Chapter Text
It has been four cycles since the humiliation on Crait, and General Hux’s ribs still hurt. Immediately after the incident - he doesn’t want to even reference the excruciating experience as anything more, lest his embarrassment increases his already elevated blood pressure and instigates a fury-induced cardiac arrest - adrenaline kept the seriousness of the injury from affecting him.
At first, it was a sharp pain, shooting through his body with a sickening crack when Kylo Ren had thrown him into the shuttle console, which he later realised had been the sound created by the complete fracture of three ribs and the bruising of a further two. The true torment had reared its ugly head later, once the high of battle had worn off; true agony smashing through his chest like he’d been hit by a two-tonne cargo trolley when he inhaled too deeply. On the shuttle ride back to the Finalizer, the Supremacy having been declared unsuitable in its current condition to host the Supreme Leader and his current closest inferior officer, he sat ramrod straight even with sharp arrows shooting upwards from his ribs with every breath.
He could not reveal the extent of his injuries, especially in front of Ren, who would, no doubt, be tallying up Hux’s weaknesses in order to work out how best to exploit them. He would pay the medical droid a cursory visit on his return to the Destroyer, followed, of course, by a complete wipe of its memory banks. A General could never afford to appear weak.
That was the first thing his father had ever drilled into him.
Now, though, he was getting impatient. Four cycles seemed long enough for his body to catch up; Hux held himself to the same standards as the innumerable officers and troopers under his responsibility and his policy for slacking was one of zero tolerance.
As he struggled to sit up without torturing himself further on the morning of the fourth cycle, Hux felt another wave of frustration burn through him. Four cycles, and he still could not move without pain. Four cycles, and the Finalizer was still recovering from hits it had taken during the Resistance assault. Four cycles, and they had failed to tackle the mess that was the Supremacy, which continued to shed debris and priceless machinery into space on an hourly basis.
Four days, and Kylo Ren had not emerged from his quarters since he had skulked into them following the emotional epiphany he had experienced on Crait upon seeing his uncle.
Hux had wondered not infrequently if the man had finally succumbed to another violent fit of rage and impaled himself on his own lightsaber. He had also wondered what he would do if the man were dead, if he had the entirety of the First Order at his feet, before resolutely deciding that there was no point in pursuing the concept.
The universe would never be so kind.
Anyway, he would rather not spend his time thinking about the putrefying body of Kylo Ren lying somewhere in the depths of his ridiculously large quarters. Greater men than him had suffered in such an easily avoidable catastrophe. He has much more important things to do.
Hux mashes his face into his palms and screams silently as the alarm on his chrono continues to ring, along with the slight rattle which bothered him to no end but that he had never been able to fix himself and was always too embarrassed to call a technician to clear up. Maybe he’ll smash it up one day, Kylo Ren-style. He closes his eyes, staring at the dancing green shadows generated behind his eyelids by rubbing them too hard, and briefly flirts with the idea of staying in bed all day. Let Ren sort out his own kriffing mess.
He sighs, and finally shifts himself out of bed to wash his face, tame the unappetising orange mop of his hair and dress himself impeccably. Slow and steady was what the medical droid had advised before Hux initiated the memory wipe. What a joke. He could not take things slow and steady, not when he was juggling the repair of his collapsing fleet and the endless battle to source the bottomless portfolio from which Snoke had funded the First Order, as well as his ordinary workload and that of a Supreme Leader who was currently playing truant.
On the bridge, a semblance of peace has been preserved. Lieutenants and Petty Officers fill the lines of consoles, quietly tapping away at their tasks as they monitor the ship, and Captain Peavey’s immaculately combed head immediately swivels into a salute as soon as Hux walks through the hissing blast doors.
‘Sir!’
‘Captain.’ Hux inclines his head with as much respect as he is willing to give and no more. Peavey will always rankle under the command of a general as young as Hux, and while he is never outwardly hostile, Hux has little to no trust in him.
‘Have the crew aboard the Supremacy issued an update on the containment of the gash in her hull?’
