Star Wars fic: Sacrifices that Count (1/4)
Title: Sacrifices that Count
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Written before The Rise of Skywalker, encompassing preseries spec (that has been mostly debunked now) and events of the first two movies. Unbeta’ed. Fills my major illness/injury square for hc_bingo.
Summary: War made two kinds of people as far as Poe was concerned: heroes and corpses.
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
-o-
Poe Dameron joined the Resistance with bright eyes, wide, wide open. He believed that there was great injustice in the galaxy, and he was ready to give anything -- no, everything -- to fix that. It was idealism that made him join.
It was pure skill that made him survive.
See, war made two kinds of people as far as Poe was concerned.
Heroes.
And corpses.
-o-
(Somehow, he never accounted for cowards. They were just people who died the long, miserable way around. It had to be a blaze of glory for Poe. Fast, hot and spectacular to the end.)
-o-
He rose quickly, for whatever that was worth. The truth was that the Resistance was never big enough to be picky about these things. A pilot could rise in the ranks, as far as he or she wanted, as long as they came back at the end of a mission.
The First Order, it had the luxury of numbers and blind obedience.
The Resistance, on the other hand, had no such luxuries. It would take the fighters it could get, almost regardless of their ability to follow orders.
When Poe went out to fight, he was often the only one to come back.
It made him a squadron leader almost by default.
And a legend with every flight he took.
-o-
Not that he appeased everyone.
“You’ve got to learn,” General Organa explained to him, not for the first time. “We have to have some order; you have to follow directions.”
“That’s what the First Order does,” Poe argued. He respected the hell out of this woman, but when it was his ass out there in an x-wing, he couldn’t never quite remember any rule that wasn’t win-at-any-cost. “We have to be different.”
She was always very patient with him; rumor had it, she had a lot of practice. “This isn’t some contrast between order and chaos. It’s not that simple.”
“But it’s the difference between winning and losing,” he insisted.
She stared at him down the bridge of her nose, and he could tell more clearly than ever that she really had been raised a princess. “That’s your problem, Poe,” she told him, more sad than stern. “I’m not sure you realize just what winning is.”
-o-
Poe, naturally, disagreed.
Respectfully, of course.
He took out the TIE fighters, made a bombing run of a cruiser without orders. It was to his credit that his people followed him into such dangerous action.
-o-
(He didn’t think about what it meant that so many of them didn’t come home. You got used to that, collateral damage. When everything was on the table, it was easy to believe that everything was expendable. As if they could win the war on principle alone.)
-o-
“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have,” General Organa reminded him during a debriefing. “It’s possible that I may know more than you.”
Poe rocked anxiously on the soles of his feet. She was right; she was right. But she had to understand. “But you’ve never been in a cockpit,” he said.
“Which is why I have the perspective to see things like I do,” she said. “I’ve seen this Rebellion rise and fall, nearly to pieces. Sometimes I think I’m holding it together with my own two hands.”
“Well, you are our leader,” Poe said, with an earnest pause.
She almost looked bemused at that as she pursed her lips, shaking her head so her earrings dangled. “I’m not going to be here forever.”
“That’s why the cause matters, then,” Poe said.
“No, Poe,” she said, more tired than before. “That’s why the people matter. The cause won’t win us anything, not without people.”
“But people won’t fight without the cause,” Poe said.
She chuckled. “That’s the catch now,” she agreed, tipping her head and giving him a quizzical smile. “Isn’t it?”
-o-
He thought about it, he really did. Poe was brash and far too quick to make decisions in the heat of the moment, but he wanted to do the right thing. He did.
He tried to imagine what it would be like, to be General Organa. He tried to imagine a girl who had stood her ground, toe to toe with Darth Vader. A girl who didn’t yield, not even when her home planet was blown to smithereens. She had been there, at Endor. She had watched the Death Star rain like meteors across the sky.
There was no way to imagine what that was like.
At least, not from the inside of a cockpit when everyone was trying to kill you.
Poe wasn’t a prince. He wasn’t a leader.
He was a pilot.
Reflection in a cockpit was a luxury.
And one he didn’t have.
-o-
“You’re not getting in that damn cockpit,” she told him, her voice brittle. “You’re sitting this one out.”
“What?” he all but exploded. “But this is an important weapons run! Without this, we’re not going to have enough to defend our trade routes.”
“I know,” she said.
“And I’m your most experienced pilot,” he said, gaping in frustration now. “Not to mention your best.”
“You’re a liability out there,” she said. “You’d be too likely to turn a routine run into a full blown conflict, if given the chance.”
He scoffed, but he knew he couldn’t deny it.
“You have to learn, Poe,” she said, taking him by the arm and squeezing. “You have to learn that you can’t see everything from the inside of your cockpit. That’s why you have to follow orders.”
“Is that what Luke did? When he blew up the Death Star?”
The color drained from her face, and her fingers let go of his arm. Lips pressed thin, she brushed past him. “You have my orders.”
-o-
The lesson might have worked.
But the run was ambushed.
It was all hands on deck.
When Poe dispatched the enemy forces, he came back a hero.
Everyone applauded him, like they always did.
But General Organa stood in the back, face pinched as she stared him down.
-o-
(Everyone made compromises in war. He just didn’t realize the ones were made not always for his benefit. But sometimes to his detriment. He could never see that maybe she was trying to save him, as much as she was trying to save the whole damn galaxy.)
-o-
Another run, another unexpected gunfight. In his defense, he wasn’t the one who shot first.
Even if he was the one to keep shooting until it was over.
-o-
Back at base, he had learned enough to know he wouldn’t be celebrated for this, not with the numbers he’d lost and the orders he’d conveniently ignored. In truth, he expected a reprimand.
And that was what it looked like when he saw General Organa’s face when he clambered out of his battered x-wing.
She drew a breath, eyes zeroed in on him in the chaos. With a wince, he went up to give his report.
“Later,” she said. Then, she knitted her brows with a serious nod. “Are you hungry?”
Taken aback, Poe wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m hungry,” she told him then, matter of fact. “Are you?”
“Uh,” he said, watching as the other pilots who returned all started their personal debriefings. He looked back at her, and he wasn’t sure what the right answer was. “Yes?”
“Good,” she said, bobbing her head decisively. “Then join me for dinner.”
Poe wasn’t good at following orders.
But this wasn’t one he was going to refuse.
-o-
As they approached the general’s personal quarters, Poe started to get anxious. This wasn’t just some casual dinner in the mess. This was dinner. With the general. She wasn’t a big woman, and Poe was in good shape, but damn. If she killed him, the only thing people would wonder was what Poe did to have it coming.
She let him inside, and gestured toward the dining area. “Pardon the mess,” she said. “But that supply run you took wasn’t supposed to be one that ended in conflict.”
Poe reddened. “I didn’t choose to engage, ma’am.”
She chuckled, leaving him standing in the dining area while she moved toward the makeshift kitchenette. Most pilots didn’t have private quarters. As an officer, Poe had a small room no bigger than a closet, equipped with nothing more than a hot plate. “I didn’t bring you here to reprimand you this time,” she assured him, rummaging for a pot.
He looked around surreptitiously. The quarters were sparser than he might have imagined, but, to be fair, he’d never let himself imagine. Small as she was in stature, she’d always been larger than life. He had never really thought of her personal life. “Oh?”
“I offered you dinner,” she said, turning toward him with a frying pan. “Do you know how to dice vegetables?”
“Ma’am?” he asked.
She picked up a knife with her other hand. “Vegetables,” she repeated. “Or are you no good outside the cockpit?”
“I, um,” he started, finding himself flounding. All his time in battle, all his honed reflexes in the cockpit, and he was ready to crap his pants now.
She smiled. “It’s not hard,” she assured him, pointing the knife hilt first at him. “I promise.”
Stepping forward, he forced himself to smile back. “Whatever you say.”
This time, her huff was incredulous. “This will be the first time you’ve willingly followed orders, then,” she observed.
He made his way to the counter, where the pile of vegetables was clearly waiting to be tended. “But maybe not the last,” he offered.
“Uh huh,” she said. “Training men is not like chopping vegetables. I can’t slice away the parts I don’t like and cut them into pieces that suit my tastes.”
With a quizzical frown, he looked at her. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, filling her frying pan with oil while she put it on the burner. “It’s not the convenient thing, I know that.”
Poe laid out a piece of jaja root, poising his knife over it as he made a tentative slice. He cut a few more times, eyeing his own work critically. “Is that right?”
She gave it a cursory look, sprinkling herbs into the dish as it heated. “It’ll do, I suppose.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, then.
Poe chopped the next piece -- a ellery beat -- and frowned a little more severely. It had probably been too kind of an endorsement.
“Oh, come on,” she scolded now, taking a piece of fresh meat from the ice box. “All those rash decisions you make out there, and this is what you’re going to second guess yourself about?”
He looked vexed. “I just want to do it right.”
“And I just want dinner,” she told him flatly. “Now, get chopping.”
For once, Poe did as he was told.
