Chapter Text
His plans sprawled into the empty air in a bloom of blue light. An identical model of the plant-sized would-be reality, the weapon designs were immaculate. Elegant. ‘Awesome’ in the most traditional sense. The Death Star had been aptly named: around its lethal form had orbited the entire Imperial armed forces, none able to usurp its domination. Unless Hux’s creation came to pass—his Starkiller. Fueled by celestial consumption, the weapon would end planets, not lives. There was no scale imagined for the destruction Hux had created the potential for. ‘Crimes against humanity’ would be useless. Should the weapon ever fire, the crime would make victims of many more than just humans. Mass murder? Laughable. ‘Genocide’ would be just a drop in the bucket.
‘Atrocity’ might work, Hux thought. Many Imperial leaders had faced that charge in the aftermath of the Empire’s fall. Yet, their body counts had been in thousands; at most, a few million. Hux’s weapon could take billions in a single shot. Even atrocity would be too small a word for that.
Could he even build it? The whole project had started as a mental exercise. He had spent a lot of time alone in the Academy. His personality didn’t condone much friendship. Hux was fifty percent mercenary, forty percent ambition, and ten percent caf. These attributes made for a wonderful officer, a brilliant star on a meteoric military path. He was thirty-two and a general, considered widely the general of the First Order. Men and women his father’s age and rank wouldn’t meet his eyes, just as their children hadn’t in Hux’s youth. The power thrilled him, made his blood hot with satisfaction. Yet, Hux had also been left to his own devices more often than not. Hence, he had given himself a task: to improve the Imperial prized weapon, the icon of his cultural history.
It hadn’t seem that hard, at thirteen. The bloody thing had been blown up, hadn’t it? Surly Hux could do better than that, if only by adding another layer of shielding.
Then, he’d realized, another layer of shielding would have thrown off the Star’s balance. So he’d gone back to the drawing board. Several hundred drafts later, Hux had scrapped the whole concept of the Death Star. Things that big weren’t meant to be constructed for space travel, Hux had decided. The very forces that held together the universe (by which he meant elements like gravity, inertia, and motion—not that mystic nonsense) worked against such contractions. But. What if one took what already existed—a planet—and made it more useful—a weapon?
Hux’s first Starkiller was conceived when he was eighteen. Many dozens followed. Always hypothetical, always strictly limited to the realm of his own hubristic imagination. The sheer expense of such a project was nearly incomprehensible (Hux had run the calculations one afternoon at lunch; they would be incomprehensible to anyone else). Morally, the ground was blacker than Hux privately thought even Palpatine had gone. He had kept the plans in his bedside drawer, wary of his public perception should anyone find out he designed weapons of unprecedented destruction when he couldn’t sleep.
Somehow, someway, someone had found his plans. An invitation from the Senate had appeared in his inbox, summoning Hux to present his blueprints to a special high committee. Hux knew all the names and faces. Half were First Order specialists: children who had shown technical promise very early and had been trained in weapons development into adulthood. The rest were much older: the men and women who had built the original Death Star, if Hux’s research was accurate (Hux’s research was always accurate). As Hux began his presentation, they watched with composed faces. Their intelligent eyes followed his every move, bright with understanding, keen with interest. They asked pertinent questions. They hummed agreeably at Hux’s answers. They asked for budget quotes and didn’t balk when Hux replied honestly.
These people, definitely, were not taking Starkiller as a mental exercise. Hux had expected to feel, in his fantasies where his infant weapon was considered for development, pride at such calculating inquiries. At such sober intent. Starkiller would put Hux’s name on the tongues of every life form in the galaxy. His legacy would stretch into infinity. At one time, Hux had wanted nothing more.
Now, Hux’s stomach rolled, sickened.
Hux had the First Order in his bones. His blood was Imperial blood. He had lost his mother to the Exodus. His father had died in Hux’s seventeenth year to a slaver attack on Arkanis. He had lost siblings: an elder sister to sickness, an infant brother to starvation. None would have happened had the Empire remained; had the New Republic stuck to their promises and given a shit about the outer rim, where so many Imperials had fled. Hux wanted the universe to change like no one else. He craved a new order with every breath he took and his family didn’t. He would gladly kill for his goal.