‘Yes, sir. The crew estimate the rate of loss to be 30 tonnes per hour, which is too rapid to accurately judge the value of the material lost. The construction of a durasteel canopy to seal the gash is progressing smoothly, but the delicate nature of its placement means that an estimated further 1440 tonnes of material will be lost before full containment is reached. Currently, only the empty throne room, trooper barracks, and hanger bays 16 through 30 are being decayed, but as the split increases in size, research labs 13 and 22 will begin to erode as the gravitational field of each half of the ship increases in strength.’
Hux listens to the report as Peavey unfolds the extent of the problem, resisting the urge to rub at the emerging headache gnawing at his temple. Conserving the equipment of the R&D labs was the major motivation behind the proposed construction of the canopy, and if it is lost then the situation will become more tenuous. The key question is: how long is too long? How much of the Supremacy has to be destroyed before Hux accepts failure and sends Snoke’s legacy to the scrapyard?
Hux will not tolerate another failure, not after Starkiller. The Supremacy’s glorious bridge will be restored, and one day he will stride its polished plastisteel, his authority unchallenged.
Hux takes a deep breath before replying. ‘Send another team to the Supremacy in order to speed up construction of the canopy. Send as many engineers and technicians as you can: I want the canopy installed within three half-cycles.’ His voice is unwavering, unlike his faith.
‘Right away, sir.’ Peavey salutes with little fervour, and walks away, tapping his datapad. Hux turns to gaze out of the viewport into the blackness of space. Its endless majesty is usually enough to suppress his doubts and reinvigorate his ambitions: one day, all of this will be his. On this day, the fourth day since Snoke died and the structure of his life collapsed, the view of parsec upon parsec of wild, unconquerable darkness inspires little but feelings of insignificance. His struggles do not feel like those of a General attempting to do his duty and more like those of a slime-fly bashing itself against the walls of an upturned drinking vessel, desperately colliding with the flexiglass in an attempt to escape but only destroying itself in the process.
Get a grip, Hux snaps at himself. This is no time for dwelling, but for action. This is not just a test of the First Order’s ability to recover, but of General Hux himself, and his ability to prevent his own ships from crumbling around him.
He sighs, and turns, suppressing a hiss at the sharp pain that shoots up his chest with the swift movement. The infinity of space will offer him no comfort today.
Hux’s handheld comms unit beeps, alerting him to a meeting with High Command. A hologram recording of General Pryde of the Steadfast materialises from the pad of the comlink, requesting his immediate presence with as much urgency as his drawling tone can muster.
‘Peavey.’ He calls on the man’s retreating back.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Captain, I am required at a meeting of the High Command. The bridge is yours until I return.’
Peavey nods, and salutes. ‘Of course, sir.’
The needling pain in Hux’s temple reaches its crescendo, rivalling the dull, ambient throb of his broken ribs. He calms his breathing until his inhales and exhales come shallow and regular, and, making sure that his steps are sure and his spine is stiff and straight, he strides from the bridge.
The meetings are always ‘urgent’, but never long. The absence of the Supreme Leader from any aspect of real decision making limits their power significantly. Being restricted from making real change by the whims and hissy fits of an oversized toddler determined to sacrifice his entire organisation for the sake of finding one scavenger girl rankles even the most patient senior officers, which Hux can relate to. Unfortunately, as the unlucky officer present on the ship with Ren, the blame conveniently falls to Hux. His youth only aggravates the situation: many of the High Command are men of his father’s generation, who have witnessed him claw his way out from under his father’s suffocating shadow and into the rank of General. They hate him.
Hux enters the empty central meeting room and activates his hologram without circumstance. Due to the dispersal of the First Order fleet and the regularity of these so-called ‘emergency meetings’, the High Command of the First Order can no longer afford to meet together in person. They use hologram calls and hope that the Resistance is too busy perpetuating their miserable existence to waste time scanning frequencies for information.
Hux hopes blindly that if he does not call attention to his arrival to the meeting, he will be disregarded, like a child who closes his eyes in a game of hide and seek to convince himself that he cannot be seen. As soon as the hologram switches on, the blue-tinted figures of the Generals of the First Order emerge from the air, too distracted by General Bellava Parnadee’s report on falling recruitment numbers to pay attention to him. For now.
