[Rain spatters the span of Ren's heavy brow, blurring his vision and threatening to chill his skin the more seconds are spent watching Hux wrestle with the bike's underbelly. Steve has already sped on ahead to locate potential buyers for what they've found and a storm brews overhead, clouds fat and sunk low enough to be a grim concern. If the bike is not fixed soon, they'll be mired.]

You've been adjusting that seal for an hour. Fix it or give it to me.

[However clever the General might be, he's clearly floundering; Ren was raised under the shadow of the Falcon, while he harbors no love of the work, he is capable. Likely moreso than his companion, already dismissed from the side of the Nest's chosen vanguard.

[He despises this. More than the planet or its wretched people, there is something so near to insulting in being forced to carve shelter from the land itself— a scavenger, like the wretched girl that dared to defy him. To maim him. The memories stolen from her in a sadistic bid at control at least serve him well: as she had, he turns his transport into shelter from the unforgiving wilds, cord wound across the body of the bike where it's sat along the side of a rocky outcropping supporting a thick canvas sheet. It tempers the wind, warms the night and, if nothing else, grants an odd feeling of independence. Not serenity— he lacks the temperament for it— but there's satisfaction to be found in the absence of those that grate his every raw nerve as a habit.

Light slips from the sky and he sparks kindling to light with a few drops of borrowed fuel and an ignition key, coaxing the flame with his breath until it burns warm at the near entrance of his tent. Tomorrow he'll think of a means to reestablish a foothold in either city.

Tomorrow this senseless facade ends.]