The alarms blare out the speakers, glaring red lights flashing in every corner of the building. Phasma only just makes it out of the garbage chute and she (very briefly) wonders if she can go back in to escape the incessant noise.
There’s a singular message on her holopad from Hux, sent barely a minute ago, informing her that he’d be taking a few of her best trackers to find Lord Ren, who was last seen out in one of the forests.
Which makes no sense, because the message she should’ve received would have informed her as to the rendezvous point for the evacuation, because that was what was supposed to be happening now, what they’d practiced in the drills, that was the protocol – that was what should be happening.
Except all she can hear are the alarms and the echoes of the Resistance fighters outside, blasts slamming against their defenses again and again. And then it hits her.
There isn’t going to be an evacuation. They’ve been left to die.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been standing, motionless, when a lieutenant – CL-5642, Even – comes forward, and Phasma can tell she’s figured it out too.
“What are your orders, ma’am?” she asks.
Phasma hesitates for a moment, feeling the entire base quiver beneath her feet. “It’s too late for an actual evacuation,” she says. “Make an announcement; try to get everyone on a ship and out of here before this thing blows up.”
She nods and they head off.
A few people refuse, insisting that they'll wait for an official announcement from the General himself, until the truth suddenly clicks and they're rushing ahead of everyone else, desperate to avoid being left behind.
Phasma puts herself in charge of making sure there's no trouble while the ships leave, but the Resistance doesn't shoot at anything that isn't shooting at them, and no one is stupid enough to do that at a time like this.
The base is literally in pieces when the last few shuttles remain - old, ancient things, held together with rust and lacking basic necessities like navigation systems or a decent hyperdrive. The only way to get them anywhere is from the base.
Which means someone has to stay.
Phasma's already at the console, typing in commands to get the ships started up. "Has everyone gotten in?" she asks when Even walks over.
"Not everyone."
She sighs. "I don't care if they want to stay and die like a martyr. They won't. There's an empty shuttle over there, make sure they're in it."
Even nods and shoots Phasma in the back.
The stun wears off, but not soon enough, and Phasma wakes to find herself in the shuttle. Alone. It lifts off a few moments later and she takes off her helmet and throws it against the door.
She doesn't know how long she’s in there for, drifting toward some unknown location when alarms suddenly sound, alerting her to the fact that she's about to crash on some as-of-yet unknown planet.
Great, she thinks, closing her eyes and bracing for impact. As long as it's not hot and sandy.
Which, of course, it is, as she discovers once she climbs out of the wreckage of what used to be the shuttle. Two suns beat down on her back and she pulls off the entirety of her armor, lying on the hot sand in nothing but a loose shirt and shorts.
She closes her eyes and wonders how long it’ll take her to die.
Her first squad, long ago, many years before she became captain, named her Phasma. One of her squad mates tried coming up with one after seeing her shooting skills on their first mission. He tried naming her “Plasma” but that was already the name of their primary medic. Another trooper, “Mads”, came up with “Phasma” by changing a letter because “it sounded better.” No one argued, and the name stuck.
Mads died soon after, killed during a mission by a member of the Resistance. Phasma was the one to shoot down her killer, and she didn't protest when her body was left behind to decay with the rest of the dead.
(She didn't sleep that night.)
She weaves in and out of consciousness, promptly coming to when she spots a sandcrawler in the distance. It wouldn't do good to be found near a First Order ship, she muses. While Tatooine hasn't declared allegiance to the First Order or the New Republic, preferring to remain neutral as it had been for ages, locals didn't take kindly to outsiders from either side of the conflict. And while Phasma is prepared to die, she isn't prepared to be killed.
She takes parts of the armor, enough to cover herself against the harsh climate, and slowly distances herself from the wreckage.
She doesn't look back.
The suns are beginning to set by the time Phasma reaches a spaceport and she heads straight into the closest cantina. She ignores everyone inside and sits down by the bar.
Her head is throbbing and her ears ringing, so it takes her a few moments to realize someone is trying to talk to her.
She lifts her head and glares. "What?" she asks quietly, voice rasping at the edges.
The bartender gives her a look, frowning lightly. "You look awful."
She rolls her eyes with a light scoff. "Water."
He brings some over and she drinks and drinks and drinks until her head stops hurting. She lets out a sigh and leans against the counter, wiping her face.
"That'll be seven hundred credits," the bartender says. He laughs when she shoots him another glare. "I'm kidding. Water is free here. Especially for people who look like they walked here from the next planet over."
"You could say that," she shrugs. "Is there somewhere I could stay?"
"Depends, how many credits you got?"
Her silence is answer enough.
He sighs. "All right, we've got a couple of rooms empty upstairs, but you're going to have to work for as long as you stay."
"Understandable," she says. "At what time should I get ready?"
"I'll check the shifts and get back to you on that."
She nods, ordering another water and he brings it back with a key. "Third door on the right. You're working the first shift."
"Okay," she pauses a moment and adds, "Thank you."
He waves a dismissive hand and goes to attend to someone else.
She sits for a while more, looking around at the few patrons still awake and still drinking the night away. She's just about to get up when the bartender returns. "What name should I put on the schedule?"