‘The deteriorating human population on Outer and Mid Rim territories means that we cannot risk harvesting more children. We need workers on our industrial planets, or the fleet and armoury will not survive.’
‘What about clones? Or droids?’ Admiral Griss barks a reply, and Hux raises his arms surreptitiously to parade rest so he can clench his fists behind his back. This argument has never been suppressed, and Hux wishes, not for the first time, for Phasma by his side again. Her unremitting coolness in the face of frustration never ceased to impress him.
General Quinn replies before Hux has to call attention to himself. ‘The lack of reliable information surrounding the true extent of the loyalty of clone troopers means that the fate of the First Order can never be placed in the hands of a clone army, not even for a short period of time. Besides, the huge amount of technology required to engineer a clone or droid army outside of the Kamino system would effectively announce our project to the entire galaxy as the trail of such a giant purchase would be impossible to hide.’
Parnadee nods in assent. ‘We require a consistent supply of humans fit for conditioning. An option could be to implement a more rigorous training programme for clones, but this would take too much time and resources.’ She pauses. ‘Our other option is xenos.’
Admiral Griss scoffs derisively. ‘We can hardly resort to xenos. We don’t have the time or resources to design specialised armour, or implement sufficient training plans.’ He sniffs. ‘Besides, I hardly believe we can trust any of them.’
‘The First Order is running out of options; this is an emergency! Unless you plan to source 30 million healthy humans within five cycles, I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself!’ Parnadee fires back. Hux notices idly that, without a clear superior officer to curry favour with, Parnadee loses her cool remarkably quickly.
‘I am simply pointing out the flaws in your proposal!’ Griss sputters. ‘Despite the clear inferiority of xenos compared to the human race, the extreme impracticality of your proposal makes me question your fitness to lead the recruitment programme!’
Parnadee opens her mouth, but before she can reply the sharp voice of General Pryde breaks through the tension in the room.
‘Officers, that is quite enough. Parnadee, take the gamble on increasing recruitment, and take children from agricultural or piscatorial planets where you can. Once we win this war, the drive can slow down and the populations can recover.’
Hux grits his teeth at Pryde’s assumed authority. No one appointed him temporary Supreme Leader besides his extreme ego, and if Hux has any knowledge of Kylo Ren at all he knows that he would not give power to a man like Pryde. Pryde is a General used to authority, who can’t imagine a life without an army of subordinates striding beside him and an officer’s greatcoat on his shoulders to flare behind him. This makes him dangerous.
As if he heard Hux’s thoughts, Pryde’s hologram turns to face him.
‘General Hux,’ he intones, the aggravating tones of his High Imperial accent accentuated by the buzzing of the comms system. ‘Do you have any update on our Supreme Leader?’
‘No,’ Hux replies, and the absence of the ‘sir’ in his reply is so tangible that he could chew on it. He may allow Pryde an imitation of authority for the sake of appeasing the old Imperials, but he will not retract his own claws. Not yet. ‘Our Supreme Leader remains indisposed. All attempts at communication, even by myself, have failed, and the doors of his quarters appear sealed from the inside.’
Pryde nods knowingly. ‘Masters of the Force will often meditate for extensive periods of time. We must allow the Supreme Leader to recover.. In his absence, we must restore the power of the First Order so that he can return to a stable organisation. Armitage, I expect you to have overseen the full repair of the Supremacy before our next meeting.’
He pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully.
‘Following your recent failure on Starkiller Base, I expect you to exert more … prudence, when tackling the results of your mistakes.’
Hux forces his breathing to remain steady. The roaring in his ears and the burn of shame coiling in the pit of his stomach rival the pain emanating from his ribs. The leather of his gloves squeaks almost imperceptibly as he clenches his fists so hard that his knuckles begin to ache. He does not open his mouth. He nods, barely inclining his head under Pryde’s triumphant gaze.
For the rest of the meeting, Hux presses his mouth shut in a thin grimace as the rest of the dire situation is revealed. His mouth tastes like salt and grime and something else, something sour like the tang of spilled orange avadama mixed with cleaning fluid. It tastes like kneeling with his tongue pressed to the plastisteel tiles of an ancient Imperial Star Destroyer, like the cackling of Admiral Brooks and the rest of his father’s cronies. It tastes like the sensation of being nothing but a kicked dog, of having no self-respect, no ambitions or plans but to survive.
