Disclaimer: Neocolai does not own Star Wars: The Force Awakens or anything related thereof.

Poe expected pain when Kylo Ren raised his hand. He had heard stories about Force-interrogations. Veterans from the Rebellion whispered tales of Darth Vader, and unseen talons worse than a machine picking through the mind. General Organa had warned them about mental torture; the sensation of anguish while the body remained untouched. The pilot circle often gathered during long nights, and each had tried his or her hand at the most curdling fable of jagged razors ribboning the senses.

Poe expected pain when the masked warrior raised his hand. He was prepared for madness.

In the end he wished there had been torture – at least then he might have formed a half-paltry excuse for himself after betraying the Resistance. But there was no pain. Only the resonance of command in his head. Only the hammering of words against his mouth, grappling to escape even as he clamped his swollen lips between his teeth, drawing more blood. Only the unseen suction to his lungs, forcing the air out of his body, goading him to speak if only to gasp one last breath before the end.

He felt the "talons", yes – fingers like sand, sifting through his mind as he buckled with strain. Pressure heaved in his throat, demanding a spoken admission even while the Force pulled it from his mind. Images began to flash in his head: a planet of sand dunes and sinkholes; an Imperial Graveyard; blood of children smeared on white armor; heat searing his neck as his X-wing exploded behind him; the light pressure of the encrypted map between his fingers, before he slid it into the compartment of an orange and white droid.

"BB-8." The choked whisper slid past Poe's teeth and his eyes flared in dismay. "J-Jakku."

The pressure was wrenched out of his mind and he fell back, hoarse, rapid panting filling the silence. He waited for pain, then. Welcomed it. Prayed that someone would make him pay for his disloyalty.

When Kylo Ren swept from the room with curt orders to leave the prisoner secured, Poe bowed his head. He remembered his last act of defiance on Jakku, and the hover of a blue energy flare. He should have turned the blaster on himself instead. He should have evaded capture at all costs; protected their only link to finding Luke Skywalker.

Poe had fought to live, and in turn he had betrayed the resistance. Betrayed their only hope.

Beneath the despair of surrendering the information, beneath the crushing sense of failure, Poe agonized over a rolling orange and white BB-8 model, whose loyalty went beyond parts and circuits; whose trust lay deeper than the fear of Kylo Ren.

In the end, one thought scored deepest as Poe waited for execution.

He had betrayed his little friend.