another bond, another cut Who: Glasya & Kylo Ren. What: The Master is displeased with his knights’ extracurricular activities. When: Immediately following this. Where: On board the Finalizer. Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Glasya moved through the corridors of the Star Destroyer, a deep shadow beneath stark white lights. He walked with purpose, bootheels ringing out as they struck the metal floor. Wrapped in black, hidden by the heavy helm his order required, he cut an imposing figure that Stormtroopers and officers alike moved to avoid. Behind his mask Glasya’s face was devoid of emotion; deeper still, his mind was devoid of thought. He had contemplated his master’s brief missive enough as he had traveled. It did not bode well, though precisely what level of hell awaited him he could not begin to guess. But his mind was clear, his body ready to respond to whatever threat might come.
The meeting room was empty, but Glasya could feel Kylo Ren’s presence somewhere close. Volatile as always, it hung in the air like fuel fumes waiting for a single tongue of flame. Glasya gritted his teeth. To have his leash held by one so lacking in control was a burden under which he chafed. He cleared this thought away more easily than those that came before. He schooled himself to a blank slate as he felt the presence draw nearer. Clasping his hands before him, he assumed what he hoped was a suitable expression of deference.
Robed in his armor, Kylo felt more at home aboard his ship than he had in the weeks during his recuperation in that nameless, placeless medical center. Rest and relaxation did not suit him; and now, with new information in hand, he was ready to bring his knights back under his control. He stood straight, his lanky black form seemingly immense. Within that black void he presented, however, barely suppressed anger crackled.
Entering the room from another door, Kylo wasted no time with social niceties; he had no time for games.
"It seems your student has been busy on Naboo. Were you aware of her activities?"
Glasya’s chin raised, though not by so much it could be construed as defiance. Modulated by his mask, his voice was flat. Uncurious. “She monitors the rift and incoming refugees, as do I. It remains an unknown variable. And to speak plainly, it seems increasingly a waste of time. Work for Stormtroopers, not the Knights.”
Kylo's imperious gaze never wavered, his visor aimed directly toward Glasya's mask and the man he knew was under it. He probed the air with his Force abilities, seeking any morsel of emotion that would give Glasya away. "So you're unaware that she has taken on a student of her own; a refugee with peculiar abilities. Were not your orders to refer such finds to the First Order, or to me?" His voice was kept flat, and yet it seemed to pierce with subtle violence through his mask's modulator.
“They were,” Glasya said. He felt his master’s subtle prodding, and drew nothingness around him like a shield. Slowly he began to build walls in his mind, concealing what he knew behind mundane images and benign memories. He hoped it would be enough. Every moment he stood before Kylo Ren was another chance for his true motives to be laid bare. He pressed on. “Peculiar abilities do not always indicate force sensitivity. If Issan has found anything of note, I’m certain she only means to ensure it is of value before she brings it to your attention.”
Glasya's attempt to shield himself was red flag in and of itself; Kylo grew tired of the man's equivocating. A glove-covered hand rose, causing the Force around the two darkly-robed men to bind about Glasya's throat and raise him into the air. Kylo lifted him just enough so that the tips of his boots scratched the floor.
"I know Hux enjoys being soothed with lies, but I find them tedious. Anything that was found should have been brought to my attention immediately. I would assume Issan only told you enough for you to claim plausible deniability, but don't think for a moment that I'm not aware of your colluding." He tightened his fist, suddenly exceedingly glad to have this outlet. Perhaps he owed Issan a thank you.
He removed Glasya's masked helm with a wave. Even burdened with as much Force ability as he was, often it was simpler to read a face to discern the truth. Glasya's own abilities were often an obstacle as well. Kylo would be the last to admit he also enjoyed watching people squirm as he worked.
"I don't have time to question you properly, so I'll ask once. Why is Issan training this refugee?"
The walls stayed in place. Glasya wondered how wise that was; Kylo clearly knew they were there, knew Glasya held back some truth he wanted kept for himself. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, and in an instant he knew he had surrendered too much.
“For you,” he rasped. Bruises bloomed on his skin, a dark collar around his pale throat. He sucked in a harsh, rattling breath. “To assess her… as First Order or Knight.” He fought to hold Kylo’s gaze. He lacked the breath to pose his question, so he focused instead on an image: the Knights of Ren increasing in number and in power, growing strong under Kylo’s leadership.
"Maybe you have a comprehension problem," Kylo sneered in response, tightening his grip further. It was clear he wasn't going to get the answers he was seeking, at least not verbally. It was time to change tack.
Keeping true to his warning that he would ask only once, Kylo pressed into Glasya's mind with his own, shredding precious neurons and connections in his wake. Glasya's mental barriers made the process almost impossible; Kylo immediately came up against an obstruction not unlike a steel door.
Kylo smashed against it, attempting to shake loose anything that would give him further clues into either Knight's true machinations.
Blissful unconsciousness lapped like black waves at the edges of Glasya’s mind. He shuddered in Kylo’s grip. He curled his hands into the thick black cloth of his robes, balling them into tight, clawed fists. The pain was excruciating; it set bright fires behind his eyes, but still he would not close them. He could not fall. Not yet.
Behind that final barricade lay secrets that would ruin them all. Issan was his, as Bellamy was his, and he would not see them so easily handed over to a grasping, petulant child. He bolstered that single wall, letting slip other defenses that perhaps should have stayed in place.
The image of a datapad began to materialize. Its surface was a mire of images and symbols, each one falling into a discernible, though unidentifiable, pattern.
Kylo grabbed up the information, tearing it loose from its moorings and releasing Glasya, mentally at least. He scoured it for a moment, taking in what little data had actually been relieved; something regarding DNA and the Force.
"Where is this datapad?" He didn't bother to ask why it hadn't been brought to his attention; all he cared to do now was rectify that which had been left too long meandering.
Glasya’s head swam. His voice was gravel and broken glass. “The Wraith,” he said. He pressed his feet toward the floor, but found no purchase. His own pulse roared in his ears. “My quarters.”
With a tiny, barely perceptible movement of his hand, Kylo sent Glasya hurtling into the far wall with enough force to break bone. He wanted to be sure that this man, this assumed Knight of Ren, would remember this lesson for some time to come.
He moved to a communication pad on the wall, pressing a button. "I want a squadron of Stormtroopers to examine Glasya Ren's ship. There is a datapad in one of the living quarters; bring it to me."
A quick affirmative chirped back at him, and Kylo released the talk key. He turned his visor in Glasya's direction.
"I promise they won't break too much."
Without waiting for a response, Kylo turned on his heel and left Glasya to whatever assistance he might be able to find.
A thin line of blood trailed from beneath Glasya’s nose. One fat droplet fell to splash softly on his black robe. He put his hands on the floor and began to push himself up. One arm buckled beneath him: broken, he realized. His head throbbed. His stomach churned. Every breath was a knife in his freshly-cracked ribs. And still he knew he had gotten off easily. He was alive, he was conscious, and the datapad would be enough to buy him time.
He dragged himself first to sit, then to stand. On unsteady steps he crossed the room. Fresh pain screamed through him when he bent to retrieve his mask, but his expression remained even and unreadable. With his one good arm he fastened his helm back on. That relative anonymity restored to him some degree of calm. By the time he reached the doorway, his steps were even and firm once more. In the monstrous, winding halls of the Star Destroyer he would wait for the inspection to end, and then he would return to his ship. Only then, in the safety of bleak, lonely space, could he begin to plan their next steps.