Hux takes a deep breath and relishes the brittle pain that blooms in his chest when his reluctant ribs are forced to expand. It feels familiar, after all of these cycles; something central to him to curl around and hold onto.
He fixes his eyes upon the opposite wall, behind the head of Pryde’s hologram, and imagines the sound his skull would produce upon fracturing, spilling its contents across a durasteel floor. It would make a more satisfying sound, he’d wager, than the popping crack of his own ribs. He is beginning to understand the vitriol that fuels Kylo Ren’s urges to destroy.
He imagines Pryde’s eyes wide and pleading, freed from that judgemental, superior gaze he despises so much. He imagines Pryde reduced from his invincible authority to biology, to the mechanics of bone and muscle and the humiliation of his own body. He would rub his nose in his own nature, remind him that for all his sarcasm and wit and impenetrable influence, he is still just a bag of meat, like the rest of them. A bag of meat trying to sustain the war machine of the First Order, something so much greater than the soft flesh of his body.
Over the course of the rest of the meeting, the extent of the catastrophe afflicting the remnants of the First Order is revealed: the entirety of their R&D department has been halted due to the repairs of the Supremacy, which means that hundreds of thousands of highly skilled engineers are without work. The depletion of both trooper and pilot numbers mean that the campaigns to conquer many planets must be abandoned. Most worryingly to Hux, however, is the worrying decrease in trooper morale following the destruction of the Supremacy and the loss of several battalions during the fight against the Resistance. Low morale leads to an increased likelihood of the repeat of what has now been dubbed the FN-2187 incident, and Hux makes a note to check his own trooper training programmes. A mutiny on his own ship is the last thing he needs.
The meeting finally reaches its bleak conclusion, and Hux switches off the holograms before sinking down into a chair and finally cradling his aching head in his hands. The leather is cool against his skin, and he closes his eyes. The situation is dire, but it is nothing he hasn’t survived before, when the First Order was only just emerging from the remains of the collapsed Empire. He was raised on freezing Star Destroyers, cramped for months in tiny quarters when oxygen was scarce and rationed to a minimum of rooms. He has gritted his teeth and dealt with a thousand uncomfortable situations, only held on by his unwavering belief that he was made for something more. His faith has not failed him yet.
He sighs, and gets up, forcing his battered body to walk back to the bridge. There is no point dwelling in the past, not when his entire ship is waiting on his command.
On the bridge, the previous peace brought by the endless lines of Lieutenants and Petty Officers is interrupted as the officers change places for beta shift. Hux cuts his way through the chaos to the primary console, where Peavey is waiting for him, datapad in hand. After suffering from Pryde’s unwavering contempt, Peavey’s childish envy washes over him like waves breaking on a beach. Hux takes the datapad from him brusquely and taps through the figures on the screen as Peavey narrates his update.
‘The construction of the canopy is complete, and the rate of loss of material has been reduced by using the emergency engines in the wings to apply a thrust acting opposite to the centrifugal force pulling the two halves of the ship apart. With the help of droids, the sealing of the gash should take no more than five shifts, or two more cycles.’
Hux pauses scrolling through the data and looks up, raising his eyebrows at Peavey. ‘I sense that there is a ‘but’ coming, Captain.’
The Captain takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. ‘The gash in the Supremacy’s hull bisected the three primary nuclear reactors powering the ship’s generators. Since the event, a large amount of nuclear radiation has been released, continued exposure to which could risk the lives of the technicians securing the canopy.’
Peavey pauses again.
‘However, the delay caused by waiting for new teams of technicians to arrive from other Destroyers and be briefed will result in the loss of research labs 13, 16, 18, 22 and 26.’
Hux balances the datapad on his fingertips and considers the dilemma. If he waits, the chances of the First Order’s recovery are severely limited by the loss of major weapons technology and irreplaceable machines. This means that their fleet will take significantly longer to be repaired, and their campaign to take control of more planets will be delayed. He has a duty to take care of.
