He’s wounded when they find him, shuttle gone down in the desert wastes, just past Kelvin ridge. And Jakku is a planet of scavengers, so they scavenge—the clothes and boots off of the shuttle pilot’s body, the scrap and parts from the ship, which is, apparently, not worth fixing, or too risky to fix, given the increased presence of the First Order.
They don’t care if he’s First Order, either, the dark-haired man in his torn black robes, who is pinned, groaning, barely conscious beneath the wreckage. The scavengers pull him out, not gently, and lay him on the warm desert sands just as the sun is starting to go down. And he can hear them, dimly, distantly, arguing in a mix of Basic and some kind of language he doesn’t understand over whether he’s worth trying to sell, too.
He doesn’t have the strength to fight. Or to beg that they end him, just put a blaster to his temple and pull the trigger, and let the pain end.
But instead, they must agree that he has some value, and they loop him atop the wreckage on the pallet they drag back to town.
Before this, he had always believed that the Force was amplified by pain; now, consumed by unfathomable agony—his leg is bent wrong, several ribs feel cracked, his hands, his hands are so cold—the Force is distant from him.
He wants to die. He prays, and begs, and bargains, and finally pleads with the Force, but it is silent.
Half-conscious when they drag him into town, he’s bartered to a large creature with slick, cold hands, given a shot that renders him numb and floating. The medicine burns through him, makes his mouth taste like ash, and he’s grateful, so grateful, when the darkness, at last, covers him.
When he wakes, he’s angry. There’s the familiar taste of bacta in his mouth, and a chilling, shivering wetness to his skin that tells him he must’ve been in a tank. He opens his eyes and looks around at what is plainly not a First Order medical bay, and then his anger turns to rage. His leg is better, and his wounds have healed, but when he reaches out to the Force there’s—
Nothing.
It’s like it’s not there at all.
He sits up on the rough bed, nude, save for a collar at his throat that he pulls and pulls at, but to no avail. The leather is soft against his skin, but the thought of being captured and collared, like some beast, like a slave, disgusts him.
When an attendant arrives, he snarls and curses at them. Bring me to the First Order, you will be handsomely rewarded, how dare you—But the words die in his throat when the woman presses a button on her wrist, and the collar shocks him into silence, into compliance.
“Let me be absolutely clear, boy.” The slaver says, looking down at him over her long nose, color-ink markings shifting from red to gold to amber on her skin. “Your repairs were quite a sizable investment, one I fully intend to recoup. You’re strong and healthy now, but I’ve taken down ones stronger than you, so don’t try anything. You go up for bidding next. Put something on.”
She gestures to the rack of what could charitably be called clothes, but he doesn’t move from the bed. “How dare you, slaver filth! Do you know who I am?”
“I don’t particularly care who you are.” The woman scoffs. “With what you cost me, I should keep you bare for auction. There are some who pay extra for that.”
The meaning is absolutely not lost on him. When she leaves, he stands up, ignoring the dizzying rush, and almost runs to the rack, pawing through the clothes. He’s always been so tall, and the fact that all he can find that appears to suit a humanoid is a pair of stiff green leather trousers that only go to his knees, the kind that tie up with laces at the waist, and a pair of low, worthless soft boots that pinch at the toes, it makes him grind his teeth and plan for thousands of methods of revenge. Most of which involve firebombing this whole fucking planet.
He tosses the boots aside, chooses a pair of sandals instead. Their ties wrap up his calves, like he’s some dancing boy, some pleasure-slave.
A shiver of real fear courses through him as he looks down, tying the final lace.
That’s exactly what he is.
Well, collar or no, he’s going to strangle the next person who touches him.
There’s no shirts that fit him, and he doesn’t have time to look further, because the slaver appears, finger poised over the button on her wrist. “Come on, it’s time.”
Kylo Ren, fearsome master of the Knights of Ren, one-time wielder of unfathomable dark powers, conquerer of star systems, heir to the legacy of his grandfather, Anakin Skywalker, stands pale and oiled and collared, wearing leather pants that are probably stiffer than the stick up General Hux’s ass.
They’ve got to come looking for him. They won’t leave him here, will they?
The slaver pushes him out on the stage, holding the end of a long silver chain that connects to his hated collar. She nudges him forward, and he stumbles, the leg still sore where it had previously been broken. And the assembled crowd looks up at him, Humans and Nu-cosian and Kyuzo, their gazes appraising, sneering, aroused…
Fill: Rey/Kylo Ren, Auction Fic 1/?