But. Billions dead at the push of a button. Astronomical resources devoted to one strategy. The First Order had to maintain strict financial responsibility as it was. Their resources supported the entire outer rim, just barely. First Order planets hadn’t eaten a thing that wasn’t rationed within an inch of starvation in thirty years. Such unyielding measures were all that had fended off the famines of the Exodus years. Millions, maybe billions, of their own people would have to starve again to build Hux’s pet project. It was reckless, possibly the same prideful misstep that had ended the Empire in the first place. And everyone would know Hux was behind it.
Kylo would know Hux was behind it. Kylo, who would gleefully kill for his purposes, but grimaced at the body counts. “A waste of life, Hux. Just a waste of life.” What would he say about ten billion?
Hux didn’t like to think Kylo had such a powerful influence on him. In his professional world, aboard his Finalizer, Hux roped Kylo off to a specific part of his brain (his heart). Thinking now about Starkiller, however, it wasn’t the black emptiness of a destroyed planet, the execution order of a war crimes tribunal, or the starving faces of First Order citizens that truly made Hux hesitate. Instead, Kylo’s wide, dark eyes possessed his mind. The matt glaze they took on when numb with horror, like no soul lived beyond their depths. Hux had seen that look only once, tainting the moment Hux knew he would never be able to let Kylo go.
“They’re your people, aren’t they?” Kylo’s black clothes had been so soaked with blood they had dripped. The entire room had gone deathly silent. Kylo had wiped the worst from his face, neck, and hands, but that had helped but little. “I don’t get involved with slavers. They kill the people they take rather than give them up. It’s stupid and suicidal to get involved.” Kylo had recited, as though an instruction that had become instinct.
“Kylo,” Hux had replied, bewildered. They had been fairly new to their relationship. Kylo had stormed into the cantina like Death personified, gripped Hux by the wrist, and tugged him out of the building. “Stars, what are you on about?” Surprise and growing concern had kept Hux from freeing himself.
Kylo had pulled Hux onto his ship and towards the hold, silent but vibrating with tension. Hux had been dumbstruck by the sheer carnage. Kylo had always been a messy ship-keep, haphazard and unkempt. Never before had Hux seen so much damage done to Kylo’s prized transport, however. Without stopping, Hux had been made to skip over bits of flesh and full corpses, wearing the rags associated with Hutt slavers. Hux had taken a vicious stab of pleasure from the bodies, as he always did. Such creatures were only good when dead.
“I saw a couple of First Order ships in pursuit, but they were shot down before I was in range. I’m sorry, there’s only so many survivors,” Kylo had said. They had stopped outside the hold. Hux hadn’t had a chance to reply before the door was sliding open, revealing perhaps fifteen terrified faces. At least three had been young Arkanians Hux knew by name.
Kylo had cursed, rage taking over as sudden as a storm. His fist went into the wall, making a thunderclap that had shaken Hux from his shock. Belatedly, he had realized there were tears falling down Kylo’s cheeks, dripping onto the floor with the blood. “What the kriff. They’re just kids.”
“Calm down,” Hux had snapped, and then, in the midst of calling the Finalizer and bringing aboard the survivors, each more grateful than the last to Kylo especially but Hux as well, Hux had caught that devastated look in Kylo’s eyes.
“I just don’t understand it, Hux. It’s all such a waste.” Kylo had murmured, staring dismally into the darkness. Hux had intended to go immediately back to the Finalizer. He had needed to organize return transport for the survivors, get a check-in with the Arkanian base forces, organize a retrieval for the shot down ships and dead pilots. But he’d paused, caught in Kylo’s wet, disassociated eyes.
Kylo had still been covered in blood. Blood he’d spilled at great personal risk, for the sake of Hux’s people. No one who wasn’t an ex-Imperial of some stretch had ever done that, but Kylo had. Because he was a good person? Maybe. Hux still didn’t feel he knew Kylo well enough to definitely tell. A more cynical part of Hux whispered that perhaps Kylo had acted for Hux. The possessive creature inside his chest had purred with content.
