#muse {phasma}

Phasma was not an emotional woman. Never had been. But as she stood outside the cell which contained one of the most dangerous rebels in the galaxy, something close to a smile twisted its way across her features. It stayed in place as she quickly tapped in the security code and stepped inside, though of course it was discreetly hidden behind her ever-present helmet.

Even in defeat, the woman was graceful. Phasma had expected no less from General Organa, but it still irked her. Not a single hair out of her intricate woven hairstyle seemed out of place, as though the First Order stormtroopers under Phasma’s command had gently persuaded her into the cell rather than dragging her. With heavy footsteps, the captain crossed the room, the door closing behind her with a quiet hiss. They were alone.

“There you are.” Phasma didn’t deign to raise her voice; her tone was commanding enough in itself. Her armour, in all its polished chromium glory, clinked as she approached him, advancing at speed like a vengeful spirit.

In truth she had no interest in the stormtrooper’s whereabouts, or the reasoning behind them, but he was her responsibility. His behaviour reflected directly on her reputation, and she couldn’t tolerate anything besides absolute obedience. Beyond that, the irony of his behaviour given their current mission—to break up an ongoing strike at the Pressylla system’s largest mining colony—didn’t escape her.