They don’t care if he’s First Order, either, the dark-haired man in his torn black robes, who is pinned, groaning, barely conscious beneath the wreckage. The scavengers pull him out, not gently, and lay him on the warm desert sands just as the sun is starting to go down. And he can hear them, dimly, distantly, arguing in a mix of Basic and some kind of language he doesn’t understand over whether he’s worth trying to sell, too.
He doesn’t have the strength to fight. Or to beg that they end him, just put a blaster to his temple and pull the trigger, and let the pain end.
But instead, they must agree that he has some value, and they loop him atop the wreckage on the pallet they drag back to town.
Before this, he had always believed that the Force was amplified by pain; now, consumed by unfathomable agony—his leg is bent wrong, several ribs feel cracked, his hands, his hands are so cold—the Force is distant from him.
He wants to die. He prays, and begs, and bargains, and finally pleads with the Force, but it is silent.
Half-conscious when they drag him into town, he’s bartered to a large creature with slick, cold hands, given a shot that renders him numb and floating. The medicine burns through him, makes his mouth taste like ash, and he’s grateful, so grateful, when the darkness, at last, covers him.
When he wakes, he’s angry. There’s the familiar taste of bacta in his mouth, and a chilling, shivering wetness to his skin that tells him he must’ve been in a tank. He opens his eyes and looks around at what is plainly not a First Order medical bay, and then his anger turns to rage. His leg is better, and his wounds have healed, but when he reaches out to the Force there’s—
Nothing.
It’s like it’s not there at all.
He sits up on the rough bed, nude, save for a collar at his throat that he pulls and pulls at, but to no avail. The leather is soft against his skin, but the thought of being captured and collared, like some beast, like a slave, disgusts him.
When an attendant arrives, he snarls and curses at them. Bring me to the First Order, you will be handsomely rewarded, how dare you—But the words die in his throat when the woman presses a button on her wrist, and the collar shocks him into silence, into compliance.
“Let me be absolutely clear, boy.” The slaver says, looking down at him over her long nose, color-ink markings shifting from red to gold to amber on her skin. “Your repairs were quite a sizable investment, one I fully intend to recoup. You’re strong and healthy now, but I’ve taken down ones stronger than you, so don’t try anything. You go up for bidding next. Put something on.”
She gestures to the rack of what could charitably be called clothes, but he doesn’t move from the bed. “How dare you, slaver filth! Do you know who I am?”
“I don’t particularly care who you are.” The woman scoffs. “With what you cost me, I should keep you bare for auction. There are some who pay extra for that.”
The meaning is absolutely not lost on him. When she leaves, he stands up, ignoring the dizzying rush, and almost runs to the rack, pawing through the clothes. He’s always been so tall, and the fact that all he can find that appears to suit a humanoid is a pair of stiff green leather trousers that only go to his knees, the kind that tie up with laces at the waist, and a pair of low, worthless soft boots that pinch at the toes, it makes him grind his teeth and plan for thousands of methods of revenge. Most of which involve firebombing this whole fucking planet.
He tosses the boots aside, chooses a pair of sandals instead. Their ties wrap up his calves, like he’s some dancing boy, some pleasure-slave.
A shiver of real fear courses through him as he looks down, tying the final lace.
That’s exactly what he is.
Well, collar or no, he’s going to strangle the next person who touches him.
There’s no shirts that fit him, and he doesn’t have time to look further, because the slaver appears, finger poised over the button on her wrist. “Come on, it’s time.”
Kylo Ren, fearsome master of the Knights of Ren, one-time wielder of unfathomable dark powers, conquerer of star systems, heir to the legacy of his grandfather, Anakin Skywalker, stands pale and oiled and collared, wearing leather pants that are probably stiffer than the stick up General Hux’s ass.
They’ve got to come looking for him. They won’t leave him here, will they?
The slaver pushes him out on the stage, holding the end of a long silver chain that connects to his hated collar. She nudges him forward, and he stumbles, the leg still sore where it had previously been broken. And the assembled crowd looks up at him, Humans and Nu-cosian and Kyuzo, their gazes appraising, sneering, aroused…
And then it hits him.
The First Order isn’t coming to rescue him.