She hesitates a slight moment, then says, "Phasma."
He nods and leaves, and she heads up to her new room and wonders why she is doing this.
There was one person she found she could call a friend during her time on the ISD Demolisher. They met for the first time at the shooting range, where Phasma was practicing with her new blaster.
"You've got good aim," someone said from behind her.
Phasma shrugged. "I practice," she said, setting down her blaster and turning around to face the newcomer.
The trooper stepped forward and pulled off her helmet, running a hand through her hair. "What's your name?"
"QM-985," she replied automatically. "But... they call me Phasma."
"Captain Thirteen," she held out her hand and smiled when Phasma accepted it. "I've heard about you. I must say, I was impressed with your performance on the last mission."
"Oh," Phasma said, because she didn't know what else to say. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Just telling you the facts," Thirteen said. There was a certain tone in her voice, light and airy, and Phasma didn't know what to think about it.
"Keep up with the good work, and you might find yourself Captain before you know it," she continued.
Phasma nodded slowly and watched her walk away.
"You're up early," the bartender says when she comes out of her room the next morning. He sits by a table in the communal dining room, engrossed in something on his datapad. "We aren’t open yet, for a couple of hours."
"I'm an early riser," Phasma says. “You’re up early too.”
“Don’t need much sleep,” he leans over and taps a small chip implanted at the base of his skull, attention leaving his datapad for a moment as he looks up. “Need something?”
Phasma nods. “Are there any spare clothes?”
"There should be some in the refresher." He pauses a moment and stares at her before nodding. "Yeah, they should fit."
She nods and heads inside the refresher, surprised to find that there's water available. She can't remember the last time she didn't have to take a sonic shower.
(She can. She chooses not to think about it.)
Water runs down the drain, dirt and grime trailing behind it, and she tries not to think about how Even would never be able to have another shower.
She dries herself and stares at her reflection. It’s hard to tell what it looked like before but it’s certainly cleaner now, she decides, and she makes a feeble attempt at making herself looking presentable.
The bartender is still here, still reading on his datapad, but there’s a plate of flat cakes across the table with a glass of blue milk. She eats it in silence.
When she heads down to the cantina, there’s already a dark green Twi’lek standing behind the counter, pouring a drink and draining the glass in one swift movement. She catches Phasma’s eye and waves her over. “You’re Phasma, right?”
“Yes,” Phasma says.
“Kalyn,” she says, handing Phasma a drink. “Trexalin told me what happened last night. Anything we should know about?”
Phasma shakes her head and takes a careful sip of the drink. It’s sharp and sour in all the wrong ways and she grimaces once she’s able to force it down her throat. “That was…”
“I know,” Kalyn says sympathetically. “Sells like mad, though. Anyway, it’s not that hard to do this job – just type their order into the datapad, have them pay, get it from me and give it to them. Anyone pulls anything on you, call me or Stel over and we’ll take care of it.” She gestures to the Cathar at the other end of the bar and he waves over at them. “It’s never really that busy this shift so you’ll be fine. Any questions?
Phasma shakes her head. “I’m good at taking orders.”
Thirteen shows up again after Phasma's promotion ceremony, where she was supposed to be assigned a squad to oversee and a captain to report to. Instead, she was only handed her new uniform and told to wait outside for further instruction.
"Lieutenant," Thirteen greeted. "Congratulations on the promotion."
"Thank you, ma'am," Phasma inclined her head.
"You've impressed a lot of people, you know. Including me." There was a short pause in her speech and Phasma wasn't sure if she was supposed to speak when she continued. "You may have heard that I am heading a group of Stormtroopers - the best of the best, chosen to go on the most challenging of missions in service of the First Order."
"I may have heard that, yes," Phasma said carefully. Of course she'd heard of it - when she found out that the captain of the most elite Stormtroopers complimented her on her shooting, she hadn't been able to sleep for days.
"While I do prefer hand picking cadets from the academy for this squad and training them myself, I have been known to make exceptions," she said, and put her hand on Phasma's shoulder. "I believe you would be an excellent fit, Phasma."
Phasma wasn’t sure of what to do, but she nodded and said, "I'd be honored to be a part of your team, Captain."
Thirteen smiled and Phasma's chest tightened.
As Kalyn predicted, the cantina is practically empty, save a few people who drink quietly in their regular seats, staring into nothing.
Phasma stands by the counter and rejects Kalyn's offers for drinks.
"You know those drinks taste awful," Stel points out.
Kalyn shrugs and drinks straight from the bottle. Stel rolls his eyes and moves to throw it away.
Phasma is just about to ask if their shift is over soon when a Zeltron, all purple hair and pink skin surrounded by a cloud of pheromones, comes up to the counter. "You're drinking this place to bankruptcy, Kalyn, you know that?"
Kalyn rolls her eyes. "You know I'm probably the only reason the morning shift makes a profit."
The Zeltron laughs and orders a drink from Stel. She catches Phasma's eye and raises a brow. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?"
Phasma feels her face flushing slightly. She's been trained against the effects of alien toxins, hormones, and the like, but usually she has her helmet to help.