-o-
It was a little awkward, the truth be told. Cooking wasn’t so much Poe’s thing, and doing it alone with the General? Well, that wasn’t how he thought his day would go when he woke up this morning.
That said, it wasn’t bad.
In fact, despite the fact that Poe felt woefully out of place, he had to kind of enjoy himself. He’d always been a little in awe of General Organa, and he’d respected the hell out of her. After cooking with her, he found that he liked her, too.
Because she knew what she was doing, even when things didn’t go quite perfect. When the recipe called for one thing, she substituted another. And she did it all with a smile before serving dinner on two plates and breaking open a bottle of a wine from a vintage he didn’t recognize.
“I’d like to tell you this is some good, rare year,” she told him, handing him his glass. She smirked. “That would be a lie, however. This was leftover when we got here. I scanned it, so I know it’s not going to kill us, but there’s no telling how it will taste.”
She watched as he took a drink, wrinkling his nose momentarily while it went down. Eyebrow arched, she waited for his assessment.
He swallowed, putting the glass down. “Strong,” he said. “And bitter.”
“Ah,” she said, pouring herself a glass of her own. Her glass didn’t match his, and she swirled around the liquid a few times before giving her own a swig. Pulling the glass away, she gave the drink a look of fresh appraisal. “Surprisingly strong. I’m kind of glad I didn’t ask for a more thorough assessment of what was in it. I might not have opened it otherwise.”
“Well, we can find something different,” Poe offered.
“No, no,” she said, swatting her hand in the air. “This is the Resistance. We take what we can get.”
“I thought that only applied to soldiers,” he said.
Her eyes glinted with humor. “Call it an object lesson,” she advised, nodding toward his plate. “Now, drink up. We haven’t even tasted the food yet.”
-o-
The drink was strong, and dinner was, well, fine. It tasted pretty good, actually. One of the best meals Poe had had in awhile. The Resistance wasn’t known for its fine dining. If he got something fresh and hot, he usually counted himself lucky.
“What do you think?” she asked, watching while he ate.
“Pretty good,” he said. “I was worried I’d messed up the vegetables….”
“With enough seasoning, you can’t hardly tell,” she agreed with a nod. “Cooking breaks everything down to its basic elements, and more things work out than you expect.”
“Another object lesson,” he said, feeling his cheeks flush every so slightly.
Her lips twisted up a little wider. “I’m just telling the truth,” she said. “You’ll hear what you need to hear.”
He reached for his glass, taking a drink before putting it back down. He paused, looking at her briefly. “It helps that I haven’t had fresh cooked food in a month.”
She scoffed. “A month?”
“We are rarely stocked,” he said.
“We’ve had plenty of stock around here lately,” she said. “You’ve just been too busy to eat meals with the rest of us.”
He opened his mouth, ready to protest, but then he thought about it. “Wait,” he said. “There are group meals?”
She sighed. “Honestly, did you even listen to the opening meeting here?” she said. “It was all in the briefing. Three meals, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Plenty to go around.”
This was surprising. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she said. “Some bases we have to live on rations, but we’ve got farmland in all directions. We rented a few local plots. I’m not saying it’s a feast or anything, but we have hot meals, Poe.”
This still floored him, more as he thought about it. “Really?”
She shook her head, the bemused expression returning. “You think you know all the answers that sometimes you stop listening,” she said.
“Another object lesson?” he asked, rightfully chagrined.
“No object here,” she told him tartly. “Straight up truth. I knew you were focused, Poe, but come on.”
“Well, I’ve got other things,” he said. “Patrols and training and, you know. Resistance stuff.”
“The Resistance is more than your duty,” she said.
“You’re telling me it’s a hot meal?”
She helped herself to another serving. “Yeah, I think I am,” she said. “Now, give me your plate.”
“Oh, I’m good,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Give me your plate, Poe.”
“Really, General--”
Her look turned to exasperation. “Don’t make me order you.”
Obediently, he lifted his plate toward her with cheeks red. “Yes, ma’am.”
She heaped more food on, nodding at him. “That’s a boy.”
-o-
In everything, she took her time.
This seemed a little strange to Poe. He was a man who operated in a world of high demands and quick actions. When he wasn’t on a mission, he was usually resting or preparing for a mission, and he managed to keep those tasks endlessly busy.
It had never occurred to him to live any differently.
It had never occurred to him that it was possible.
General Organa, however, was a different kind of person. With her, he might just believe, anything was possible.
By the Force, he hoped so.
“I know how you got here,” she said, giving him another look once over.
“Well, you did approve my commission,” he pointed out.
“I know,” she said. “But it occurs to me that maybe you don’t know how I got here.”
This made him stop a little. “You?”
“Sure,” she said. “We all have our stories of rebellion.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, giving a short, incredulous chuckle. “But everyone knows how you got here. You started this thing.”
She scoffed herself this time. “It’s not like I did it myself, or that it was even my idea,” she said. “No, the idea of rebellion was passed down to me by my father -- my adoptive father, anyway. Alderaan always opposed the Empire, and I was raised an heir to that throne.”
“Alderaan was the first to be destroyed,” he observed, then he stopped himself, realizing his comment to be insensitive. He fumbled, quickly trying to take it back. “I mean, back in the early conflict--”
“Yes, yes,” she said, and her voice sounded heavy. “I was there. I was made to watch while everything I spent more whole life building and defending and honoring was blasted into nothing.”
Poe had been in battle a long time, and even before he’d joined the Resistance, he’d seen his share of trials. He’d lost family, friends -- more than he could even count anymore. He told himself it never seemed as bad from the cockpit, as if he could fly away from the aftermath.
She was studying him now. “It was a defeat, to be sure,” she said. “I think it was intended to squash us out.”
“It didn’t, though,” Poe concluded.
“No,” she said and something in her eyes brightened now. “That was when it really started. That was when I met Luke Skywalker and Han Solo, and everything changed.”
He couldn’t help but sit forward, a little eager at the names he’d heard. “So you really did know them?”
“Know them?” she asked, incredulous. “They became my best friends, my most trusted allies...and more. They were family.”
“Is it true about Solo? Could he do the things they said he could in the Millennium Falcon?”
“That and more,” she said, lifting a finger to wag it at him. “But not as much as he’d tell you, you can mark me on that.”
“And Skywalker,” Poe continued.
“The return of the Jedi,” she mused.
“And the best damn pilot ever!” Poe said. “They still tell legends about his run on the Death Star. I’d have love to have seen that.”
“You make it all sound so glamorous,” she said, shaking her head. “But if Luke Skywalker were here, he’d be the first to tell you to mind the sacrifices. The things we’re not willing to give up, not even in the heat of battle -- those are the things that set us apart.”
Poe considered this, but only briefly. He was more perplexed by the fact that they were having this conversation at all. She was his General; he was her soldier.
“You’re curious why I told you this,” she said, keenly deducing his thoughts. “Why I’m regaling you with stories of princesses and victory.”
“Well,” he said, shifting in his seat as so not to appear as self conscious as he felt. “I thought you didn’t talk about it.”
“And most of the time, I don’t,” she said. “I mean, the things that were. Me being a princess; Han Solo flying to save the day in the Millennium Falcon; Luke Skywalker finding that perfect spot to destroy the Death Star -- I know what they mean to everyone else, but that’s not what they mean to me.”
“Those are victories,” he reminded her.
“And losses in their own right,” she said with a tired sigh as she shook her head. “But maybe I should -- talk about it, that is.”
Curious again, he tipped his head. “And what’s that?”
“Because it’s important, considering how far we’ve come, how much has changed,” she said. “We need to understand how these things started. We need to know how a poor farmer, a conceited princess and a smart-ass smuggler made this whole thing possible.”
“They say it was the will of the Force,” he supplied without prompting.
“Maybe,” she said, giving a shrug of concession. “But when I look back on it, all of it, I think that it’s a little simpler than that. I think the fact that we were willing to listen to one another, that we were willing to respect what everyone had to say even when we disagreed.” She shook her head, a smile spreading across her wizened features now. “And let me tell you. We did disagree. A lot.”
“Who gave the orders, then?” Poe asked, trying to imagine what that would be like. Princesses and smugglers, Death Stars and fighter pilots.
“Oh, well we had leaders, even back then,” she said. “Just ask General Ackbar. I daresay he’s aged better than I have.”
“I know,” Poe said. “But I mean, in the field. In the heart of those battles. That couldn’t have all been planned.”
“No,” she said, seeming to concede that point. “Sometimes we had to make our own way.”
He was primed now, rocking forward with unbridled energy. “Then you get it,” he said, nodding at her intently. “You get why I have to do what I do in the field.”
He spoke with hope of ringing approval.
Her reply, by contrast, was far more measured. “I get why you think you have to,” she told him. “It made a lot of sense to me back then.”
“And it worked!” he enthused. “I mean, you beat Vader. You took down the Emperor.”
The weariness returned to her expression. “And Snoke rose in his place. We felled the Empire and gave birth to the First Order,” she said. “Those dramatic wins haven’t meant as much as I thought they would, because all these years later, here I am, fighting the same fight.”
