female in the universe. Troia did not respond as she was forced into the co-pilot seat of the X-Wing, which she complied to with minimal resistance. Her silence made him uncomfortable. No, scratch that. Everything about her made him uncomfortable. The fact that she was sitting just behind him and could probably kill him if she wanted to made Poe very uneasy; he wished he could just bail and have someone else take her back to the Resistance stronghold, but that wasn't happening. Orders from General Organa said that he had to bring her back, and that was what he was going to have to do. And yet he played his discomfort off like it wasn't even there, for he said, "It's better for my nerves if you don't talk, anyway."

This earned a snort from Troia, accompanied by a snide comment under her breath, which, it seemed, she had intended for him to hear, because it was still very audible. "Maybe I should just talk more so we can both die."

Poe ignored Troia until they were safely landed back at the Resistance stronghold—from then on, she was the center of attention, and not in a good way; and unfortunately he was given the job of her personal babysitter until further notice (courtesy of General Organa). "Dameron, make sure she does no damage while she's here. Your life depends on it, because, if she escapes from her cell, chances are she'll kill you first. That is, she will if she's smart."

And Troia was exceptionally smart, but she knew that if she killed Poe, she would likely be shot on sight, or maybe worse—she was very much aware that many members of the Resistance thought she deserved a fate worse than death for her service to the First Order. Her high ranking did not help her case either.

"Look. I'm not happy about being forced to babysit a grown woman, and I know you aren't exactly thrilled to be here, so let's just make this as pleasant as possible, okay?" Poe said to her as he walked her into her cell. It was one of those high-security ones, designed for the most dangerous of criminals.

"Enlighten me, Dameron," she replied, "what do you suggest we do to make this situation more tolerable? Shall we make conversation? Oh, how about I comment on the weather, and you'll agree that it's a very nice day? Or perhaps I should ask you where you got that jacket? Tell me, where did you get it? It's so dashing."

Poe was surprised—Troia was quite good at feigning humanity, and it was almost alarming. "It was issued to me when I became a pilot."

"Oh, so if I became a pilot, I'd get one, too?" Troia, in reality could care less for her little act of innocence, but thought it necessary to gain Poe's trust. If she could manipulate anyone to get her out of that cell, it was Poe Dameron. Pretty boys often had weak minds, she found.

"I guess," Poe answered, raising an eyebrow, "but it's not so easy. There's a bunch of tests you've got to pass to even be considered for the team. But I suppose now they're taking anyone because of a shortage of top-notch pilots. A lot of them were killed in the last siege the First Order pulled."

She stiffened at this. "The sieges on Naboo and Tatooine, you mean."

Poe gave her an odd look. "Yeah...those. Many of our best guys came from there. It's ironic that they died there, too."

Troia was silent after that. She sat in her cell, staring down at her cuffed hands, thinking about how good she'd felt when the last of the pilots on Naboo and Tatooine had been reported to her to be dead. She thought about how Kylo had indirectly praised her, how even Hux had commended her decisive and admittedly reckless battle strategy. That was great. And now, she was here, alone, ignored by the First Order, and feeling very, very betrayed.

"That's a shame," Troia responded finally, around three hours later. Poe was sitting in front of her with his head in his hands, his dark and curly raven hair drooping over his face.

"What is?" He asked, raising his gaze to look at her. In doing that, he realized something: Troia Ren was beautiful. Of course she was; only the First Order would be calculating enough to put a gorgeous and intelligent woman in charge of their activities. Now, he knew that she was a powerful Force-user and had a rather steady and heavy hand with a lightsaber, but apart from that, he just didn't see the appeal.

"Your pilots," Troia continued, sighing, "all that talent, wasted. They were good."

"What makes you pity them all of a sudden?"

"Well," she said, "if my memory serves, we had a hard time defeating them, even with our AT-ATs. The victory was a great but narrow one, in other words. It was my first crack at commandeering troops in such an important battle, and I was terrified of what would happen to me if we lost. The First Order's legions may be many, but the training period for Storm Troopers is very short. Hence the chronically poor aim."

Poe could tell that the narrow victory still ravaged her pride, even though she seemed to be attempting to cover it up with humor. He knew that type of pain very well, and pitied her for a millisecond—that millisecond was long enough for his emotions to express themselves in the form of his next words, which surprised both of them. "To be fair, you were a pretty tough opponent, even then."

Troia raised an eyebrow. "You know, for someone whose life I supposedly fucked up, you're acting pretty friendly towards me."

"Sorry," he snarked, "that I was trying to be nice. You should try it sometime."

"Oh? And why should I? I'm not obligated to be nice to you or anyone else here."

"Take it from me, sweetheart," Poe replied, bringing his face very close to hers, "it'll getcha places. And it wouldn't kill ya to not be an asshole."

Just as those words had left his lips, the transceiver pinned to his collar buzzed, alerting him to the fact that he was needed elsewhere. So, with a final knowing smile directed at Troia, he left her cell, locking the heavy, metal-plated door behind him. Some part of him, deep down, hoped that his little speech would spark change in that crooked, beautiful young woman called Troia. But another part, his logical mind, knew that it would take more than some calculating words thrown at her to change her ways.