"You're the new one, right?" she says, holding out her hand. "Aria. I work the afternoon shift."
She doesn't take the hand, barely inclining her head and looking away. "Phasma."
Aria doesn't take offense, letting out another laugh. "I think I'm going to like you," she hums.
Stel returns with a drink, pink and green and fizzing and popping. "It's a bathana blaster," he explains, noticing Phasma's inquisitive look. "Not that difficult to make, but you should stick with the Jawa beer."
"Has Kalyn made you try the dragon juice?" Aria asks, after taking a sip from her drink. "It's disgusting."
"It's not," Kalyn huffs. She crosses her arms. "At least I know how to make drinks - Gavyn and Yukito do all the work during your shift."
Aria rolls her eyes and looks back at Phasma. "You know how to make anything?"
Phasma shrugs and, without thinking, says, "I know how to make A Walk in the Phelopean Forest."
"Really?" Aria raises a brow. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Who taught you that?"
Phasma doesn't know how to respond without implicating herself, but she's spared from responding when a group of people come through the door, talking to each other and all carrying some instrument.
"You have a band here?" Phasma asks. She tries to be nonchalant but Stel sees right through her and smiles.
"Yeah, we do," he says. "You like music?"
Phasma begins to nod, before saying, "A... a friend of mine did."
No one presses for more information. Aria heads over to the musicians to help them set up and it's not long before the sound of music echoes through the cantina.
Phasma takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.
After her first successful mission, Phasma went on shore leave to Coruscant. It was still a neutral planet at the time, filled with New Republic and First Order supporters alike, but it wasn't required to be in full Stormtrooper armor, and she was excited, just a little, to be outside and feel the wind on her body once again.
She only found out a few moments after arriving that Thirteen had decided to come with her too.
"I haven't been on leave in a while," she said, once they'd made their way to their rooms. "Nice to take a break, huh?"
"Yeah," Phasma agreed. Nice to have company too, she thought, but didn't say.
They went to a local cantina that night, bright lights and loud noises and people everywhere, and they climbed into a corner booth, knees brushing under the table.
Thirteen's hair was down and she twirled a lock around her finger, moving her head to the beat of the music as she scanned the dance floor. She looked much different without her armor, less distant and more tangible.
"Imagine if we had something like this on the Demolisher, huh?" she said.
Phasma nodded. "We probably wouldn't do much work. Though we already have the alcohol for it."
Thirteen laughed and shook her head. Their eyes met and Phasma doesn't know whether it was because of the atmosphere, the alcohol, or something else entirely but they leaned forward at the same time and then their lips were brushing and Thirteen's hand was cupping the back of her head and Phasma was sliding over across the booth and they were kissing.
They spent a week in Coruscant, going to all the local places, trying all the food in the day and spending their nights together. There was never a dull moment, never a quiet second, as though they were running out of time.
It wasn't at all what Phasma was used to - constant touch and affection, open-mouthed kisses pressed against her collar with a hand between her thighs, teasing her clit with firm fingers. Thirteen kissed her like the world was ending, and Phasma reciprocated in kind, because that was what it felt like. Because the moment they were back on the ship, back with the First Order, back into their uniforms and no longer able to feel each other, to touch, to kiss, it would all be over.
They were lying in bed one night, Thirteen resting her head on Phasma's shoulder as she traced lines on her chest. Music was playing from her datapad, some local station playing the blues.
"I wish it could be like this more often," Thirteen said softly. "No work, no stress. Just sitting around and listening to music. It's nice."
Phasma didn't say anything, stroking her side with a quiet hum.
"Well said," Thirteen laughed. Phasma rolled her eyes and kissed the top of her head, letting her hands roam and gently squeeze her hips.
Thirteen kissed a bruise into the side of her neck and Phasma closed her eyes.
It was nice music.
It's about a week later when the First Order finally comes up in conversation.
Stel is in the restroom and Kalyn is taking her lunch break upstairs, leaving Phasma alone to her own devices. She leans against the counter and pretends to be busy with something on the datapad when she overhears something.
“They just released the news about Starkiller Base,” some spice trader is telling his friend. He takes a brief sip of his drink and shakes his head. “Honestly, with a name like that, who honestly expected it to be the ‘peacekeeping headquarters of the First Order’, huh? Has destroying entire planets become the way to keep the peace?”
His friend clicks his tongue, shaking his head and responding in Huttese. The trader nods in agreement. “Yeah, you’ve got a good point.”
Phasma knows she shouldn’t say anything, but she heads over to them anyway. “Excuse me – you have some news on Starkiller Base?”
The trader raises a brow, cautious, and nods. “Yeah, I do.”
“Is there anything on the number of survivors or casualties?”
He regards her carefully and Phasma maintains her gaze until he finally looks back down at the datapad. “Well, while the official report states there were minimal casualties, some sources in the First Order say that only a handful of higher ups made it out alive, and barely at that, and even less Stormtroopers.”
“I see,” Phasma says. She’s about to leave when the friend says something.
“Why are you so interested in the casualty count, he’s asking,” the trader explains.
