Phasma

That’s the problem with indoctrination—the whole point of the First Order’s kind of education is to stop someone from thinking and instead kick their emotions into gear. Make them hate everything else so they’ll cling to what you give them. It’s hard to think for yourself when fear and anger are driving the shuttle.

There is no greater enemy to justice than a little king on a little hill.

It is amusing, is it not, to want to be both found and forgotten at the same time?

It’s easy to be a hero when your own survival is aligned with someone else’s, when your victory is a victory for your entire clan.

I’ve never walked on sand,” Torben noted. “What’s it like?” Phasma’s people looked to her, but she nodded to Brendol. “It shifts under your feet. Coarse and rough. Irritating. Gets everywhere. Slips into your clothes and boots.

It’s right there in the name. First Order. First, order. Fixing the mess left behind by the Republic and now the New Republic.

That’s the problem with following all the rules—somebody else is eventually going to get ahead by breaking them, and then where will you be?

And I did what I had to do to get to me as well. I don’t regret it. That’s the difference between us. I know what I am, and I embrace it. I’m proud of it. I fought for everything that I have, every bit of what I am. Now that you see what you are, you despise it. You’re ashamed. And look where that’s gotten you.

In a singsong voice, Gosta chanted, “If you get the smallest wound Better tell your Mama soon Edges red and skin gone white Gonna lose a toe tonight. Don’t tell Mama and you’ll see Wound goes putrid, dead you’ll be.

And I’ve made some improvements. My mother’s oracle salve smelled like rancid fish, but mine, at least, smells—” “Like fresher fish,

You can tell me all about the new job and lecture me about my lack of focus once I’m done with this mission and giving you this sweater in person. But you’d better meet me somewhere civilized and comfortable, because I’m done with impossible environments.” The comm goes still, and she feels a small ping of guilt for ignoring him. Most ships can’t even handle communications at this range, but the Resistance does have some wonderful toys. Vi puts her boots up and leans back in her seat, focusing on the unwieldy wooden knitting needles that look more like primitive weapons than elegant tools. “It’s all about forward momentum, Gigi,” she says to her astromech, U5-GG. “Better a hideous sweater infused with love than…I don’t know. What other gifts do people give their only living relative? A nice chrono? I shall continue to the end, if imperfectly.” She spins in her chair and holds up what she’s accomplished so far. “What do you think?” Gigi beeps and boops in what sounds

Armitage has to get ready. Kylo Ren doesn’t like to wait.

It’s almost as if they’re worshipping something. See how their heads are bowed and their hands folded. Strange behavior.” “Their creators,” Siv said softly, pointed to the wall behind TB-3, where a huge Con Star Mining Corporation logo was painted. “They just want their creators to come back.” Brendol shook his head. “This is why droids need routine maintenance. Their programming goes strange, and they start to act…” “Human?” He gave her a sharp look. “Mad.

He smells of sweat and metal and that low and simmering rage that Vi has smelled on men all across the galaxy. As if his anger seeps out of his pores because he’s unable to focus it on its true target. This anger can destroy a man. Or it can be harnessed. Used. A tool for the greater good.

That's the problem with following all the rules—somebody else is eventually going to get ahead by breaking them, and then where will you be?