Chapter Text
This job is humiliating.
Kylo Ren—currently known as Matt —is on his knees, half his torso buried inside a grimy communications panel. His arms ache, his neck is cramping, and he has no idea what he’s even supposed to be fixing. It's been like this for days now, ever since he had the brilliant idea to go undercover.
At the time, it made perfect sense. Someone’s been sabotaging the base’s systems—communications, security arrays, even power relays—and he’s convinced the problem lies within. Rebels. Spies. Traitors among the ranks. So he crafted a plan: disguise himself as a radar technician, blend in, gain their trust. Maybe he’d overhear something. Catch someone slipping.
But so far? All he’s gotten is condescension and sneers.
They don’t know he’s Kylo Ren. They don’t flinch when he enters the room. They don’t scramble to obey or fall silent in fear. As Matt , he's just another faceless cog in the First Order machine—and they think less of him.
He scowls, tugging at a mess of wires, trying to look like he knows what he's doing. He doesn’t. Not really. He’s spent his life destroying things, not fixing them. How was he supposed to know technicians actually had to be smart?
His hand brushes against a bulky square component. Curious, he gives it a tug—and hears something crack.
Shit.
He curses under his breath, grabs a nearby wrench, and stares at the damaged box. There are bolts along the side. Maybe if he tightens them—
CRACK.
Louder this time.
He freezes. Okay. That’s definitely worse. He sets the wrench down with exaggerated care, trying not to let frustration boil over. His coworkers have either shouted at him or silently judged him with thoughts so loud they might as well be spoken. It's not his fault he can sense them—projecting irritation and superiority like it's perfume.
With a sigh, he leans back into the panel, squinting into the dim guts of the wall, trying to assess the damage.
Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor—stormtrooper boots, rhythmically clanking against the metal floor.
“What's up, Matt,” the trooper drawls, kicking the wrench as he strolls past.
Kylo’s eye twitches. He turns his head just enough to glare. “Hey,” he growls, “you kicked my wrench.”
The trooper keeps walking.
Kylo stares after him, sulking. Is this what powerless nobodies deal with every day? This is bullshit. His fingers twitch. I could just choke him. There’s no one around.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
“Jerk face,” he mutters instead, the only insult he can muster that doesn’t involve violence or death. He sighs and slumps against the panel, watching the wrench spin slowly on the floor.
He feels completely, utterly helpless.
And he hates it.
You’re running late.
Shit. Shit. Shit. You try not to break into a full sprint as you speed-walk down the corridor, dodging a pair of maintenance droids and nearly tripping over a loose cable.
You completely forgot about the new trainee. Technically, he’s not even your trainee—he’s been bounced between two others in as many days, and now somehow he’s landed on your roster. You’re not even a trainer. But of course, they hand him off to you. They always hand off the messy jobs to you.
And by messy , that usually means scorched panels, mangled circuits, and systems melted beyond recognition—the kind of damage that happens when Commander Ren throws one of his infamous tantrums. You’re not supposed to think of it like that. Officially, it’s “combat readiness testing” or “a targeted disciplinary response.”
But everyone knows it’s just Kylo Ren losing his mind again.
You’ve seen it. Felt it. That crackling energy in the air when he storms down a hallway, helmet on, cloak dragging behind him like a shadow given form. It’s not just fear—it’s survival instinct. You hold your breath when he passes, keep your head down, hope you’re not in the path of whatever set him off this time.
And somehow, that means you end up with the aftermath. Burned walls. Broken tech. Work no one else wants to do.
Why? Maybe it’s because you never complain. Because you show up, do what’s asked, and keep your mouth shut. Maybe they think you’re patient. Maybe they think you’re just too stubborn to say no.
Either way, now you’ve got Matt .
You skimmed the message chain before you were looped into it—just enough to know he’s a walking disaster. The kind of guy who thinks a hydrospanner is interchangeable with a data probe and probably couldn’t fix a blinking light without causing a blackout.
The last two trainers practically begged to be rid of him. Their messages were laced with passive-aggressive despair and thinly veiled threats. "Not a good fit." "No foundational knowledge." "Struggles with basic tool use."
Great.
And now he’s your problem.
As you round the corner, you see him already elbow-deep in the panel from your assigned work order.
Your stomach drops.
Scattered wires. A cracked calcinator core. Panels hanging loose like torn skin. He’s gone and started without you . Why couldn’t he just wait?
You’re halfway through your stride, ready to let loose—already mentally composing the string of curses you’re about to hurl his way—when your foot clips something on the ground. A wrench. It clatters, spinning once before settling.
You glance down.
Then you glance at him.
His head is bowed, shoulders hunched. Hands cover his face, and not in the "oops-I-messed-up" kind of way. No, this is something else. He’s slumped like the weight of the whole base is pressing down on him.
And suddenly, your anger fades into something softer.