“I have a vested interest in the First Order,” she says. They both give her a look, and, knowing she won’t be able to get away with a vague explanation like that, she adds, “They murdered the woman I loved.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” the trader says. He pauses a moment. “Steaming pile of bathana poodoo barely begins to describe the First Order.”
“Yeah,” Phasma nods. Kalyn is back and, judging from her expression, heard the conversation. Phasma ignores her and pours herself a drink.
It was supposed to be an easy mission, just a simple package to pick up for the Supreme Leader from an outpost in the Outer Rim. Except, unbeknownst to them, Resistance sympathizers had planned an ambush.
“Phasma!” Phasma crouched down behind her cover as Thirteen quickly ran over. Behind her, Newton fired a couple of blasts and was shot down seconds later.
“Phasma,” Thirteen said, voice quiet and steady, amidst the chaos of the battlefield, “take this and get out of here.”
There was another loud bang and Reese’s helmet rolled over between them. Phasma couldn’t speak. “What… what about everyone else? What about… you?”
“We’ll be able to give you cover while you get out,” Thirteen told her.
“You’ll die,” Phasma said. “Nothing can be worth that. This kriffing package can’t be worth it.” She was about to throw it when Thirteen grabbed her arm.
“Don’t ever say that again,” she said. “Our lives are worth nothing. What matters, above all, is the First Order.”
“You can’t believe that,” Phasma said quietly.
There was a moment of silence before Thirteen let out a shaky sigh. “Get out of here, Phasma,” she said, and that was answer enough.
Phasma ran, and she looked back just in time to see Thirteen gunned down and killed.
Later, Phasma was promoted to Captain and learned that the package was from the Empire’s archives and could lead them to the legendary Luke Skywalker. She followed orders, and tried not to wonder if it really was worth it.
She told herself that it was, and even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter. This was all there was.
She tried to keep her distance from those under her command, tried to see them as nothing more than blasters, weapons of the First Order to be used to extend their control and carry out their work. Except, when she saw their progression from recruits to soldiers, when she saw them lay down their lives for their duty, when she saw how they were treated by the Generals and those who willingly joined the First Order, she couldn’t help but care.
She still wondered whether or not it was worth it.
And it wasn’t.
Kalyn must’ve said something to everyone else because after that day, everyone starts treating Phasma differently. Kalyn is less abrasive, less dismissing of Phasma and tries to include her in more of the conversation. In contrast, Aria is less inquisitive and lets Phasma get by with only an incline of her head in greeting and nothing else.
Stel tries to teach her how to make different drinks and Lynorri, a Mirialan that lives nearby and works the evening shift with Trexalin, teaches her how to play the harp. “It’s not the simplest of instruments,” she says, “but if you can play it correctly, the sound is beautiful.”
Phasma nods and runs her fingers over the strings. The first time she successfully plays her instructed scales, Lynorri claps her hands together and laughs, and Phasma smiles for the first time in a long while.
Trexalin starts paying her a few weeks later. He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t press her to leave, and Phasma doesn’t say anything in turn.
She doesn’t open up to the group, doesn’t tell them anything about herself or her past, but they develop a sort of camaraderie and before she knows it, it’s almost four months later and Aria and Kalyn are helping her buy someplace nearby to stay.
“This place is nice,” Aria says, putting her datapad in Phasma’s hands. “Short commute, big enough to work out in and store your harp.”
“No, don’t listen to her,” Kalyn snatches the datapad. “You see how much this place costs? You won’t be able to afford a grain of sand with the money you’ll have left. Now this is a good apartment.”
Aria looks over Kalyn’s shoulder and huffs. “You might as well be out in the desert with how far it is. And look how tiny it is!”
This goes back and forth for a few minutes until Phasma takes the datapad out from between them and sits down, scrolling through the listings. “This one,” she says after a few moments. It’s farther but cheaper and spacious than any of the others, and she doesn’t feel like searching anymore.
Kalyn and Aria both open their mouths to argue, but Phasma gives them a look and they grumble for a moment.
“It’s not bad,” Aria finally concedes and Kalyn nods in agreement. She pats her on the shoulder and heads downstairs, back to her shift while Aria adds. “As long as you don’t end up sleeping on your harp, because I don’t think Lynorri would like that very much.”
Phasma rolls her eyes as Aria takes back her datapad with a wink, and she wonders, a while later, if this is what it’s like having friends.
She moves in a couple of days later, only her harp and a spare change of clothes at first, but after Aria gives her new clothes and Kalyn gets her a datapad and Stel tells her where to get the best blue milk from and how to cook and Lynorri helps her pick out furniture and her very own speeder, her place looks less like an empty space and more like a home. A home of her own.
She has a place to call her own, for the first time. It’s a nice feeling.
It’s about a month later when everything goes to hell.
Phasma’s heading from the cantina to her place, late at night, when most of the city has fallen asleep. By all rights, it should be dangerous, but the bounty hunters learned their lesson after they tried to accost her one night.
She’s almost at her door and about to park her speeder when she sees it, far off in the distance, but unmistakably a Resistance fighter crashing somewhere in the sand dunes.