“But the cause is worthwhile,” he insisted. “I mean, what else would we do? Stop?”
“No,” she said, and she seemed disappointed in him now. “We remember what separates us from them.”
He bobbed his head, ready. “Justice.”
“Life,” she countered him, almost immediately and emphatically. “We value life above all else.”
This answer was surprisingly deflating, and Poe sat back in his chair. “But sacrifices have to be made sometimes.”
“Oh, I know that,” she told him. “But they’re not necessary all the time. Not every little fight is one you should be willing to die for.”
“But they’re not little--”
“They are,” she said. “This is a war I’ve been fighting all my life. I’ve been in victories and losses. Trust me when I say that some of these fights are more insignificant than you could possibly imagine.”
His face screwed up, ready for protest. “But--”
She shook her head, and she was no friendly face now. She was all General again, with a hint of royalty for good measure. “You have to have the wisdom to know when it really matters, when the death is more important than the life. Because sometimes -- a lot of the time -- the people matter more.”
“Tell that to the fighters of Rogue One,” he said, a hint of defiance in his voice.
She let out a long, slow breath. “Poe,” she said. “You’re missing the point.”
“I’m not, though,” he said. “I’m just telling you how it is for me. If my death can make a difference, then I’ll do it. I believe in this cause. I’d do anything for it.”
“But what if the cause doesn’t need your death?” General Organa asked. “What if we need your life?”
He meant to reply -- he wanted to reply -- but then he stopped short, shaking his head. “How’s that any different?”
The breath she collected this time was resigned. “And that’s why you’re still a captain,” she said, pushing her chair back as she got to her feet. “Now get up, and help me with the dishes.”
-o-
Poe helped her with the dishes, and she saw him to the door.
“I’m still not sure why you did this,” he admitted. “But thank you. I never thought I’d get the privilege of dining with a general.”
She chuckled, and this time she seemed genuinely bemused. “I’m not really much of a general.”
“But you are!”
Her eyes gleamed. “I’m a princess,” she said, leaning toward him with a conspiratorial hush. “You better remember that fact because I’m going to forget it.”
-o-
It was a little dispiriting, if he were honest. He was so used to accolades or reprimands that this ambiguous honor was not one he knew quite how to parse. In a daze, he made his way back to his quarters, shutting the door tight behind him as he flicked on the lights.
BB8 beeped anxiously at him, and Poe smiled at him absently. “It’s all good, buddy,” he assured the droid, who rolled up to him with a notable amount of concern. “She just wanted to talk.”
The quizzical series of beeps that followed made Poe nod along in agreement.
“I know, I know,” he said. “I thought it was weird, too.”
Inching closer, BB8 bobbed his head toward him, making a doleful blip.
Poe smiled. “You understand, at least,” he said, giving BB8 a pat. “You understand.”
-o-
It was good that the droid understood.
Poe, honestly, still had no idea.
He tried to read -- but couldn’t focus. He tried to play a few games -- but he didn’t have the heart. Normally, he might try to steal a snack but he’d never felt so full in his life. Instead, he laid listlessly on his bed, staring up at the darkness while BB8 went into power save mode.
Lying there, he had to think.
How long had it been since he thought? Sure, he thought about battle plans and Resistance intelligence. He thought about flight logs and mission reports.
But about life? About his purpose?
Poe Dameron was one hell of a pilot, but he wasn’t known for his existentialism. Didn’t really suit a guy like him, living second by second in a cockpit. That wasn’t what his life was about.
It would probably be what his death was about, however.
That made him pause, and he remembered what the General had told him. The way she put it almost made him feel guilty, like he was looking for a light saber to fall on, so to speak.
That wasn’t it, though. Poe wasn’t suicidal; he didn’t want to die.
But what was it to live knowing that you could have done more?
It wasn’t like he was one who thought about the afterlife. Hell, he didn’t think about consequences at all. Life was lived in the moment, nothing more, nothing less. His life existed here. It existed now. He didn’t need more than that.
That was self sacrifice, wasn’t it?
That was what made him a hero, right?
Somehow, he reflected grimly, Princess Leia, Han Solo and Luke Skywalker might disagree.
Besides, he wasn’t anything like them. They birthed a movement. Poe was just another nameless fighter pilot, blazing across the stars in an x-wing. He didn’t plan; he didn’t think.
He just waited for his next mission.
His next chance to save the cause.
The resolution should have helped him sleep.
He sighed, shifting on his sheet.
It didn’t.
-o-
(Poe didn’t sleep, so he didn’t dream, but sometimes even he had to remember. He had to remember the mother who had loved him, doting on him in ways that made his father scowl. Poe, naturally, had loved her for it, and they were inseparable, the two of them. She was the one who told him about the Resistance. She was the one who told him the truth about the First Order. She was the one who pointed to the stars and told him that his destiny could be anywhere he wanted.
She was also the one who had been taken by the First Order. She had been the one who hugged him that last time, pressing a kiss to his forehead and making him promise to stay still and do nothing. It went against his instinct, but he watched as they led her away, and she didn’t look back.
Later, it was his father who told him that the First Order was not what his mother had told him. They were compassion, were they not?
“But they killed mother,” Poe protested.
“For breaking their laws,” his father reminded him.
“But that’s not compassion!”
“They had the kindness not to do it in front of you,” his father scolded him. “We’re better off without her.”
Poe had stolen a ship that night, because was stupid, young and hurt. He’d had to blow the hell out of the local garrison, and he’d managed to kill half a squadron in sheer rage alone before he rocketed himself into hyperspace. When he finally stopped, close to empty in his fuel reserves, it occurred to him that he had no idea what he was doing.
Locking in coordinates for the nearest neutral planet, he came to a more telling realization.
He sure as hell didn’t care.)
-o-
Poe woke up drained and remorseful. He felt he owed someone an apology, though he wasn’t sure how or why. On his way to General Organa to deliver it, one of the droids pulled him aside.
“You are needed in the briefing room right away,” the droid informed him.
Poe screwed up his face, confused. “But I don’t have a mission.”
“I believe you do now, sir.”
-o-
The moment he got to the briefing room, Poe knew something had changed. It was in the air.
Then, General Organa looked at him and he knew that everything had changed.
Grim face, hair pulled back tight, she looked nothing like she had the night before.
“Thank you for joining us, Captain,” she said, addressing him in a strangely brusque and formal fashion. “We’ve just gotten in new intelligence, and we believe it warrants an immediate response.”
Normally, he would have said yes, right away, no hesitations, but this whole shift has him thrown. “Intelligence about what?”
The lines darkened on her face. “About the location of Luke Skywalker,” she announced.
Despite his better efforts, Poe felt his mouth hand open.
She wet her lips, squaring her shoulders. Diminutive as she was in stature, she still cut the most imposing figure Poe had ever seen. “We need that intelligence, in our hands,” she said with finality, and her eyes settled heavily on Poe. “At any cost.”
He blinked.
Then, he understood.
“At any cost,” he repeated.
“Any cost,” she agreed.
Poe didn’t need it spelled out any clearer than that.
-o-
It wasn’t a question of whether or not he was going.
It was just a question of logistics.
Then next hour was spent in intense briefing, and Poe was shown star maps and schematics and given information about his would-be contact, who was last traced to a far reach on the outer rim.
Jakku, they think.
They want Poe to go to Jakku, obtain the star map, and make sure it got back to the Resistance.
In theory, it wasn’t actually that hard.
But Poe wasn’t big on theory.
Application, on the other hand.
Well, Poe knew that a flight to Jakku would take him through the reaches of First Order territory. He knew that he’d have to survive among mercenaries to get confirmation of their lead. And even if he did make contact, the First Order would probably know to track an x-wing through that region of space. Making his exit would be somewhat interesting, to say the least.
BB8 would be equipped with enhanced space capabilities. He could house the data; he could hold on to it, even if he needed to be ejected mid-flight. Poe was the vehicle to get them there.
BB8 would ensure the intelligence got back to the Resistance.
They were both means to an end.
Poe’s, however, was just a different kind of end.
-o-
At the end of the meeting, Poe had his orders. He was to leave now, without delay.
Well, except one delay.
She held him back, even after all the other Generals and Advisors at left.
Behind the table, where their plans were still laid out, she chewed her lip for a moment. Then, almost regretfully, she raised her eyes.
“I’m embarrassed, really,” she admitted. “To ask you to do this. After all I talked about last night.”
He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s the role I’ve always known I had to play,” he assured her.
She shook her head with a small scoff. “I meant what I said, I did,” she insisted. “You’re too quick to die, too fool hardy.”
He knitted his brows, just a little. “If I were any other man, I’m not sure I’d be able to do what you’re asking me to do.”
“I know, I know,” she said, as if it was a concession she was forcing herself to make. She sighed, looking back down at the plans again as she shook her head. “I told you that it’s important to recognize the difference, to know when your sacrifice matters.”
“I know,” he said, unable to disagree with her.
