[ Like most things in Rey's life—her thirst for affection and praise, her stony efficiency, and now this—it was an overcorrection. She came to an abrupt halt before him, a stutter in her step as she tried to gain distance with paradoxical eagerness, like flipping a magnet's polarity so it repulsed suddenly and violently. She found few things more unnerving than Kylo Ren willing to share her company.

But looking into the funhouse mirror of her future unnerved her on a deep, existential level that left her wondering at the inevitability of such a fate, at how she could prevent not just her eventual fall, but Finn's death. Surely, Fate could be changed.

Surely.

She wasn't sure. And because she wasn't sure, she needed to find every avenue to convince herself, extreme stance on bandit slaying included. It had stuck with her to see the one she'd felled with Han's blaster amidst the blood and ruin Achilles left behind, for that macabre showed the truth of war, and made her wonder if she wasn't just a tool of it like any other, if she could resist the eventuality of her descent.

Now, to be called on it, she bristled. ]

Don't presume that a specter of an uncertain future gave you any insight into what I would do. You know nothing about me. You can't even stand to call me by my name.