[He feels much. A truth that existed long before the Nest adhered itself to him via one slight, symbiotic link, now exacerbated by his lingering attachment to the Force. Where Snoke's voice has miraculously receded, others have taken its place, leaving the thoughts and needs of passing strangers pooling instead beneath his skin - static feedback born entirely from two different mental processes that require more from him than inner peace (unachievable to say the least) or a mind devoted to digesting every struck cord. For all his time spent fostering bonds, willing away weakness and unrest, he feels unmoored. Exposed.

The mask stays on.

Still, sensitivity isn't necessarily a handicap: on missions like this, Kylo Ren finds purpose in being a silent alarm. Tucked away in the shadow of some ancient, towering spire whose shell now serves as a nesting ground for merchants and their bustling patrons, Ren might as well be smeared with the same clay he rests his back to. Ironically inconsequential, masked by incense, silence and purpose. Only those of his own brood could recognize the harsh rattle of unsettled thoughts as he waits for some telling trace of the Empress' otherwise fleeting existence.

And they have only hours to spare.]

This is a mistake. [It's rasped out (un)tactfully from just over his current partner's shoulder, voice harsh from digital manipulation and nearly dripping with expectation as his mask reflects the harsh lights of an active cockpit. For all his training, he's not a pilot. In fact when the Empress was loaded on board it seemed as though he'd be content to remain in the hold alongside her.

Joke's on you: Kylo Ren isn't content with anything. Ever.] They will detect us the moment we break atmosphere.

[Options exist for dealing with him: ignoring him, for one, though with his shoulders squared and hunched decisively forward, odds seem slim that Kylo Ren has any intention of fading into the background. Less slim when he grips the seat itself, leaning in to lessen what little space remains. The clock is ticking, the armada above is vast and looming, and now My Chemical Romance has decided the only place for him in the entire galaxy is right beside you, breathing loudly in your ear.

But then again, he could be right.]

[Returning to base isn't an overly joyous voyage: aggression still lingers where a planet-- and its moon-- once stood, and tension amongst the passengers is high enough to be palpable, hanging heavy near the ship's aft where refugees and crew alike take shelter. Thoughts (to those sensitive enough to grasp them) numerous and telling, and Kylo Ren is no exception to the rule.

Particularly when his aren't as concerned with their objective as they are assuming credit for much of what's been done.

Purpose, necessity-- whatever he's craved throughout the years of his life hasn't lessened with relocation. No thoughts of unity snake through his mind, regardless of his symbiotic bond, but instead he still remains bound to the idea of greatness through action. That he is capable enough to bring order through chaos where so little else ever could. Transparent selfishness, and more beneath that. Brittle, angry, afraid--

He intends to find approval for what's been done, even at the cost of his broodmate's own satisfaction.

Seriously who let this guy be a team player.]