Her gaze was steely when she looked at him again. “It matters this time, Poe,” she told him, voice almost flat now. “Do you understand.”
He nodded, bowed his head in tribute. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I do.”
-o-
Did he understand?
Poe hurried in his quarters, flinging his belongings into a makeshift bag. There’d be no time for pleasantries or creature comforts, but an extra pair of clothes and rations might be nice.
BB8 beeped at him in concern.
“I’ll transfer the specs to you as soon as we get on our ride,” he said.
BB8 tilted his head quizzically.
Did Poe really understand?
That his life was forfeit.
That this droid would be more valuable than he could be.
That after finally entertaining the act of living, he was being ordered to die.
“It is what it is,” Poe told BB8 resolutely. He shouldered his pack, giving a nod. “It is what it is, buddy.”
Because help the force, Poe Dameron really understood.
-o-
When he finally found his man on Jakku, Poe knew he’d come a long way.
With the intelligence in his hand, for a moment, he thought that this mission would be like all the others. That he’d come home, tales of glory to be shared, his fly-boy persona letting him slide through debrief as the General rolled her eyes.
Then, the First Order found him and Poe didn’t have a cockpit to escape in anymore.
This mission wasn’t going to be like the others, he knew. He gave the data to BB8 and grabbed a blaster, ready for the fight however it came to him. If he wasn’t going home, then he’d go out in a blaze of glory so big that the stories would make it back in his place.
BB8 rolled away.
And across the galaxy, a Princess hung her head.
-o-
Poe’s the best pilot in the Resistance. And he maintains his facades pretty well, even when staring at Kylo Ren in person. Best there was.
Two minutes aboard Ren’s ship, and he’d told them everything.
-o-
There was no time to dwell on his weakness, his failure, his betrayal. There was no time to worry about being tortured, executed or paraded around like a trophy. Not when there was a Stormtrooper with a half-baked idea for escape and a TIE-fighter to get them there.
All Poe needed was the TIE.
The rest would work itself out accordingly.
-o-
For five minutes, it was a brilliant rush of adrenaline. He and Finn -- that was the Stormtrooper -- made a hell of a team, and Poe turned to Jakku feeling like he’d get to finish what he started after all.
Then, the hit took out their engines.
Damn, Poe thought as they careened through the atmosphere, the ground fast approaching.
Maybe it was for the best, he reasoned, ejecting the backseat before angling the ship away from any populated areas. He poised his finger over his own ejection release. This was what he’d said he’d wanted, maybe it was his destiny, maybe.
Poe hit the eject button and the world went white. The air was torn from his lungs as the force jarred him toward unconsciousness.
Maybe not, he thought with the sound of wind rushing through his ears as the ground rushed up to meet him.
Poe never felt the impact.
But then, he never did.
-o-
(It never occurred to him, navigating from star to star, just how black space was. He could see it now, eternity stretching before him not with possibility, but with nothingness.
Of course, a lot of things had never occurred to Poe.
Not until it was almost (almost) too late.)
-o-
He came to with a gasp. Disoriented, Poe flailed. As he tried to get his bearings, he abruptly fell out of the bed he didn’t quite realize he was one. He hit the ground, and the pain in his body exploded so much that he nearly passed out again.
While his head spun, small hands were all over him and a fast, chirpy voice sounded in his ear. His instincts were to fight, but when he managed to open his eyes again, he realizes pretty quick that there was no enemy here.
He didn’t quite recognize the species, but their intent was plain enough. They were offering him food and water and, after they helped him back into the bed, it was clear that their smiles were reassuring.
Knowing what Poe knew, there wasn’t much cause to be reassured. But he was tired and he was hurt and whatever the hell they put in that water worked well and fast. His body tingled as the pain receded, and his mouth mumbled for more information as he slipped back to sleep once more.
-o-
(The stars, however, were bright.
They were beautiful, weren’t they?
They drew you in, close enough to see the glory.
Close enough for them to burn you alive.)
-o-
The second time Poe woke up, his wits were more clearly about him. He didn’t flail this time, and he didn’t fall. And he was able to lie still a few minutes, assessing his situation before his caretakers had a chance to descend on him again.
The hut was small and nondescript, but it looked secure. More importantly, it looked neutral. The last outpost had been welcoming, too. Of course, he’d gotten them all slaughtered.
There was no hint of bloodshed here.
Just strong overtones of poverty.
The furnishings were makeshift, and the floors were sand. The rough cloth used to cover him was scratchy, but he’d clearly been well tended to. He was still in some pain, but the worst of his burns had been bandaged, and the scrapes and abrasions were healing. His head still ached, but, by all estimations, he was probably going to be okay. But, more to the point, he hadn’t been okay. Crash landing in the desert like he had, he hadn’t had much hope of survival. But here he was.
His first conclusion, therefore, was that he owed this people a great deal of thanks for saving his life.
His second conclusions, derived shortly after the first, was that the best way to say thank you was to get the hell out before he compromised them.
Or they compromised him.
-o-
(Still, survival was second-nature to Poe. This was funny since he’d nearly killed himself more times than anyone could measure. He just had this way about him. Call it talent, call it luck.
Call it a curse.
Poe would use it all the same.)
-o-
Rolling himself out of bed, he was careful with his body, making sure all the parts seemed as in order as he’d first assessed. He was sore and more than a little weak, but he wasn’t in immediate danger of passing out.
Sometimes you had to aim low.
The creatures that had taken care of him were good caretakers all around. Although the home was small, it was tidy and airy. At first, he thought they’d left him alone for some reason, but then he saw one of the little creatures curled up on another bed on the far side of the hovel.
It -- Poe wasn’t sure if it was male or female or neither -- was flopped on its side, breathing gently as it dangled on top of the covers. From the general disposition and state of dress of the creature, Poe could only conclude that it was falling asleep on the job. This was an impromptu nap, by all accounts.
Poe was good at exploiting weaknesses.
Creeping past, he gave the home a better look. The dishes were stacked by the sink, and there was a half-prepared meal on the table. Poe hesitated, but finally took a few small bites. They’d counted on feeding him anyway.
The others -- Poe wasn’t sure how many, but he’d always had the sense that there were more of them -- weren’t around. That made sense, too. Everyone had their day job.
Even Resistance pilots who got abducted, confessed and then crash landed in the desert.
Still, the little home suggested everything of hard work and poverty -- and unparalleled kindness for taking a stranger like Poe in when he was clearly bound and determined to die. Part of him wanted to repay their kindness, but he didn’t have anything for it.
Then again, leaving really was the kindness gift. The First Order was probably still looking for him. In fact, he was sort of surprised they hadn’t found him already. Poe had already seen first hand what the Stormtroopers did to people who were kind to the Resistance.
He suppressed a shudder, ducking out the front door.
Leaving without a goodbye was all the gift he could gift.
These creatures, kind and lowly as they were, would never know just what a gift it was.
-o-
Leaving had been instinct.
Good intentions, right motives, decent rational. It really had made sense. It’s been pragmatic, smart, noble.
But after half a day of traipsing through the unending desert, he was starting to remember that, outside a cockpit, his instincts were bad.
Staggering under the heat, the pain from his injuries flared up another notch as the itch for water in the back of his throat reached a near-fevered pitch. He was alone, weak and thirsty. His injuries weren’t life threatening at this point, but his stupidity was.
It really, really was.
-o-
He made it another few hours, and he could track the slow arc of the sun down toward the horizon as his feet dragged forward, inch by inch. It was so slow to travel this way.
Too slow.
Poe would have been a terrible foot soldier. Then again, he reflects, he might be a pretty pilot, too. He certainly sucked as an intelligence officer.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward.
He should have died on impact.
-o-
(Heroes and corpses, he’d always believed.
Only now did he think they might be the same thing.)
-o-
When his strength was finally failing, Poe didn’t know how to stop. He could feel it, the energy ebbing away. He could feel the sweat as it evaporated on his forehead and the swelling of his tongue as it started to lie heavily in his mouth.
Dehydration; exhaustion.
It didn’t matter.
A successful mission; a coerced confession of all the secrets he’d been asked to protect.
Sometimes the end was still the same.
At least, that was Poe’s last thought as his eyes rolled up in his head and darkness took him once again.
-o-
(This was third time this mission the darkness took him. Last, in the sand dune. Second, upon impact in the TIE.
And first.
When Kylo Ren opened his mind.
And Poe gave everything he had.)
-o-
Poe waited for the end.
All he found was another beginning.
Since apparently the galaxy still had chances to waste on a flyboy like him.
-o-
Startled, he realized this time he was on his back. Only the bed wasn’t comfortable anymore. In fact, he realized, it wasn’t even a bed. He was lying on a thin mat, spread on the grimy sand surface of the dingy tent he happened to be inside.
This was a lot of information, and there was more to process.
But the first conclusion, he figured, was the most important.
He was still alive.
Damn it all already, Poe closed his eyes and drews his fists together by his side.