You bend down, pick up the wrench, and approach quietly. No bark. No lecture. Just slow, even steps. Then you kneel beside him, holding the tool out without a word.
He lifts his head.
Dark brown eyes meet yours. There’s something raw in them—frustration, maybe. Or something closer to shame.
“Bad day, huh?” you say gently.
And for a second, Matt just blinks at you like he doesn’t know how to answer. The silence stretches a little too long. You notice a twitch at the corner of his eye, a flicker of tension in his jaw, like he’s holding something back—or holding something in. The wrench still hovers in your hand, untouched.
So instead, you ease down beside him with a quiet sigh, letting your back hit the wall. The floor’s cold through your uniform, but you don’t mind. You rest the wrench between you both.
“I remember my first week here,” you say, voice low. “Felt like I’d stepped into another world. Nothing made sense, and no one really cared if I caught up or drowned.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the tightness in his shoulders eases just slightly. The scowl he wore when you first saw him is softening—no longer sharp, just tired.
You glance at him. “No one bothered to meet me where I was. But I’ll meet you there.”
That gets his attention. He looks at you—not guarded now, just curious. Still quiet, listening.
“Who are you?” he asks, voice low but sincere.
You give a half-smile, aiming for lightness. “Just the unlucky soul stuck training the newbie nobody else could handle.”
The joke hangs in the air a second too long. You catch it—the flicker in his eyes, just a flash, but enough. A glimpse of hurt, quick and subtle like he’s used to hiding it.
You backtrack immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly, voice softening. “I don’t mind, really. Honestly... I remember what it was like. Starting out. Not knowing who to ask or what you’re even doing half the time.”
You pause, fingers absently fiddling with the wrench between you.
“I needed someone to talk to back then. Someone who’d just sit down and get it .” You exhale, gaze flicking to the panel across from you. “But no one ever did. Not really.”
Matt shifts beside you, not quite looking at you yet, but his posture isn’t as rigid now. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers snagging on a knot before his eyes widen and he detangles it very carefully.
“Yeah… I kinda figured no one was lining up to help me.” His voice is rough, but not cold. Just tired.
You glance over. “It’s not easy, starting here. People act like you’re supposed to just know things. Like we all come out of training born experts.”
Matt lets out a soft huff—something between a laugh and a sigh. “I didn’t even know which end of a torque spanner to use on day one. Still don’t, honestly.”
You smile, nudging the wrench gently toward him with your knuckles. “That’s alright. First thing I ever fixed, I rewired it backwards and lit up half a corridor with sparks. It happens.”
He finally takes the wrench, turning it over in his hands. “So you’re saying there’s hope for me?”
You tilt your head, mock serious. “Mmm… undecided. That depends. Are you going to stop opening panels before I get here?”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No promises.”
You snort. “Figures.”
For a moment, the tension eases, like a window cracked open in a sealed room. And then Matt’s voice drops again, quieter this time.
“Why’d you say yes? To training me, I mean.”
You take a breath.
“Because someone should. And I figured… maybe if someone had done that for me, things would’ve been different. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone back then.” You pause. “I guess I don’t want you to feel like that, too.”
Matt looks at you then—really looks. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite name. Gratitude, maybe. Or disbelief.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
You bump your shoulder lightly against his. “Don’t mention it. Seriously. Don’t. If word gets out I’m nice, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He actually laughs. Just a small sound, but it’s real.
He laughs softly at her joke. It's a quiet, unguarded sound—and for a moment, he forgets himself.
He gets it.
If anyone ever found out who he really was—if they knew that Matt the bumbling technician was Kylo Ren, the Commander of the First Order—well… they wouldn’t cower. They’d laugh. Or worse, pity him. And he can't afford that.
But then she smiles at him, and something about it unsettles him more than it should.
It’s warm. Easy. Kind.
People don’t smile at him. Not when they know who he is. They flinch. They tremble. They lower their eyes and hope he doesn’t notice them. But she is smiling—and it catches him off guard, like sunlight in a room that’s always been cold.
“Alright, Matt,” she says, shifting the tone to something more practical. “First thing I’m going to teach you is how to find and read the schematics.”
She plucks the tablet from his toolbag, taps it open, and navigates to a file system he didn’t even know existed. She talks as she works, pointing things out with quick, sure movements. He watches closely, trying to absorb it all, but he’s already behind. The symbols blur together. The acronyms mean nothing.
Then she pauses. Looks at him.
“So… you’ve really never used this system before?”
Her brows knit, not judging—just confused.
“They didn’t teach you this in the academy?”
“No,” he replies flatly. No embellishment. No details.
She frowns slightly. “Did you even study to be a radar tech?”
“No.”
There’s a tension creeping in now, subtle but tightening. He can feel her curiosity sharpening, she is leaning toward something dangerous. He can’t let her dig any deeper.
“Were you transferred?” she asks.