She could leave it there, she thinks. The Jawas would find the ship and bring whoever it was to the nearest spaceport after selling their ship for scraps. She wouldn’t have to deal with them, she wouldn’t see them, and they’d never know she was here. They probably wouldn’t even know who she is.
She starts up her speeder again and races off into the night, following the trail of smoke and pulling up nearby. It’s a wreck, to say the least – the engine is completely bust, the wings are nowhere nearby, and the astromech has a piece of scrap embedded in it.
The pilot’s seat, Phasma discovers, is only the next dune over. Her helmet is off and she’s leaning back into the seat, a small trickle of blood trailing down from her forehead as she takes shallow breaths.
I can’t leave her now, Phasma thinks, and she carefully extracts her from the seat and puts her on the speeder before heading back, pausing only to take the droid. Droids usually end up being useful, somehow.
It’s sheer luck that no one spots them as she carries the unconscious pilot up the stairs and then her droid, but it’s not as though anyone nearby has any right to judge.
She places the pilot down on her bed and starts cleaning the head wound. It’s shallow and not difficult to bandage up with the materials she has (because even though the First Oder hasn’t found her, there’s still a lingering ‘yet’ hanging over her head) and leave her to rest.
The pilot stays quiet most of the night, aside from a few groans and mumbles, but when she hasn’t fully woken by the morning, Phasma sends Trexalin a message to tell him she won’t be in today. He doesn’t ask her why, only sending an acknowledgement back, and she sits down and waits.
She falls asleep, waking up when she hears groaning, louder and more coherent than before, and she quickly stands. The pilot groans again, eyes flickering open as she begins to sit up when Phasma gently pushes her down.
“Take it slow, you’re still weak,” she says quietly.
The pilot lets out a quiet cough. “Where – where am I?” she asks.
“Tatooine,” Phasma answers, heading into the small kitchen. “I saw your ship crash down. You’ve got a nick to the head but it doesn’t seem serious. That being said, you should still rest.”
The pilot groans again, more out of frustration than pain. “I hate resting,” she says, raising a brow when Phasma comes back with a bowl of soup and helps her sit up. She stares down at the bowl then looks up at Phasma. “You know I’m Resistance, right?”
“I’m well aware,” Phasma replies. “Eat.”
The corners of the pilot’s mouth quirk and she starts wolfing down the soup, erupting into a coughing fit only a few moments later.
Phasma rolls her eyes. “I told you to take it slow.”
“I’m starved,” the pilot huffs in response, but she does slow her pace and wipes her mouth when she’s finished, leaning back with a heavy sigh. “How bad was the ship damaged?”
“Very badly. Your astromech had a part of your ship inside of it, but it might be salvageable.”
“That’s good,” she hums. “At least I won’t be working with nothing.” She looks over beside her bed, where the R4 unit stands against the wall and sighs again. “This is a mess.”
There’s a quiet moment as she looks back at Phasma. “Thanks for saving me and all, but why’d you do it? You know the Resistance doesn’t have any reward for bringing a pilot back, right?”
“I know,” Phasma says.
The pilot looks at her expectantly, waiting for an answer, before shaking her head with a slight chuckle. “All right, well, thanks.” She holds out her hand. “Jessika Pava. But call me Jess.”
Phasma hesitates a slight moment before taking it. “Phasma.”
“That a first name or a last name?”
Phasma shrugs and Jess laughs again. “This is gonna be fun,” she says, and it sounds honest. “Right, okay, I’m gonna need a couple of tools and a working long-range communicator.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Phasma says. “Though I can’t make any promises.”
“I understand,” she says. “Got any more soup?”
Jess goes back to sleep after her third bowl, and Phasma wonders what exactly she’s gotten herself into.
She goes to the cantina and finds Lynorri preparing for the shift change.
“Phasma,” she greets. “I heard you weren’t coming in today. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Phasma says. “Where’s Trexalin?”
“Upstairs,” Lynorri says.
Phasma finds him lounging about and on his datapad, as usual. “Hey, Phasma,” he says in a tired voice. “What’s up?”
“I need a favor,” she says.
“Okay, but it’ll come out of your wages. What do you need?”
“A long-range communicator and some tools.”
Trexalin looks up and raises a brow. “Does this have anything to do with the ship that crashed last night?”
Phasma doesn’t say anything, wondering if she perhaps judged him wrong, if the kindness he had shown her when they first met wasn’t kindness at all, when he lets out a sigh and says, “all right, I’ll get it for you by tomorrow. Anything else?”
“No,” Phasma says. “… Thank you.”
He shrugs and goes back to his datapad, and Phasma wishes she had a better way to express her gratitude. Instead, she heads back to her home and falls asleep on the chair.
Jess is still sleeping when Phasma wakes up and stays asleep throughout the entire morning, waking when Phasma is just about to leave for her shift.
“Where are you going?” Jess asks with a wide yawn.
“Work.”
“You work?”
“Of course I do.”
“Where?”
“At a cantina.”
Jess raises a brow. “As a bouncer or something?”
Phasma rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother responding. Jess smirks lightly and grabs Phasma’s datapad, opening up a game Kalyn had installed and beginning to play.
