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    Likeness

    HUX: Captain, I wonder why Millicent always allows you to catch her when we all search for her. She allows that only to you.

    PHASMA: Likeness. I am like a cat. We both have claws, bite hard, kill because of tiniest offense, and are independent bitchez.

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    Issues

    KYLO: I want to be like Darth Vader. So much.

    PHASMA: *looking at him shrewdly*  You want to have asthma?

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    Obviously

    HUX: Captain, how many blaster shots will you need, to kill me?

    PHASMA: None.

    HUX: You can’t be that good.

    PHASMA. I am not. I just don’t intend to kill you.

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    Poetry of the Broken

    HUX: W have been through so much, the stars grinning behind our eyes

    Dying on the borders of the universe, living the glory of the future

    We subdued the world, painting it red

    So why the heck I always feel like you want to stab me in the back?

    PHASMA: …?

    HUX: Now your’s turn to sing. Confess.

    PHASMA: *looking into his cup* I knew you drink caf with the alcohol, but it’s caf with high voltage spirit.

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    Traitor

    HUX: I was aknowledged that one of your troops decided to join the rebellion, Captain.

    PHASMA: He is not one of my troops.

    HUX: I most certainly know that he is.

    PHASMA: He is not a trooper. He is a traitor.

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    Socks and Cats

    … Hux’s socks, Kylo Ren’s cats and Phasma’s appraising gaze. From under the helmet.

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    Houses

    MITAKA: Hufflepuff!

    HUX: Ravenclaw.

    KYLO: Ssssslytherin…

    PHASMA: House Phasma.

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    Priorities

    Hux: Given the choice, Captain, who would you save from certain death first, Kylo or me?

    Phasma: Given the choice, I would first saved my own neck.

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    Tempting Ideas

    Hux: *looking at the amount of paperwork* Someone kill me please.

    Phasma: Is this a request, order or the casual toying with the idea?

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    Small Incident

    PHASMA*calm collected voice* I am going to shoot down everyone who mentions this small incident.

    HUX: You mean being kicked in the head, almost dying in the trash compactor, facing a deadly inhabitants of some awful planet, falling off the platform to flames, being blew out into space… small indeed!

    PHASMA: I ask for permission to shoot you down, General.

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