His heart stutters— an out . She’s offering him one.
“Yes,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. I was transferred.”
“From what department?”
Think fast. Come on. Think. His mind scrambles, blank. Time stretches thin between them. Her eyes narrow slightly. His jaw locks, and he’s seconds from unraveling—
She leans in, voice dropping. “Is it confidential? Like… classified?”
“Logistics,” he blurts, cutting her off.
There’s a beat of silence. Then she nods slowly and leans back against the wall.
“Oh. That makes sense.”
He doesn’t know if she buys it—but she lets it go, and he exhales before he even realizes he was holding his breath. She moves on, showing him how to log a work request, how to order parts from the internal system.
Before long, a mouse droid skitters up with a new calcinator in tow, beeping proudly. She thanks it like it’s a living thing and begins walking him through the replacement process. He tries to follow—really, he does—but between the data readouts, the part labels, and the constant sense of being two steps behind, it all starts to blur.
She must notice. She glances at him, tool paused mid-air.
“You doing alright?”
He nods a little too quickly.
She studies him for a beat, then softens her tone. “Alright… let’s take a second.” She sets the tool down and leans back again. “Lets talk about something easier.”
He blinks. “Easier?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. What do you do in your off hours? You know, when you’re not destroying communications panels.”
The question takes him off guard.
Off hours? He doesn’t have off hours. Not really. Not in the way she means.
He hesitates, scrambling for an answer that sounds normal. Human.
“I… read,” he says finally.
She perks up a little. “Oh yeah? What kind of stuff?”
He stares at her for a moment, then mutters the only thing that comes to mind.
“Technical manuals.”
She stares at him for a beat, then snorts. “Wow. Okay. You really are from Logistics.”
He feels it happening again—her tone softening, the atmosphere relaxing, that dangerous ease slipping in. If he’s not careful, she’ll get too close. Ask the wrong questions. Catch a glimpse of something she’s not supposed to see.
He needs to steer this away. Fast.
So he blurts the first thing that comes to mind.
“What do you think about Kylo Ren?”
She blinks.
“You mean Commander Ren,” she corrects, emphasizing the title with just a little too much precision. Her brow furrows, eyes narrowing at him like she’s trying to figure out if this is a joke—or a trap.
Shit. You’re an idiot. He mentally kicks himself. Why would you ask that?
But then, to his surprise, she answers—cautiously.
“Commander Ren is…” she pauses, glancing both directions down the corridor. Her voice drops a little lower. “He’s intimidating, that’s for sure. I’ve never seen those Force powers people talk about. Not firsthand. So I don’t really know what to believe.”
Her fingers fidget slightly, rubbing her thumb over the edge of the datapad.
“But if everyone is afraid of him,” she adds, “then maybe there’s something to it. Right?”
He watches her, expression unreadable. Something coils in his chest—disappointment? Annoyance? Relief? He’s not sure.
“You don’t believe in the Force?” he asks, more sharply than he intends.
She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that. I just don’t know if it’s real in the way they talk about it. Moving objects with your mind? Reading thoughts? Controlling people?” She shakes her head. “Feels more like a rumor that got out of hand. I mean, if it’s so real, why doesn’t everyone learn to use it?”
Because they can’t , he wants to say. Because it takes power, discipline, pain. Because the Force chooses who it speaks to.
But he says nothing.
Instead, she shrugs. “I’m sure he wants people to believe it. Keeps the fear alive, right?”
His jaw tightens. He looks away, pretending to study the panel, to hide the flicker of something that almost— almost —hurts.
She misreads the silence.
“Why do you ask, anyway?” she says, voice light again. “You some kind of fan?”
He scoffs softly, recovering. “Hardly.”
But inside, something twists.
It’s small at first—barely a flicker—but it unsettles him more than her words did. He doesn’t know why it matters. Why she matters. Why the opinion of some technician he met half a day ago is pressing on his ribs like a weight.
He could end this charade. Right now.
He could stand up, rip off the wig, tear away the glasses, let the fury rise in him like it always does. He could pin her to the wall with the Force she doubts even exists. Watch her realize the truth with that flash of horror he’s grown so accustomed to.
He could reclaim control. Instill fear. Make her know who he really is.
But he doesn’t.
“It’s almost lunch time,” she says, her voice light, casual—completely unaware of the storm she’s sitting beside. “Wanna give this a rest and get some grub?”
Then she smiles again.
And just like that, it pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts.
It’s not a grand gesture. It’s just… kindness. Uncomplicated and sincere. And somehow, that simple curve of her lips pierces through the armor he’s spent years forging.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t lash out. Didn’t throw her against the wall. Didn’t make her choke on her doubt and take back every word.
Maybe it’s the warmth that blooms in his chest—quiet, unfamiliar—that holds him still.
Because it’s been a long time since someone smiled at him like that.
And even longer since he let himself smile back.