The Lady of Ren

The Baleine Skrimish (PART II)

The impact was punishing and the Bruler had reduced in size. The nose of the ship had crushed upon itself and in its wreckage was the mangled body of RT.

Smoke billows from the innards of the spacecraft. You'd managed to eject right before the Bruler had smashed itself into the walls of the Raddus's cargo hold, rolling onto the hot pavement, and ducking your head from damage.

When you observe the scene, you find Kylo Ren unscathed and his ship still intact. Your heroism must have allowed him to land safely.

You groan, body aching and skin warm from the flames licking greedily nearby. A rather intense pain splinters between your shoulder blades, earning a low moan which tumbles from your dry lips. Kylo Ren is unharmed, the picture of perfect health. His mask was on now, which irritated you more than you care to admit. Why doesn't matter – especially considering your view of him from the ground.

The commander turns to your ship – what's left of it, anyway. "Your droid," he notices. The vocoder makes the simple observation sound menacing.

Your heart falls into your stomach and, when you inhale, you think a rib has too. "I just made a crash landing and you're more concerned about the droid?"

Kylo turns on his heel, cape billowing with him. "I assumed you'd be."

The pulsating wound, whatever it may be, in your spine has not been forgotten. It stabs you in constant reminder. When you sit up in attempt to stand, you're defeated. It causes you to become more angry than anything else.

You turn your attention to the shell of the droid which now burns brightly in the wreckage. For a moment you sense a flicker of sadness but it passes quickly. "He was a finicky little thing. But I had no bond with him – it was our first mission together."

The strength to stand has been renewed but your joints crackle in objection. "You know this ship better than I do, commander. Lead the way."

Kylo Ren begins for the opposite end of the cargo hold, his fists curled tightly against the leather of his gloves. His stature is massive, brooding – the kind of man you can only imagine in legends. Handsome was hardly the word for it, despite not having a clear view of his face, but his walk told you everything you need to know.

He carries himself slowly, the weight bearing on his shoulders. His chin raises high, a false sense of confidence easily recognizable, but it looks good enough. You imagine he is a tired man – a man depleted of the kind of energy required of him.

"The plans should be in the receiving room," the mask grumbles. His back has turned to you. You find yourself glaring at the boots he wears – clunky, also leather. "I assume you have a weapon?"

Your hand instinctively reaches for the blaster in its holster; a DH-17. "You assume right."

The saber hidden in your sleeve, however, suddenly becomes stressing. You weren't sure if you wanted him to know yet.

You suppose...he'll find out eventually.

You take out the saber and weigh it in the palm of your hand. The sleekness of its metallic handle, silver and glinting in the light, feels like the perfect fit (and it is). Your thumb brushes over the power button.

The man before you turns and finds the weapon gripped tightly in your hand. He points, mask directed at your fist. "Where did you get that?" He tenses.

But right then a cry rings out about the hangar. Rebels storm towards the two of you, blasters firing rapidly through the air and just above your head. They seem to have come out of nowhere – like phantoms. Strangely enough, the instinct to ignite your saber never registers. Instead, you reach for your DH-17 and aim for the rebels one by one. Headshots amp the body count. It was all going so well until...