If he waits, Pryde will have an excuse to act on his anger, and Ren won’t be there to stop him taking control.
Hux sighs. What’s the blood of a few more lives on his hands, when the souls of the entire Hosnian System have already condemned his soul to the ground?
‘Give the order. I want the canopy installed as quickly as possible.’ He hands the datapad back to Peavey, who nods in assent and begins to bark into his comlink. Hux stares back out of the viewport and lets his eyes rest on the middle distance of the darkness.
The rest of the beta shift is busy, but uneventful. Hux leaves Peavey temporarily in control of the bridge, and retires to his quarters to resume his search for the source of Snoke’s bottomless pockets, from which he funded the entire Order. The search is not fruitless but exceedingly complex; Hux expected nothing less than layer upon layer of contingencies as he investigates the late Supreme Leader’s investments. Hux is relieved to find that the money is there to sustain the Order indefinitely, but he despairs at the thought of handing control of the portfolio to Kylo Ren who, he assumes, will not have the patience for multi-level investment management.
Hux adds finding a team to properly manage the sourcing and distribution of finances to his endless list of tasks.
He briefly visits the trooper training quarters in the belly of the ship in order to see for himself the disintegrated morale brought up in the High Command, which is more than evident. These troopers are part of the 500 000 troops successfully evacuated from the Supremacy: they witnessed the split of the ship, and the chaos that followed, which is extremely dangerous. Troops who witness cataclysmic events have rumours to share, and deep in the depths of sterile Star Destroyers, information is money.
The training demonstration is acceptable under his high standards, but lacks the consistency and energy which he knew Phasma was determined to instill in her troops. Under Phasma, any troopers not actively occupied with training would be cleaning weapons, repairing armour or completing maintenance tasks. Here, they lounge in various states of readiness, leaning against the walls or sitting against them, talking or just staring into space. He surveys the room and sees a group of troopers in one corner urgently whispering to one another, and narrows his eyes.
Upon questioning, the commander shrugs. ‘They think that their Captain is dead, and that they have lost the war.’
Hux knew that Phasma had been involved in the day-to-day life and training of all of her battalions, but he is impressed that her absence affected the troopers in such a personal way. It makes him feel curiously warm, that someone on the ship was actually doing their job.
He tells the commander to keep a close eye on any mutinous behaviour and to be liberal when doling out reconditioning, before offering a final thanks for her service and leaving.
He spends the rest of the shift on the bridge, occasionally asking Peavey for updates on the construction of the canopy on the Supremacy, and checking the progress of repairs to other Star Destroyers which have suffered damage. Since the Finalizer is not currently moving, many of the bridge commanders are out of work, so he assigns them to system management. They’re used to waiting, after having hidden in the Unknown Regions for so long to build up strength, but this limbo between battles with no proper guidance is something else, strange and unnerving and wholly unsustainable. As soon as they can repair their ships so the Supremacy can access hyperspace, they can reach a safer system.
Hux wonders at which point Kylo Ren will resume control.
Long after the beta shift is over, the bridge is quiet, save for the serene beeping of the consoles. A skeleton crew is active on the ship, but will only visit the bridge in emergencies due to its small size compared to the rest of the ship. Hux stares out across the stars, which seem so much brighter from the darkened bridge, and sighs. He has been putting off his final task.
It takes him twenty minutes to walk to the deepest medical bay in the Finalizer, the one reserved only for officers. He insisted on her placement there under 24/7 care, despite the fact that it would have been better for troop morale if she were placed in the common medical wing, and updates of her condition distributed around the officers of the ship. The decision to place her here is selfish on his part, but also on hers: he knows that she values her dignity more than any material possession, and to place her in the common wing, where all medical staff would see her lying stripped of her power, would be the greatest insult to her.
His personal cylinder is one of only two which fits the pad; he had it fitted by yet another droid which was the sad victim of a misplaced memory wipe.
When he enters the medical bay, the officer on duty salutes. ‘Doctor Warner,’ he greets her.