If he was looking for a blaze of glory, he was going to have to look a little longer still.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Written before The Rise of Skywalker, encompassing preseries spec (that has been mostly debunked now) and events of the first two movies. Unbeta’ed. Fills my major illness/injury square for hc_bingo.
Summary: War made two kinds of people as far as Poe was concerned: heroes and corpses.
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
-o-
Poe Dameron joined the Resistance with bright eyes, wide, wide open. He believed that there was great injustice in the galaxy, and he was ready to give anything -- no, everything -- to fix that. It was idealism that made him join.
It was pure skill that made him survive.
See, war made two kinds of people as far as Poe was concerned.
Heroes.
And corpses.
-o-
(Somehow, he never accounted for cowards. They were just people who died the long, miserable way around. It had to be a blaze of glory for Poe. Fast, hot and spectacular to the end.)
-o-
He rose quickly, for whatever that was worth. The truth was that the Resistance was never big enough to be picky about these things. A pilot could rise in the ranks, as far as he or she wanted, as long as they came back at the end of a mission.
The First Order, it had the luxury of numbers and blind obedience.
The Resistance, on the other hand, had no such luxuries. It would take the fighters it could get, almost regardless of their ability to follow orders.
When Poe went out to fight, he was often the only one to come back.
It made him a squadron leader almost by default.
And a legend with every flight he took.
-o-
Not that he appeased everyone.
“You’ve got to learn,” General Organa explained to him, not for the first time. “We have to have some order; you have to follow directions.”
“That’s what the First Order does,” Poe argued. He respected the hell out of this woman, but when it was his ass out there in an x-wing, he couldn’t never quite remember any rule that wasn’t win-at-any-cost. “We have to be different.”
She was always very patient with him; rumor had it, she had a lot of practice. “This isn’t some contrast between order and chaos. It’s not that simple.”
“But it’s the difference between winning and losing,” he insisted.
She stared at him down the bridge of her nose, and he could tell more clearly than ever that she really had been raised a princess. “That’s your problem, Poe,” she told him, more sad than stern. “I’m not sure you realize just what winning is.”
-o-
Poe, naturally, disagreed.
Respectfully, of course.
He took out the TIE fighters, made a bombing run of a cruiser without orders. It was to his credit that his people followed him into such dangerous action.
-o-
(He didn’t think about what it meant that so many of them didn’t come home. You got used to that, collateral damage. When everything was on the table, it was easy to believe that everything was expendable. As if they could win the war on principle alone.)
-o-
“I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have,” General Organa reminded him during a debriefing. “It’s possible that I may know more than you.”
Poe rocked anxiously on the soles of his feet. She was right; she was right. But she had to understand. “But you’ve never been in a cockpit,” he said.
“Which is why I have the perspective to see things like I do,” she said. “I’ve seen this Rebellion rise and fall, nearly to pieces. Sometimes I think I’m holding it together with my own two hands.”
“Well, you are our leader,” Poe said, with an earnest pause.
She almost looked bemused at that as she pursed her lips, shaking her head so her earrings dangled. “I’m not going to be here forever.”
“That’s why the cause matters, then,” Poe said.
“No, Poe,” she said, more tired than before. “That’s why the people matter. The cause won’t win us anything, not without people.”
“But people won’t fight without the cause,” Poe said.
She chuckled. “That’s the catch now,” she agreed, tipping her head and giving him a quizzical smile. “Isn’t it?”
-o-
He thought about it, he really did. Poe was brash and far too quick to make decisions in the heat of the moment, but he wanted to do the right thing. He did.
He tried to imagine what it would be like, to be General Organa. He tried to imagine a girl who had stood her ground, toe to toe with Darth Vader. A girl who didn’t yield, not even when her home planet was blown to smithereens. She had been there, at Endor. She had watched the Death Star rain like meteors across the sky.
There was no way to imagine what that was like.
At least, not from the inside of a cockpit when everyone was trying to kill you.
Poe wasn’t a prince. He wasn’t a leader.
He was a pilot.
Reflection in a cockpit was a luxury.
And one he didn’t have.
-o-
“You’re not getting in that damn cockpit,” she told him, her voice brittle. “You’re sitting this one out.”
“What?” he all but exploded. “But this is an important weapons run! Without this, we’re not going to have enough to defend our trade routes.”
“I know,” she said.
“And I’m your most experienced pilot,” he said, gaping in frustration now. “Not to mention your best.”
“You’re a liability out there,” she said. “You’d be too likely to turn a routine run into a full blown conflict, if given the chance.”
He scoffed, but he knew he couldn’t deny it.
“You have to learn, Poe,” she said, taking him by the arm and squeezing. “You have to learn that you can’t see everything from the inside of your cockpit. That’s why you have to follow orders.”
“Is that what Luke did? When he blew up the Death Star?”
The color drained from her face, and her fingers let go of his arm. Lips pressed thin, she brushed past him. “You have my orders.”
-o-
The lesson might have worked.
But the run was ambushed.
It was all hands on deck.
When Poe dispatched the enemy forces, he came back a hero.
Everyone applauded him, like they always did.
But General Organa stood in the back, face pinched as she stared him down.
-o-
(Everyone made compromises in war. He just didn’t realize the ones were made not always for his benefit. But sometimes to his detriment. He could never see that maybe she was trying to save him, as much as she was trying to save the whole damn galaxy.)
-o-
Another run, another unexpected gunfight. In his defense, he wasn’t the one who shot first.
Even if he was the one to keep shooting until it was over.
-o-
Back at base, he had learned enough to know he wouldn’t be celebrated for this, not with the numbers he’d lost and the orders he’d conveniently ignored. In truth, he expected a reprimand.
And that was what it looked like when he saw General Organa’s face when he clambered out of his battered x-wing.
She drew a breath, eyes zeroed in on him in the chaos. With a wince, he went up to give his report.
“Later,” she said. Then, she knitted her brows with a serious nod. “Are you hungry?”
Taken aback, Poe wasn’t sure what to say. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m hungry,” she told him then, matter of fact. “Are you?”
“Uh,” he said, watching as the other pilots who returned all started their personal debriefings. He looked back at her, and he wasn’t sure what the right answer was. “Yes?”
“Good,” she said, bobbing her head decisively. “Then join me for dinner.”
Poe wasn’t good at following orders.
But this wasn’t one he was going to refuse.
-o-
As they approached the general’s personal quarters, Poe started to get anxious. This wasn’t just some casual dinner in the mess. This was dinner. With the general. She wasn’t a big woman, and Poe was in good shape, but damn. If she killed him, the only thing people would wonder was what Poe did to have it coming.
She let him inside, and gestured toward the dining area. “Pardon the mess,” she said. “But that supply run you took wasn’t supposed to be one that ended in conflict.”
Poe reddened. “I didn’t choose to engage, ma’am.”
She chuckled, leaving him standing in the dining area while she moved toward the makeshift kitchenette. Most pilots didn’t have private quarters. As an officer, Poe had a small room no bigger than a closet, equipped with nothing more than a hot plate. “I didn’t bring you here to reprimand you this time,” she assured him, rummaging for a pot.
He looked around surreptitiously. The quarters were sparser than he might have imagined, but, to be fair, he’d never let himself imagine. Small as she was in stature, she’d always been larger than life. He had never really thought of her personal life. “Oh?”
“I offered you dinner,” she said, turning toward him with a frying pan. “Do you know how to dice vegetables?”
“Ma’am?” he asked.
She picked up a knife with her other hand. “Vegetables,” she repeated. “Or are you no good outside the cockpit?”
“I, um,” he started, finding himself flounding. All his time in battle, all his honed reflexes in the cockpit, and he was ready to crap his pants now.
She smiled. “It’s not hard,” she assured him, pointing the knife hilt first at him. “I promise.”
Stepping forward, he forced himself to smile back. “Whatever you say.”
This time, her huff was incredulous. “This will be the first time you’ve willingly followed orders, then,” she observed.
He made his way to the counter, where the pile of vegetables was clearly waiting to be tended. “But maybe not the last,” he offered.
“Uh huh,” she said. “Training men is not like chopping vegetables. I can’t slice away the parts I don’t like and cut them into pieces that suit my tastes.”
With a quizzical frown, he looked at her. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, filling her frying pan with oil while she put it on the burner. “It’s not the convenient thing, I know that.”
Poe laid out a piece of jaja root, poising his knife over it as he made a tentative slice. He cut a few more times, eyeing his own work critically. “Is that right?”
She gave it a cursory look, sprinkling herbs into the dish as it heated. “It’ll do, I suppose.”
Not exactly a ringing endorsement, then.
Poe chopped the next piece -- a ellery beat -- and frowned a little more severely. It had probably been too kind of an endorsement.
“Oh, come on,” she scolded now, taking a piece of fresh meat from the ice box. “All those rash decisions you make out there, and this is what you’re going to second guess yourself about?”
He looked vexed. “I just want to do it right.”
“And I just want dinner,” she told him flatly. “Now, get chopping.”
For once, Poe did as he was told.