She’s still playing when Phasma returns late that evening (earlier than usual, but not that she was worried or anything), a bowl of soup cooling on the table before her. She’s kicked off her boots and removed the top part of her pilot’s uniform to reveal pale skin and muscular arms, the rest covered by her shirt.
Phasma tries not to notice.
“I brought your supplies,” she says, setting them on the floor beside her.
“Awesome, thanks,” she sets the datapad aside and rifles through the tools. “This is great. You really pulled out the big guns, huh?”
Phasma shrugs and sits down across from her, watching as she grabs the droid and starts to pull it apart. She’s skilled, incredibly so, but the damage to the droid seems significant, and Phasma has a feeling this will take more than a night’s work.
She leaves the bedroom and goes to make more soup.
“What’s that for?” Jess asks. She’s taking a break, playing with one of the several screws and parts scattered around her like a protective ring. Phasma wonders how dirty the sheets are going to get by the time this is over.
Phasma looks up from the datapad and follows her gaze. “That’s a harp.”
“I can tell it’s a harp,” Jess says. “I’m asking what it’s for.”
“If you can tell what it is, then you should know it’s for music,” Phasma replies smoothly, looking back at her game. She hasn’t managed to beat Jess’ score yet but she’s getting close.
“Do you play?”
Phasma rolls her eyes. “No, I keep it around for decoration.”
“You might,” Jess retorts. “Haven’t seen you play it.”
“Just because you haven’t seen me do it, doesn’t mean I can’t.”
Jess shrugs and mumbles something under her breath, looking at her until Phasma finally gives in and pulls her chair over to the harp.
She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know that many compositions,” she admits.
“That’s all right,” Jess says. “I don’t know many either.”
Phasma lets out a quiet chuckle and starts to play a simple piece, one of the first Lynorri taught her, and it’s easy to get lost into the music, even with Jess watching her play. It’s a quiet finish, and Jess claps at the end.
“That was awesome,” she grins. “Best harp music I’ve ever heard.”
“You said you’ve never heard a composition before.”
“I said I don’t know many,” Jess corrects. She gives Phasma a wink and, when she’s back to her work on the droid, Phasma lets herself smile a little.
“You’ve been coming in late for the past couple of days,” Stel points out during their shift. “Is everything all right?”
Phasma thinks of how she nearly tripped over her own table when Jess decided to move her operations to the main room instead, and says, “Everything’s fine. Do you know where I can get new bedsheets?”
She changes the sheets that evening, replacing them with ones that aren’t stained with grease and soup and Maker knows what else.
“Sorry about that,” Jess says from the doorway, watching Phasma as she finishes cleaning. “Sometimes I get a little carried away when I start working and I just can’t seem to stop.”
“I can tell,” Phasma gestures to a particularly large oil stain.
Jess laughs, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I made food tonight in apology. Thought we could sit and eat together instead of me eating in your bed and dropping everything everywhere and you looking at me like you wanna kill me.”
Phasma rolls her eyes and heads into the kitchen, sitting herself down at the table as Jess puts a plate before her.
“What’s this?” Phasma asks, poking at it with her fork.
“Smoked nerf,” Jess says. She’s pulled Phasma’s chair from her bedroom and seats herself across from her. “I learned it from a friend of mine. You know Han Solo?”
Phasma thinks back to when Han Solo shoved her into a trash compactor and says, calmly, “In passing. He’s a New Republic hero, isn’t he?”
Jess nods. “Yeah, he was.” Her voice is softer than before, quieter, and Phasma realizes that he must not have left Starkiller Base, before the explosion.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says quietly.
“It’s been a while, but thanks,” she says. She clears her throat and smiles. “He taught me and my friend Poe. Well, taught me and tried to teach Poe. Poe’s a kriffing amazing pilot but he’s complete trash at cooking – he burnt his nerf to a crisp the first time and the second time, he nearly set our entire base on fire. Someone thought it was a bomb so alarms started blaring and evacuation began and when the disposal droids went in, they came back out with Poe’s disaster of a meal. You should’ve seen his face, god – the General asked him why he set the heat so high and you know what he told her?”
“What?”
“If you put it at five times the heat, then it’ll get done five times as fast.” Jess’ laugh is infectious, and Phasma finds herself laughing a little along with her.
“And he’s your best pilot?” she asks.
Jess nods. “It’s a miracle he manages to get off the ground.” She shakes her head with a smile. “Now his boyfriend, Finn – he’s great at everything. He can shoot a blaster with impeccable aim, can take someone down with a hand behind is back, and he can cook.”
“A man of many talents,” Phasma says. She takes a bite of her meal and thinks about Finn. Finn, with a bleeding heart of gold, whose only problem was that he cared too much. I’m glad I let him go, she thinks, because he can finally do some good.
Jess tells more stories about the Resistance – none about fighting, all about some ridiculous antics she and her fellow pilots have gotten into – and Phasma listens and watches her smile and always smiles back.
It’s been almost a week when Jess lets out a groan and lies back on the floor. “I’m so kriffing close but I can’t get the kriffing thing to just kriffing – ugh!”