‘Sir.’ She stands from bending over the single occupied bed, which is surrounded by a small fleet of gently humming and whirring machines. Dr. Warner is a slight young woman, new to the Order but with vigour and nervous energy sustaining her wiry body. Her voice is steady, with a slight accent on her fricatives which reveals her origins in the far Outer Rim. Hux cannot at all trust her, but her stained training record following a series of altercations with other trainees and a stint in a psychiatric ward means that she readily accepted double full-cycle shifts and sworn secrecy without demanding extra credits for the sake of maintaining her position. From what he has read, the solitude may also suit her medical ability best.
Hux likes to hire the young and the desperate; they are the most willing to compromise their own needs for his own.
Hux walks over to the bed, softening his steps to silence his signature ringing-heeled stride although he knows that its occupant will not be waking any time soon. Phasma lies silent and still, her face drained of colour and rested in a neutral expression which reminds him of the dummies used in the academies to train in resuscitation. A patch covers her right eye. Her arms lie drained of strength atop the sheet, covered from her fingertips to her collarbones with thick, padded gauze. The only sound comes from the tubes which snake around her limbs and the folds of the sheets, pumping substances in and out of her body and keeping her alive.
Hux hates to see her like this. For as long as he has known her she has been impenetrable, striding the corridors of Star Destroyers and leading her troops with an effortless authority he has often found himself envying. She has always been stoic in the face of any catastrophe, and to see her here, passive and unresponsive on the sterile white regulation sheets is an omen of a deeper catastrophe which is impossible to ignore.
Hux straightens, and realises that Dr. Warner is standing before him expectantly.
‘Has her condition improved?’ He attempts to maintain an emotionless tone, suppressing all hope or expectant dread. This is a military matter, he tells himself, nothing more: her leadership is required to sustain troop morale. But what about his own morale?
The little doctor shakes her head minutely. ‘Her condition is stable. Her body is repairing the burns as quickly as it can with the aid of bacta, and we are supplying her with a personalised cocktail of nutrients designed to promote bodily recovery to a point where she can be safely brought out of the coma.’
Hux considers this, his eyes never leaving the closed lids of his close colleague. ‘How long will that be?’
The doctor pauses.
‘At least five cycles, sir.’
It is the truth. He can hear it in her fearful tone, but he is in no mood for unreasonable punishment today. In truth, all he feels is exhausted by a day of hauling his aching body around the ship, concluded by a visit to the incapacitated body of the only person he thinks he would ever call a friend.
He lifts his gaze to meet the doctor’s wide, brown eyes, and he offers her a brief, constrained smile. Five cycles. That is manageable.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he says with as much sincerity as he can muster. ‘That will be all.’
She nods in assent, and resumes cleaning her equipment as he strides from the room.
Hux meets no one on his journey back to his quarters, and as he walks through the empty corridors his thoughts return to Kylo Ren. Is he deep in meditation, lost in the mystical acres of the unattainable Force? Hux’s lips curl into an unbidden, sardonic smile at the thought of Kylo Ren sitting cross-legged in an aura of peace, a beatific expression upon his face as he is uplifted by his religion. Somehow that seems unlikely; Ren is probably alternating lying collapsed on his bunk in a sulk and smashing up his quarters. Hux makes a mental note to allocate extra funds to the division designated ‘Force-related repairs’ before the Supreme Leader emerges.
His quarters are welcoming, warm and quiet. Hux sets the lights to 20% before allowing himself a brief moment to stretch, a luxury far too undignified to be performed upon the bridge. His back aches from the slightly curved posture he has maintained all day in order to take pressure from his aching ribs. He offers up a plea to any entities which may be listening to heal his ribs faster so he doesn’t have to deal with this ridiculous problem for a singular moment longer, and laughs at himself. What he really needs is a singular cycle, or even shift, of rest, so that he can allow his broken body to heal without subjecting it to more stress.
He undresses and crawls into bed without ceremony, sending his uniform down a laundry chute and leaving a fresh, newly pressed set out for the next day, like he has done every night since he was a cadet and likely will every night for the rest of his life. Before he commits himself to restless sleep he plugs his datapad in.
The screen lights up with one final notification: the technician leading the team installing the canopy on the gash in the Supremacy’s hull has regrettably passed away. Radiation poisoning.