-o-
It was a little awkward, the truth be told. Cooking wasn’t so much Poe’s thing, and doing it alone with the General? Well, that wasn’t how he thought his day would go when he woke up this morning.
That said, it wasn’t bad.
In fact, despite the fact that Poe felt woefully out of place, he had to kind of enjoy himself. He’d always been a little in awe of General Organa, and he’d respected the hell out of her. After cooking with her, he found that he liked her, too.
Because she knew what she was doing, even when things didn’t go quite perfect. When the recipe called for one thing, she substituted another. And she did it all with a smile before serving dinner on two plates and breaking open a bottle of a wine from a vintage he didn’t recognize.
“I’d like to tell you this is some good, rare year,” she told him, handing him his glass. She smirked. “That would be a lie, however. This was leftover when we got here. I scanned it, so I know it’s not going to kill us, but there’s no telling how it will taste.”
She watched as he took a drink, wrinkling his nose momentarily while it went down. Eyebrow arched, she waited for his assessment.
He swallowed, putting the glass down. “Strong,” he said. “And bitter.”
“Ah,” she said, pouring herself a glass of her own. Her glass didn’t match his, and she swirled around the liquid a few times before giving her own a swig. Pulling the glass away, she gave the drink a look of fresh appraisal. “Surprisingly strong. I’m kind of glad I didn’t ask for a more thorough assessment of what was in it. I might not have opened it otherwise.”
“Well, we can find something different,” Poe offered.
“No, no,” she said, swatting her hand in the air. “This is the Resistance. We take what we can get.”
“I thought that only applied to soldiers,” he said.
Her eyes glinted with humor. “Call it an object lesson,” she advised, nodding toward his plate. “Now, drink up. We haven’t even tasted the food yet.”
-o-
The drink was strong, and dinner was, well, fine. It tasted pretty good, actually. One of the best meals Poe had had in awhile. The Resistance wasn’t known for its fine dining. If he got something fresh and hot, he usually counted himself lucky.
“What do you think?” she asked, watching while he ate.
“Pretty good,” he said. “I was worried I’d messed up the vegetables….”
“With enough seasoning, you can’t hardly tell,” she agreed with a nod. “Cooking breaks everything down to its basic elements, and more things work out than you expect.”
“Another object lesson,” he said, feeling his cheeks flush every so slightly.
Her lips twisted up a little wider. “I’m just telling the truth,” she said. “You’ll hear what you need to hear.”
He reached for his glass, taking a drink before putting it back down. He paused, looking at her briefly. “It helps that I haven’t had fresh cooked food in a month.”
She scoffed. “A month?”
“We are rarely stocked,” he said.
“We’ve had plenty of stock around here lately,” she said. “You’ve just been too busy to eat meals with the rest of us.”
He opened his mouth, ready to protest, but then he thought about it. “Wait,” he said. “There are group meals?”
She sighed. “Honestly, did you even listen to the opening meeting here?” she said. “It was all in the briefing. Three meals, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Plenty to go around.”
This was surprising. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” she said. “Some bases we have to live on rations, but we’ve got farmland in all directions. We rented a few local plots. I’m not saying it’s a feast or anything, but we have hot meals, Poe.”
This still floored him, more as he thought about it. “Really?”
She shook her head, the bemused expression returning. “You think you know all the answers that sometimes you stop listening,” she said.
“Another object lesson?” he asked, rightfully chagrined.
“No object here,” she told him tartly. “Straight up truth. I knew you were focused, Poe, but come on.”
“Well, I’ve got other things,” he said. “Patrols and training and, you know. Resistance stuff.”
“The Resistance is more than your duty,” she said.
“You’re telling me it’s a hot meal?”
She helped herself to another serving. “Yeah, I think I am,” she said. “Now, give me your plate.”
“Oh, I’m good,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Give me your plate, Poe.”
“Really, General--”
Her look turned to exasperation. “Don’t make me order you.”
Obediently, he lifted his plate toward her with cheeks red. “Yes, ma’am.”
She heaped more food on, nodding at him. “That’s a boy.”
-o-
In everything, she took her time.
This seemed a little strange to Poe. He was a man who operated in a world of high demands and quick actions. When he wasn’t on a mission, he was usually resting or preparing for a mission, and he managed to keep those tasks endlessly busy.
It had never occurred to him to live any differently.
It had never occurred to him that it was possible.
General Organa, however, was a different kind of person. With her, he might just believe, anything was possible.
By the Force, he hoped so.
“I know how you got here,” she said, giving him another look once over.
“Well, you did approve my commission,” he pointed out.
“I know,” she said. “But it occurs to me that maybe you don’t know how I got here.”
This made him stop a little. “You?”
“Sure,” she said. “We all have our stories of rebellion.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, giving a short, incredulous chuckle. “But everyone knows how you got here. You started this thing.”
She scoffed herself this time. “It’s not like I did it myself, or that it was even my idea,” she said. “No, the idea of rebellion was passed down to me by my father -- my adoptive father, anyway. Alderaan always opposed the Empire, and I was raised an heir to that throne.”
“Alderaan was the first to be destroyed,” he observed, then he stopped himself, realizing his comment to be insensitive. He fumbled, quickly trying to take it back. “I mean, back in the early conflict--”
“Yes, yes,” she said, and her voice sounded heavy. “I was there. I was made to watch while everything I spent more whole life building and defending and honoring was blasted into nothing.”
Poe had been in battle a long time, and even before he’d joined the Resistance, he’d seen his share of trials. He’d lost family, friends -- more than he could even count anymore. He told himself it never seemed as bad from the cockpit, as if he could fly away from the aftermath.
She was studying him now. “It was a defeat, to be sure,” she said. “I think it was intended to squash us out.”
“It didn’t, though,” Poe concluded.
“No,” she said and something in her eyes brightened now. “That was when it really started. That was when I met Luke Skywalker and Han Solo, and everything changed.”
He couldn’t help but sit forward, a little eager at the names he’d heard. “So you really did know them?”
“Know them?” she asked, incredulous. “They became my best friends, my most trusted allies...and more. They were family.”
“Is it true about Solo? Could he do the things they said he could in the Millennium Falcon?”
“That and more,” she said, lifting a finger to wag it at him. “But not as much as he’d tell you, you can mark me on that.”
“And Skywalker,” Poe continued.
“The return of the Jedi,” she mused.
“And the best damn pilot ever!” Poe said. “They still tell legends about his run on the Death Star. I’d have love to have seen that.”
“You make it all sound so glamorous,” she said, shaking her head. “But if Luke Skywalker were here, he’d be the first to tell you to mind the sacrifices. The things we’re not willing to give up, not even in the heat of battle -- those are the things that set us apart.”
Poe considered this, but only briefly. He was more perplexed by the fact that they were having this conversation at all. She was his General; he was her soldier.
“You’re curious why I told you this,” she said, keenly deducing his thoughts. “Why I’m regaling you with stories of princesses and victory.”
“Well,” he said, shifting in his seat as so not to appear as self conscious as he felt. “I thought you didn’t talk about it.”
“And most of the time, I don’t,” she said. “I mean, the things that were. Me being a princess; Han Solo flying to save the day in the Millennium Falcon; Luke Skywalker finding that perfect spot to destroy the Death Star -- I know what they mean to everyone else, but that’s not what they mean to me.”
“Those are victories,” he reminded her.
“And losses in their own right,” she said with a tired sigh as she shook her head. “But maybe I should -- talk about it, that is.”
Curious again, he tipped his head. “And what’s that?”
“Because it’s important, considering how far we’ve come, how much has changed,” she said. “We need to understand how these things started. We need to know how a poor farmer, a conceited princess and a smart-ass smuggler made this whole thing possible.”
“They say it was the will of the Force,” he supplied without prompting.
“Maybe,” she said, giving a shrug of concession. “But when I look back on it, all of it, I think that it’s a little simpler than that. I think the fact that we were willing to listen to one another, that we were willing to respect what everyone had to say even when we disagreed.” She shook her head, a smile spreading across her wizened features now. “And let me tell you. We did disagree. A lot.”
“Who gave the orders, then?” Poe asked, trying to imagine what that would be like. Princesses and smugglers, Death Stars and fighter pilots.
“Oh, well we had leaders, even back then,” she said. “Just ask General Ackbar. I daresay he’s aged better than I have.”
“I know,” Poe said. “But I mean, in the field. In the heart of those battles. That couldn’t have all been planned.”
“No,” she said, seeming to concede that point. “Sometimes we had to make our own way.”
He was primed now, rocking forward with unbridled energy. “Then you get it,” he said, nodding at her intently. “You get why I have to do what I do in the field.”
He spoke with hope of ringing approval.
Her reply, by contrast, was far more measured. “I get why you think you have to,” she told him. “It made a lot of sense to me back then.”
“And it worked!” he enthused. “I mean, you beat Vader. You took down the Emperor.”
The weariness returned to her expression. “And Snoke rose in his place. We felled the Empire and gave birth to the First Order,” she said. “Those dramatic wins haven’t meant as much as I thought they would, because all these years later, here I am, fighting the same fight.”