“Eloquent,” Phasma says, putting on her coat. “Don’t destroy anything while I’m out.”
Jess responds with a series of grumbles and groans, and Phasma can’t help but quirk her lips as she heads out.
She’s pouring herself a drink, listening to Aria and Kalyn argue about whatever it is they’re arguing about this week when Jess walks into the cantina and heads over to the counter. She reaches over and takes Phasma’s drink, draining the glass and slamming it down with a satisfying smack of her lips. “God, I needed that.”
“I was pouring that for myself,” Phasma says.
Jess waves her hand dismissively. “Just put it on my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab.”
“Make me a tab.”
Phasma rolls her eyes and refills the glass. “What do you need?”
“I just needed to stretch my legs,” Jess shrugs. “And then I realized I’ve never been here.” She looks over Phasma’s shoulder and raises a brow. “Are those your friends trying to listen in on our conversation?”
Phasma lets out a heavy sigh. “Ignore them. Do you need anything?”
“Another drink?” she looks at Phasma expectantly, and grins when Phasma hands over the glass.
“Who was that?” Aria asks the moment Jess leaves.
“She’s...” Phasma pauses a moment. “She’s a friend.”
“Yes!” Jess cheers loudly. She barges into Phasma’s room with a wide grin on her face. “The data from the droid – I finally got it to transfer into your datapad. Now all we have to do is wait for it, then I can search for the frequency we use to send messages to the Resistance, and then I’ll be home free.”
“I see,” Phasma says, absently plucking at the strings of the harp and trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. “And then they’ll pick you up?”
“They’ll pick us up,” Jess corrects.
Phasma blinks. “Us?”
“Yeah, us,” Jess says. “You think I’d just leave you here after all you’ve done? All you can do?” She smirks down at her and crosses her arms. “I asked around about you that first day. Beating the kriff out of a couple of bounty hunters, dismantling their weapons under seconds? And then you go and help me stay alive? The Resistance could use you.”
“Oh,” Phasma says. She doesn’t know what to say. Yes, she would be interested in helping the Resistance take down the First Order, but when Finn reveals her identity, would anyone believe she truly wanted to help?
“Also,” Jess continues, “I want you there.”
Phasma looks up at her and blinks. “What?”
“Come on, hasn’t it been obvious?” she laughs, and before Phasma can think about it, she leans down and pulls her in for a kiss.
It’s different, completely different from her first kiss – this is soft, deliberate, steadying her instead of lifting her off of the ground and she closes her eyes and kisses back slowly, carefully, like they have all the time in the world.
Jess pulls back a moment and presses her lips against the corner of her mouth. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while now.”
“You don’t have to stop,” Phasma whispers.
They kiss again, and Jess helps Phasma to her feet and pulls her over to the bed, divesting her of her clothing as gently as she can, trying to savor the moment. Jess’ skin has her own scars, indentations from her uniform, and Phasma traces them with her fingers while Jess presses bruising kisses down her side.
“You’re really buff,” Jess suddenly says, and Phasma starts to roll her eyes when she starts to tease her breasts, barely biting down on one of her nipples, and Phasma tilts her head back with a soft noise.
Jess lets out a quiet laugh that quickly turns into a gasp when Phasma moves her hand between her legs and rubs her clit. “That’s cheating,” she rumbles in her ear, breath coming in short pants. “You barely did any foreplay.”
“It feels like you barely needed any foreplay,” Phasma says, and Jess laughs as she moves her fingers further, curling them as they slide out of her, slow and methodical, until Jess arches against her and moans.
“You’re good at this,” Jess says, panting slightly when she’s done.
“I’m good at a lot of things,” Phasma replies. Jess leans up and kisses her face, trailing down her chest and getting comfortable beneath her before she starts to suck on her clit, licking at her entrance and rubbing circles between her thighs until Phasma opens her mouth and sees white.
It takes Phasma a few moments to regain her voice, letting out a heavy breath. “You’re definitely better at this than I am.”
“That’s the kind of sweet talk I like to hear,” Jess hums. She kisses between her breasts and moves up to rest her head on Phasma’s shoulder.
It’s so familiar and completely different, and Phasma loses her voice for an entirely different reason as her thoughts turn back to Thirteen and she doesn't know what to think.
"You're awfully quiet," Jess says after a moment.
"I don't know what to say," Phasma replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
"A lot of people don't," Jess points out. "And yet they do anyway." She kisses the side of her shoulder. "So just say whatever you want."
Phasma takes a deep breath and tells her, tells her everything about herself, all about the First Order, Thirteen, Starkiller Base, everything she can until her throat dries up and she can't speak anymore. She tells her about all the orders she followed, the people she’s killed, the lives she ruined, everything and anything she can think of until there’s nothing left for her to say.
Jess is quiet for a moment after, and then she leans up and presses a gentle kiss to her lips. "It's okay," she says quietly. "It's okay. Really."
"I'm not sure," Phasma replies. "Is it?"
"Yeah," she says. "Because you regret it, and you want redemption."
Jess sets up the radio as Phasma gets ready for work, and they kiss for a brief moment before she leaves.