In that moment, Kylo became Hux’s. And Hux didn’t harm his own—or let them harm themselves.
“Come here,” Hux had ordered, inordinately pleased when Kylo followed without hesitation. The blood hadn’t dripped anymore, but rather flaked off Kylo’s titanic frame as he uncurled from the chair he’d thrown himself into. Hux had ticked over him with an assessing eye. “Strip.”
A short-circuiting machine, Kylo had blinked at him. “What?”
“Those clothes are ruined,” Hux had stated, cool. “And some of that blood must be yours.”
“Not much of it.” The wincing and fresh bleeding as he shucked his layers had caught him out, however. Raising an eyebrow, Hux had set to work. With a med kit taken from the Finalizer, he’d gently cleaned and sealed Kylo’s wounds with bacta patches, then delicately bullied him into the ‘fresher. Not much later, he had coaxed a light meal into Kylo and then subtly manipulated him into lying down. Muffled noise could be heard as Hux’s best engineers patched up Kylo’s ship.
“I don’t let anyone touch my ship,” Kylo had murmured, confused, but he was sleepy. Like a great, languid cat, he was tidied of blood from his hunt and ready to rest his wounds. Hux had seen to that, just as he sometimes saw to Millicent when she deigned to allow him the privilege.
“I won’t go anywhere until I’ve checked the work myself,” Hux had assured. “You have my word, you will not suffer for helping me. Well,” Hux had amended, swallowing. “Any more than you have.”
“S’were your people. I like you,” Kylo had slurred, half-asleep. His hand held Hux’s jacket sleeve. Hux hadn’t removed him. “You make my head quiet.”
Lightly, hesitantly, Hux had stroked his fingers through Kylo’s curls. “I like you, too.” He hadn’t known how to respond to the other part. Hux was hardly a calming influence—what did Kylo mean?
Hux still didn’t know what Kylo meant, half the time. The man was like three people. One demanding and violent, who brought Hux dead slavers as presents. A second, who was withdrawn, forbidding, but valued other life more than his own. The third, Hux saw the least: a smiling man with a sweet tooth, who spoke Wookie, had mastered dejarik, and flew like he was born to it. After many nights of musings, when sleep wouldn’t come—and, as of recently, Starkiller disturbed rather than settled him—Hux had tried to understand what drew him most to Kylo. There was no discernable answer, so far as Hux could see. The pieces of Kylo were too warped together, fused like a ship wreck. There could be no one part without the others.
Kylo was beautiful but sharp, damaged. Someone had broken Hux’s man well before Hux had found him. That thought irritated him, a splinter in his soul. No one now could lay a finger on Kylo that Hux couldn’t bend backward and snap off. That someone already had made him snarl.
As he left the meeting, Hux was decided. Shamefully, he had waffled a little in planning his coup of the First Order. His research had led Hux to conclude that this Supreme Leader, Snoke, was a powerful Force mystic, like in those Imperial folk tales about Vader. Hux, strictly speaking, did not hold much with the Force. While some in the Exodus had bought into New Republican propaganda that the Force had sided with the Rebels and the “Light,” Hux had always put the Empire’s failure down to poor planning and pride. However, Hux’s research—relying on more espionage and select interrogation at his own, personal black sites than a casual dip to the library—suggested that ridding the Order of Snoke’s odious miasma would require more than a blaster in even Hux’s almost preternaturally skilled hands.
Hux needed Force-sensitives on his side to pull his plans off. Irritatingly, Snoke appeared to have cornered the market: his Knights of Ren were the only names in the mercenary business. Hux could hardly ask Snoke to put a hit on himself. However, that left Hux with only the most awful possible option. The fucking Jedi.
Hux could forgive Luke Skywalker for destroying the Death Star and damning the Empire. War was war. But if there was one New Republic personality Hux despised more than Senator Ben Organa, it was Skywalker. His opinions gave Hux a toothache, so fine, soft, and delicate as they were. He was the cotton candy of politics. The Senator, at least, fought viciously for his points. Skywalker was more wont to hum, smiling benignly at his opponent like he was simply waiting for their enlightenment to finally begin. And that was only when he could be coaxed from his new Jedi Temple to offer a few words to the benighted masses, with much fawning both before and after from the New Republic Senate.