“But the cause is worthwhile,” he insisted. “I mean, what else would we do? Stop?”
“No,” she said, and she seemed disappointed in him now. “We remember what separates us from them.”
He bobbed his head, ready. “Justice.”
“Life,” she countered him, almost immediately and emphatically. “We value life above all else.”
This answer was surprisingly deflating, and Poe sat back in his chair. “But sacrifices have to be made sometimes.”
“Oh, I know that,” she told him. “But they’re not necessary all the time. Not every little fight is one you should be willing to die for.”
“But they’re not little--”
“They are,” she said. “This is a war I’ve been fighting all my life. I’ve been in victories and losses. Trust me when I say that some of these fights are more insignificant than you could possibly imagine.”
His face screwed up, ready for protest. “But--”
She shook her head, and she was no friendly face now. She was all General again, with a hint of royalty for good measure. “You have to have the wisdom to know when it really matters, when the death is more important than the life. Because sometimes -- a lot of the time -- the people matter more.”
“Tell that to the fighters of Rogue One,” he said, a hint of defiance in his voice.
She let out a long, slow breath. “Poe,” she said. “You’re missing the point.”
“I’m not, though,” he said. “I’m just telling you how it is for me. If my death can make a difference, then I’ll do it. I believe in this cause. I’d do anything for it.”
“But what if the cause doesn’t need your death?” General Organa asked. “What if we need your life?”
He meant to reply -- he wanted to reply -- but then he stopped short, shaking his head. “How’s that any different?”
The breath she collected this time was resigned. “And that’s why you’re still a captain,” she said, pushing her chair back as she got to her feet. “Now get up, and help me with the dishes.”
-o-
Poe helped her with the dishes, and she saw him to the door.
“I’m still not sure why you did this,” he admitted. “But thank you. I never thought I’d get the privilege of dining with a general.”
She chuckled, and this time she seemed genuinely bemused. “I’m not really much of a general.”
“But you are!”
Her eyes gleamed. “I’m a princess,” she said, leaning toward him with a conspiratorial hush. “You better remember that fact because I’m going to forget it.”
-o-
It was a little dispiriting, if he were honest. He was so used to accolades or reprimands that this ambiguous honor was not one he knew quite how to parse. In a daze, he made his way back to his quarters, shutting the door tight behind him as he flicked on the lights.
BB8 beeped anxiously at him, and Poe smiled at him absently. “It’s all good, buddy,” he assured the droid, who rolled up to him with a notable amount of concern. “She just wanted to talk.”
The quizzical series of beeps that followed made Poe nod along in agreement.
“I know, I know,” he said. “I thought it was weird, too.”
Inching closer, BB8 bobbed his head toward him, making a doleful blip.
Poe smiled. “You understand, at least,” he said, giving BB8 a pat. “You understand.”
-o-
It was good that the droid understood.
Poe, honestly, still had no idea.
He tried to read -- but couldn’t focus. He tried to play a few games -- but he didn’t have the heart. Normally, he might try to steal a snack but he’d never felt so full in his life. Instead, he laid listlessly on his bed, staring up at the darkness while BB8 went into power save mode.
Lying there, he had to think.
How long had it been since he thought? Sure, he thought about battle plans and Resistance intelligence. He thought about flight logs and mission reports.
But about life? About his purpose?
Poe Dameron was one hell of a pilot, but he wasn’t known for his existentialism. Didn’t really suit a guy like him, living second by second in a cockpit. That wasn’t what his life was about.
It would probably be what his death was about, however.
That made him pause, and he remembered what the General had told him. The way she put it almost made him feel guilty, like he was looking for a light saber to fall on, so to speak.
That wasn’t it, though. Poe wasn’t suicidal; he didn’t want to die.
But what was it to live knowing that you could have done more?
It wasn’t like he was one who thought about the afterlife. Hell, he didn’t think about consequences at all. Life was lived in the moment, nothing more, nothing less. His life existed here. It existed now. He didn’t need more than that.
That was self sacrifice, wasn’t it?
That was what made him a hero, right?
Somehow, he reflected grimly, Princess Leia, Han Solo and Luke Skywalker might disagree.
Besides, he wasn’t anything like them. They birthed a movement. Poe was just another nameless fighter pilot, blazing across the stars in an x-wing. He didn’t plan; he didn’t think.
He just waited for his next mission.
His next chance to save the cause.
The resolution should have helped him sleep.
He sighed, shifting on his sheet.
It didn’t.
-o-
(Poe didn’t sleep, so he didn’t dream, but sometimes even he had to remember. He had to remember the mother who had loved him, doting on him in ways that made his father scowl. Poe, naturally, had loved her for it, and they were inseparable, the two of them. She was the one who told him about the Resistance. She was the one who told him the truth about the First Order. She was the one who pointed to the stars and told him that his destiny could be anywhere he wanted.
She was also the one who had been taken by the First Order. She had been the one who hugged him that last time, pressing a kiss to his forehead and making him promise to stay still and do nothing. It went against his instinct, but he watched as they led her away, and she didn’t look back.
Later, it was his father who told him that the First Order was not what his mother had told him. They were compassion, were they not?
“But they killed mother,” Poe protested.
“For breaking their laws,” his father reminded him.
“But that’s not compassion!”
“They had the kindness not to do it in front of you,” his father scolded him. “We’re better off without her.”
Poe had stolen a ship that night, because was stupid, young and hurt. He’d had to blow the hell out of the local garrison, and he’d managed to kill half a squadron in sheer rage alone before he rocketed himself into hyperspace. When he finally stopped, close to empty in his fuel reserves, it occurred to him that he had no idea what he was doing.
Locking in coordinates for the nearest neutral planet, he came to a more telling realization.
He sure as hell didn’t care.)
-o-
Poe woke up drained and remorseful. He felt he owed someone an apology, though he wasn’t sure how or why. On his way to General Organa to deliver it, one of the droids pulled him aside.
“You are needed in the briefing room right away,” the droid informed him.
Poe screwed up his face, confused. “But I don’t have a mission.”
“I believe you do now, sir.”
-o-
The moment he got to the briefing room, Poe knew something had changed. It was in the air.
Then, General Organa looked at him and he knew that everything had changed.
Grim face, hair pulled back tight, she looked nothing like she had the night before.
“Thank you for joining us, Captain,” she said, addressing him in a strangely brusque and formal fashion. “We’ve just gotten in new intelligence, and we believe it warrants an immediate response.”
Normally, he would have said yes, right away, no hesitations, but this whole shift has him thrown. “Intelligence about what?”
The lines darkened on her face. “About the location of Luke Skywalker,” she announced.
Despite his better efforts, Poe felt his mouth hand open.
She wet her lips, squaring her shoulders. Diminutive as she was in stature, she still cut the most imposing figure Poe had ever seen. “We need that intelligence, in our hands,” she said with finality, and her eyes settled heavily on Poe. “At any cost.”
He blinked.
Then, he understood.
“At any cost,” he repeated.
“Any cost,” she agreed.
Poe didn’t need it spelled out any clearer than that.
-o-
It wasn’t a question of whether or not he was going.
It was just a question of logistics.
Then next hour was spent in intense briefing, and Poe was shown star maps and schematics and given information about his would-be contact, who was last traced to a far reach on the outer rim.
Jakku, they think.
They want Poe to go to Jakku, obtain the star map, and make sure it got back to the Resistance.
In theory, it wasn’t actually that hard.
But Poe wasn’t big on theory.
Application, on the other hand.
Well, Poe knew that a flight to Jakku would take him through the reaches of First Order territory. He knew that he’d have to survive among mercenaries to get confirmation of their lead. And even if he did make contact, the First Order would probably know to track an x-wing through that region of space. Making his exit would be somewhat interesting, to say the least.
BB8 would be equipped with enhanced space capabilities. He could house the data; he could hold on to it, even if he needed to be ejected mid-flight. Poe was the vehicle to get them there.
BB8 would ensure the intelligence got back to the Resistance.
They were both means to an end.
Poe’s, however, was just a different kind of end.
-o-
At the end of the meeting, Poe had his orders. He was to leave now, without delay.
Well, except one delay.
She held him back, even after all the other Generals and Advisors at left.
Behind the table, where their plans were still laid out, she chewed her lip for a moment. Then, almost regretfully, she raised her eyes.
“I’m embarrassed, really,” she admitted. “To ask you to do this. After all I talked about last night.”
He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s the role I’ve always known I had to play,” he assured her.
She shook her head with a small scoff. “I meant what I said, I did,” she insisted. “You’re too quick to die, too fool hardy.”
He knitted his brows, just a little. “If I were any other man, I’m not sure I’d be able to do what you’re asking me to do.”
“I know, I know,” she said, as if it was a concession she was forcing herself to make. She sighed, looking back down at the plans again as she shook her head. “I told you that it’s important to recognize the difference, to know when your sacrifice matters.”
“I know,” he said, unable to disagree with her.