"This is my last shift," she tells Trexalin when she gets there. "I'm leaving soon. I don't know when, but it's soon."
"Oh," he says, a little surprised. "Well, you know, usually, we like to have a two weeks’ notice before you have to leave."
Phasma shrugs. "I only found out I was leaving last night."
He nods. For once, she doesn't see his datapad anywhere and all his attention is focused on her, as though it's the first time they met again.
"We'll be sad to see you go," he says. "But if you ever want to talk, just send any one of us a message, yeah?"
Phasma nods. Her throat feels tight and she doesn't trust herself to speak, not yet, as he puts a hand on her shoulder and smiles.
"Yeah," she says.
Stel pulls her into a tight hug when she tells him, making her promise that she'll call whenever she can. Kalyn halfheartedly punches her shoulder and rolls her eyes when Aria bursts into tears and clings onto her.
"I promise I'll call," Phasma says, rubbing her back awkwardly. "As long as you promise to tell Kalyn how you feel," she adds in an undertone, and Aria blushes a dark purple.
"Could you tell Lynorri that..." Phasma pauses, then tries again. "Tell her thank you."
"We will," Kalyn says, and she kisses her cheek before she leaves.
She comes back to her place and finds Jess staring at the datapad as it beeps in binary at her.
"The Resistance already found you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Jess says. She types something out and puts the pad down. “I told them I was bringing in a potential agent with me. We’re meeting with them a couple of miles away tonight.”
“All right, I’ll grab some clothes,” Phasma nods. She heads into her bedroom and Jess follows, looking around as though she’d never seen it before.
“You should take the harp,” she says.
Phasma shrugs. “It’s hard to transport.”
“Yeah, but it’s yours, so you should take it.” She heads over and starts trying to drag it across the floor and Phasma rolls her eyes and moves to help her.
Jess grins at her from across the strings. “I knew you’d come around,” she says.
“I can drop this on your feet,” she replies, and Jess laughs. Phasma laughs too.
They head out late at night, waiting for the suns outside to set and the lone moon to rise high above the sky. She’ll miss Tatooine, she thinks. Not just for her friends, but also the atmosphere, the hot air and burning sand, the smugglers and the bounty hunters and the traders all coming into the cantina for a cheap drink and some mild music.
She wonders if she’ll ever be able to comeback.
She tells this to Jess while they’re waiting, leaning against the speeder and looking up at the night sky. Jess kicks some sand around and shrugs. “Can’t rule it out,” she says. “We might built an outpost here or something. Or, we could vacation here someday.”
“We could,” Phasma says.
They hear the transport before they see it – a low hum steadily growing louder until it lands, its shadow enveloping them in darkness until the lights shine on and the doors open.
Sand flies in Phasma’s eyes and it takes her a moment to rub it out so she can see who it is that just stepped out, but it’s the voice that gives it away first.
“Phasma,” he says, part in surprise and part in a deep-seated loathing.
Phasma smiles. “Finn.”
They isolate her the moment they get to D’Qar, an armed guard standing right outside her cell as she waits for something. Anything. It doesn’t really matter at this point, as long as something happens, some sort of judgement is passed upon her and she can either atone for her sins or work to make it right.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been waiting for when General Organa steps inside and dismisses the guard. She’s not at all like what Phasma expected, both maternal and imposing at the same time, gentle and fearsome, withered and strong, weary and respected.
“How are you doing, Phasma?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” Phasma says.
She nods. “Good.” She looks around at the cell for a moment before continuing. “I’ve been told a lot about you. First by Finn, who had all sorts of things to say about what you’ve done in the First Order, under the command of General Hux himself.”
“I’m sure what he had to say was completely true,” Phasma says, because it most likely was.
“Jess seemed to think so as well,” Organa nods. “You saved her from the wreckage of her fighter, correct, and helped her communicate with us?”
“I did.”
“That was very kind of you.” There’s another brief pause, where Organa looks at her and she looks back and neither move until Organa speaks again. “We found a couple of First Order defectors in a nearby star system who’ve successfully overthrown an entire Stormtrooper training camp.”
Phasma raises a brow. “That’s… interesting.”
“Yes, it is,” Organa says, with a hint of a smile. “What’s more interesting is that when we got into contact with them, they say their catalyst for deciding to defect was how a certain captain on Starkiller Base saved their lives even though she wasn’t supposed to, and she might’ve gotten killed for it.
Phasma doesn’t know what to say, and she says exactly that. The smile on Organa’s face becomes pronounced and she unlocks the door. “Welcome to the Resistance, Phasma. Thank you for helping us.”
Phasma blinks, then blinks again, and steps outside the cell and out the door. Finn is waiting for her, looking less angry than before but still not completely at ease. “She let you out.”
“She did,” Phasma replies.
He nods and, after hesitating a brief moment, pats her shoulder. “Good to have you on the team,” he says, and leaves fairly quickly. It’ll be interesting working with him again, she thinks. I wonder how much he’s changed.
She stands around for a little bit when she spots Jess in the distance, grinning at her and rushing over. Phasma finds herself grinning back, and kisses her like the world is no longer ending – it’s just getting started.