Except for, noticeably and interestingly, the Senator. Though not many seemed to realize, Organa was Skywalker’s nephew, the General Organa being Skywalker’s much more respectable twin. Yet, Senator Organa and Luke Skywalker behaved as perfect strangers toward each other. The General often attempted to be a bridge, but her son and brother appeared content to burn her at both sides. Hux had studied the Skywalker clan so far as they were politically salient and he had noticed the tension between the three. Anger, Hux thought. Betrayal. As one accustomed to such feelings, Hux found it particularly easy to read the hostility in their practiced public smiles.
The New Republic’s emblematic family, and at least three members could barely stand to breath the same air. The forth living relation, the Senator’s father, was a perpetual absence. Nominally a war hero but mostly still an infamous smuggler, his son didn’t even use his name publicly. One would think Han Solo was dead, had they looked only at the press releases surrounding his family. Hux supposed that was the logical consequence when your job was to flout the careful peace treaties your son fought so ardently for in the Senate.
Hux had always noted these points with a bit of humor. Now, he wondered if the strained Skywalker dynasty could be of use. Once upon a time, the Jedi had as big a body count as the Sith, but how deep did their current pacifism go? Hux didn’t know that he could convince Luke Skywalker to marshal his precious fledglings against Snoke without help. General Organa seemed the most obvious answer. She was as military-minded as Hux. Surely she could see how dangerous a creature like Snoke would be in control of an implement like the First Order. But, what if she thought Hux would be just as dangerous? If their roles reversed, Hux’s instinct would be to align against Snoke and ensure that the General became a tragic casualty in the struggle. Hux couldn’t risk that he and the General were that similar.
He couldn’t imagine Han Solo would be any help, black sheep that he appeared to be. So. That left the Senator. Hux breathed slowly. What a nightmare. What a gamble. Sure, Ben Organa was perhaps the least flighty and least dangerous of Hux’s options, but Stars knew if he had any actual pull with his uncle or mother. Would he even care about removing Snoke? The Senator was known for wrangling impossible peace treaties and advocating civil rights causes, not military coups.
Still, Hux would have to try. Force sensitives didn’t just spring from the desert, after all.
Walking into his office, he summoned Phasma on his pad. He had gone over every inch of his office personally for bugs, using equipment Hux had tuned himself. There was nowhere more secure on the ship. Yet, the Force aspect of his enemy made Hux feel more paranoid than ever. Could Snoke divine Hux’s plans through his mysticism? That was the only way Hux could think that Snoke could have discovered Starkiller. Hux had spoken about the plans to no one.
“I’ve decided to do a final circuit of Hosnian Prime. Hopefully, I’ll be able to sort out some support for the Order’s new endeavor,” Hux announced to Phasma as she arrived, smiling as though pleased. The excuse was a good one. The Republic liked to talk about their virtues, but some of the First Order’s largest supporters were drawn from their ranks. That Hux never intended to let Starkiller move past the consideration stage need not be mentioned. Such a waste, but Hux didn’t want a Death Star attached to his name. Could he scale the plans down? Make something capable of deleting starships from existence? Hm. There was an option.
Focus, Hux chastised himself. He could day dream later.
“Good plan,” Phasma offered. Her face was placid but her thin-ice eyes were sparkling. She was Hux’s second-in-command, his hand-chosen captain. She had been a gladiator, once upon a time, working the outer rim. Hux had seen her wasted potential, plucked her from the dirt and fast-tracked her through the Academy, where she had flourished above all others. He’d felt no guilt about promoting her at every available opportunity until she stood at his side. Phasma had rewarded his faith with unflinching loyalty and vicious obedience. She had saved his life at least twice in the four years since.
Now, she was his partner in usurpation.
Hux smiled, genuine and pleased. “Give the instruction, captain. We have a future to secure.”
A future that would, as Hux planned, bring he and Kylo closer than ever, with no obstacles to keep them apart. Finally.