Her gaze was steely when she looked at him again. “It matters this time, Poe,” she told him, voice almost flat now. “Do you understand.”
He nodded, bowed his head in tribute. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I do.”
-o-
Did he understand?
Poe hurried in his quarters, flinging his belongings into a makeshift bag. There’d be no time for pleasantries or creature comforts, but an extra pair of clothes and rations might be nice.
BB8 beeped at him in concern.
“I’ll transfer the specs to you as soon as we get on our ride,” he said.
BB8 tilted his head quizzically.
Did Poe really understand?
That his life was forfeit.
That this droid would be more valuable than he could be.
That after finally entertaining the act of living, he was being ordered to die.
“It is what it is,” Poe told BB8 resolutely. He shouldered his pack, giving a nod. “It is what it is, buddy.”
Because help the force, Poe Dameron really understood.
-o-
When he finally found his man on Jakku, Poe knew he’d come a long way.
With the intelligence in his hand, for a moment, he thought that this mission would be like all the others. That he’d come home, tales of glory to be shared, his fly-boy persona letting him slide through debrief as the General rolled her eyes.
Then, the First Order found him and Poe didn’t have a cockpit to escape in anymore.
This mission wasn’t going to be like the others, he knew. He gave the data to BB8 and grabbed a blaster, ready for the fight however it came to him. If he wasn’t going home, then he’d go out in a blaze of glory so big that the stories would make it back in his place.
BB8 rolled away.
And across the galaxy, a Princess hung her head.
-o-
Poe’s the best pilot in the Resistance. And he maintains his facades pretty well, even when staring at Kylo Ren in person. Best there was.
Two minutes aboard Ren’s ship, and he’d told them everything.
-o-
There was no time to dwell on his weakness, his failure, his betrayal. There was no time to worry about being tortured, executed or paraded around like a trophy. Not when there was a Stormtrooper with a half-baked idea for escape and a TIE-fighter to get them there.
All Poe needed was the TIE.
The rest would work itself out accordingly.
-o-
For five minutes, it was a brilliant rush of adrenaline. He and Finn -- that was the Stormtrooper -- made a hell of a team, and Poe turned to Jakku feeling like he’d get to finish what he started after all.
Then, the hit took out their engines.
Damn, Poe thought as they careened through the atmosphere, the ground fast approaching.
Maybe it was for the best, he reasoned, ejecting the backseat before angling the ship away from any populated areas. He poised his finger over his own ejection release. This was what he’d said he’d wanted, maybe it was his destiny, maybe.
Poe hit the eject button and the world went white. The air was torn from his lungs as the force jarred him toward unconsciousness.
Maybe not, he thought with the sound of wind rushing through his ears as the ground rushed up to meet him.
Poe never felt the impact.
But then, he never did.
-o-
(It never occurred to him, navigating from star to star, just how black space was. He could see it now, eternity stretching before him not with possibility, but with nothingness.
Of course, a lot of things had never occurred to Poe.
Not until it was almost (almost) too late.)
-o-
He came to with a gasp. Disoriented, Poe flailed. As he tried to get his bearings, he abruptly fell out of the bed he didn’t quite realize he was one. He hit the ground, and the pain in his body exploded so much that he nearly passed out again.
While his head spun, small hands were all over him and a fast, chirpy voice sounded in his ear. His instincts were to fight, but when he managed to open his eyes again, he realizes pretty quick that there was no enemy here.
He didn’t quite recognize the species, but their intent was plain enough. They were offering him food and water and, after they helped him back into the bed, it was clear that their smiles were reassuring.
Knowing what Poe knew, there wasn’t much cause to be reassured. But he was tired and he was hurt and whatever the hell they put in that water worked well and fast. His body tingled as the pain receded, and his mouth mumbled for more information as he slipped back to sleep once more.
-o-
(The stars, however, were bright.
They were beautiful, weren’t they?
They drew you in, close enough to see the glory.
Close enough for them to burn you alive.)
-o-
The second time Poe woke up, his wits were more clearly about him. He didn’t flail this time, and he didn’t fall. And he was able to lie still a few minutes, assessing his situation before his caretakers had a chance to descend on him again.
The hut was small and nondescript, but it looked secure. More importantly, it looked neutral. The last outpost had been welcoming, too. Of course, he’d gotten them all slaughtered.
There was no hint of bloodshed here.
Just strong overtones of poverty.
The furnishings were makeshift, and the floors were sand. The rough cloth used to cover him was scratchy, but he’d clearly been well tended to. He was still in some pain, but the worst of his burns had been bandaged, and the scrapes and abrasions were healing. His head still ached, but, by all estimations, he was probably going to be okay. But, more to the point, he hadn’t been okay. Crash landing in the desert like he had, he hadn’t had much hope of survival. But here he was.
His first conclusion, therefore, was that he owed this people a great deal of thanks for saving his life.
His second conclusions, derived shortly after the first, was that the best way to say thank you was to get the hell out before he compromised them.
Or they compromised him.
-o-
(Still, survival was second-nature to Poe. This was funny since he’d nearly killed himself more times than anyone could measure. He just had this way about him. Call it talent, call it luck.
Call it a curse.
Poe would use it all the same.)
-o-
Rolling himself out of bed, he was careful with his body, making sure all the parts seemed as in order as he’d first assessed. He was sore and more than a little weak, but he wasn’t in immediate danger of passing out.
Sometimes you had to aim low.
The creatures that had taken care of him were good caretakers all around. Although the home was small, it was tidy and airy. At first, he thought they’d left him alone for some reason, but then he saw one of the little creatures curled up on another bed on the far side of the hovel.
It -- Poe wasn’t sure if it was male or female or neither -- was flopped on its side, breathing gently as it dangled on top of the covers. From the general disposition and state of dress of the creature, Poe could only conclude that it was falling asleep on the job. This was an impromptu nap, by all accounts.
Poe was good at exploiting weaknesses.
Creeping past, he gave the home a better look. The dishes were stacked by the sink, and there was a half-prepared meal on the table. Poe hesitated, but finally took a few small bites. They’d counted on feeding him anyway.
The others -- Poe wasn’t sure how many, but he’d always had the sense that there were more of them -- weren’t around. That made sense, too. Everyone had their day job.
Even Resistance pilots who got abducted, confessed and then crash landed in the desert.
Still, the little home suggested everything of hard work and poverty -- and unparalleled kindness for taking a stranger like Poe in when he was clearly bound and determined to die. Part of him wanted to repay their kindness, but he didn’t have anything for it.
Then again, leaving really was the kindness gift. The First Order was probably still looking for him. In fact, he was sort of surprised they hadn’t found him already. Poe had already seen first hand what the Stormtroopers did to people who were kind to the Resistance.
He suppressed a shudder, ducking out the front door.
Leaving without a goodbye was all the gift he could gift.
These creatures, kind and lowly as they were, would never know just what a gift it was.
-o-
Leaving had been instinct.
Good intentions, right motives, decent rational. It really had made sense. It’s been pragmatic, smart, noble.
But after half a day of traipsing through the unending desert, he was starting to remember that, outside a cockpit, his instincts were bad.
Staggering under the heat, the pain from his injuries flared up another notch as the itch for water in the back of his throat reached a near-fevered pitch. He was alone, weak and thirsty. His injuries weren’t life threatening at this point, but his stupidity was.
It really, really was.
-o-
He made it another few hours, and he could track the slow arc of the sun down toward the horizon as his feet dragged forward, inch by inch. It was so slow to travel this way.
Too slow.
Poe would have been a terrible foot soldier. Then again, he reflects, he might be a pretty pilot, too. He certainly sucked as an intelligence officer.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward.
He should have died on impact.
-o-
(Heroes and corpses, he’d always believed.
Only now did he think they might be the same thing.)
-o-
When his strength was finally failing, Poe didn’t know how to stop. He could feel it, the energy ebbing away. He could feel the sweat as it evaporated on his forehead and the swelling of his tongue as it started to lie heavily in his mouth.
Dehydration; exhaustion.
It didn’t matter.
A successful mission; a coerced confession of all the secrets he’d been asked to protect.
Sometimes the end was still the same.
At least, that was Poe’s last thought as his eyes rolled up in his head and darkness took him once again.
-o-
(This was third time this mission the darkness took him. Last, in the sand dune. Second, upon impact in the TIE.
And first.
When Kylo Ren opened his mind.
And Poe gave everything he had.)
-o-
Poe waited for the end.
All he found was another beginning.
Since apparently the galaxy still had chances to waste on a flyboy like him.
-o-
Startled, he realized this time he was on his back. Only the bed wasn’t comfortable anymore. In fact, he realized, it wasn’t even a bed. He was lying on a thin mat, spread on the grimy sand surface of the dingy tent he happened to be inside.
This was a lot of information, and there was more to process.
But the first conclusion, he figured, was the most important.
He was still alive.
Damn it all already, Poe closed his eyes and drews his fists together by his side.
If he was looking for a blaze of glory, he was going to have to look a little longer still.