It's sort of frustrating, how easy it is to lose track of time like this. His chrono had been taken, along with everything else: comlink, medkit, both blasters and the small webbing knife tucked into Poe's left boot, the one he carried even though he was in civilian clothes for this mission and lightyears away from proper gear. They really hadn't been happy about the fact that he'd managed to slag the datapad in his possession (the one loaded with current Resistance codes and secure channel frequencies and hyperspace routes), but he's more than willing to count it as a victory. That, and the fact that he'd brought down three-fourths of a squadron of TIE fighters with his rickety Headhunter before taking a surprise ion canon right to the engines.

Poe wriggles against the crate he's seated on to ease the dull ache in the base of his tailbone, makes a quiet sound of annoyance as he lifts his bound hands to scrape at the dried blood tugging the fine hairs of his eyebrows every time he moves his face. He'd taken a nasty knock to the head when the ejector seat came down in the middle of a dense evergreen forest, and none of that's counting the fact that he's fairly certain he kissed every branch of those old mossy trees on the way down. The First Order hadn't bothered with medical attention when they'd dragged him in. No sense wasting supplies on a dead man.

He's not worried, he tells himself -- not really. Sure, it's a bad deal, and sure, he's in for a rough time once the First Order gets their act together and scrounges up a proper interrogator instead a handful of local thugs, but he'd known the risks when he'd accepted. Bad luck for Poe, personally, and bad luck for the Resistance; nothing it can't take in stride. At the very least, the General should be comfortable in the knowledge that they're not gonna get a thing out of him.

In the meantime? He's got all the time in the world to think about the fact that facility exists at all. The Resistance thought they'd had good maps -- recent maps. The General had been watching Senator Sharna for a while now, making good on following up on a file from an agent still in New Republic intel, a list of shell companies for Sienar-Jaemus, one of which was currently in negotiations with Ristal's trade administration. Little signs. Depressingly recognizable signs: a sharp increase in personal defense forces for the Senator and her estate; sudden, unlogged trips to the edges of real First Order space; disruption in the Senate itself in the name of Centrist doctrine. More than Poe needs to get out of this mess, the General needs to know they're behind on intel, and Poe's busy trying to get his brain to work enough to start coming up with a plan when he hears the heavy clang of a blast door reaching the end of its track and the growing whine of a shuttle engine (Upsilon class, and that's no good at all because they usually save those for important people) --

Maybe they found someone. Maybe he's just really unlucky and someone up the chain's come by for a visit. Maybe it's just pure coincidence.

It's not long after, at least by his count, that Poe hears the clipped, precise sounds of boots on the floor, growing louder. Heading his way, and he sighs tiredly as he slumps back exaggeratedly against the stack of dirty, empty cargo crates, determined to look as unconcerned as humanly possible when his captors arrive. All the more surprise then, when the doors open and another is shoved roughly into the storeroom-turned-jail cell. They stumble, go down on their knees, and Poe -- Poe barely notices, his attention too focused on the trio of stormtroopers lined up by the doorway behind a black-clad officer, a lieutenant by the rank cylinders on his chest. He makes a face, but the officer doesn't even look his way before the door slides shut once again.

Well, hell.

"Sorry 'bout the welcome," Poe drawls, as his attention drops to the figure bent down on the floor. He grunts a small, unhappy sound as he slides off the crate he'd chosen for a seat, pain radiating throughout his backside as disused muscles are put to work once more, nearly stumbling himself as he eases into a crouch a few feet away. Human, he thinks for now. Male. Long-haired. "You and me, buddy -- guess we're both pretty unlucky, huh?"