Chapter Text
The station was falling apart.
The air smelled faintly of ozone and decay - old wiring exposed to time, dry coolant hanging in the air like ghosts of engines long since silenced. The temperature fluctuated unpredictably, cold in one corridor, stuffy in another, as if the station itself was unsure whether to shiver or sweat. Light filtered dimly through cracked fixtures above, casting skeletal shadows that danced along the corroded walls with every flicker. Somewhere, something hissed - steam or warning, Poe couldn’t tell.
It was the kind of place that made even trained soldiers glance over their shoulder. The kind of place where footsteps felt too loud and breathing too obvious. A forgotten limb of a dead empire, hollowed out and left to rot at the edge of the galaxy.
Poe Dameron ducked beneath a low-hanging pipe, stepping over a loose panel that sparked faintly underfoot. The walls around him were a patchwork of rust and forgotten code, long since abandoned by any governing power. The Outer Rim bred this kind of decay - and secrets. Just the kind of place you would send a Resistance pilot to meet a ghost.
He adjusted the collar of his jacket, one eye on the blinking navpad that led him deeper into the structure. The corridors grew quieter the further in he moved, the sounds of ship traffic and distant mechanical hums fading behind sealed blast doors. Here, in the bones of the station, he was alone.
Almost.
The silence wasn’t quite perfect. Now and then came the creak of stressed metal, the faint whisper of energy in the walls - old systems, maybe, still alive out of habit. Or something else.
He still wasn’t sure why they had sent him, of all people. Maybe it was trust. Maybe it was a test. Maybe the Resistance simply had no one else willing to walk into the shadows for a ghost’s whisper. And yet, they had insisted on Poe. And eventually, he’d agreed - though what he really wanted right now was a break.
He had been given no name. Just a contact ID, a vague profile. Someone with high-level intel, formerly embedded in the First Order. Defector. Extremely valuable. Dangerous. Probably paranoid as hell.
He expected a scarred ex-officer. Grizzled, maybe. Someone broken in the way that makes them useful but unpredictable. Someone who smelled like smoke and slept with a blaster under their pillow.
He didn’t expect him.
Poe stepped into the meeting chamber - an old security room, stripped of tech but not tension - and stopped dead. It was colder here, the air still and heavy, like it remembered better days.
There, standing with precise posture and a coat that still looked too neat for someone on the run, was Armitage Hux.
Of course, he wasn’t introduced as such. The man turned toward him slowly, his expression unreadable. Every line of him was composed. Controlled.
"Dameron," he said. No rank, no courtesy. No warmth.
Poe blinked. Then a low whistle escaped him, humorless but alive with disbelief. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
Hux didn’t respond. He simply raised an eyebrow, gaze sharp enough to slice through hesitation.
It took Poe a beat to rein in the surge of memories: shackles, cold steel, the Finalizer’s sterile lights. Hux’s voice, clinical and dispassionate. But this man looked different now. Paler. Tighter. Like something held together too long by pure force of will.
There was wear on the hem of his coat. The lines around his eyes looked deeper. His hands were folded behind his back, but Poe noticed the tension in his shoulders.
"You remember me," Poe said finally, folding his arms. "Then you know how tempting it is to walk away right now" He paused, his brow furrowed as the doubt surfaced in his voice, one hand on his weapon
"What is this supposed to be, some kind of game?"
He let the words hang in the stale air between them, sharp as a drawn blaster. Poe remembered the sting of humiliation aboard the Finalizer, the way Hux had stood above him like a statue carved out of contempt. That memory alone should’ve been enough to turn on his heel and leave or simply raise his gun and shoot.
But this wasn’t the Finalizer. And this wasn’t quite the same man - or was he? The idea of Hux as the defector - the Resistance’s newest, most dangerous asset - felt absurd, like a line from a bad intelligence briefing Poe hadn’t fully believed. As if.
Hux didn’t react - no twitch, no shift of expression. If he was surprised too, he was very good at not letting it show. Just that blank, frigid stare.
Poe sighed and shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching with disbelief. "Honestly, I didn’t expect you, of all people. Still dressing like a recruitment poster," Poe added quietly and more to himself.
Still, nothing from Hux. But Poe swore he saw a brief flicker - just something tired maybe, behind the eyes. A flash of exhaustion, although no indication of any emotion.
"If you’re done," Hux eventually said, his tone even, "we have work to discuss."
Poe leaned back slightly, one hand still on his weapon, a sharp edge creeping into his voice. “As if someone like you suddenly had a change of heart. Who’s supposed to believe that?”
Hux didn’t respond right away. He held Poe’s gaze, calm and cold, unflinching. Then, with a clipped finality: “No one. I don’t care what you believe. I have my own objectives.”
Poe let out a quiet scoff. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Poe studied him. He wasn’t sure what made him stay.
Maybe it was the echo of old fear. He still remembered the cell on the Finalizer - narrow, sterile, with lights that never dimmed. The way his hands had cramped in the binders, the cold bite of durasteel against his skin. He remembered the way Hux had looked through him, like he was a malfunctioning datapad, something to be fixed or discarded. It had left a mark deeper than he'd ever admitted.
But this man standing before him - this ghost in a perfect coat - looked like someone who had been broken in a different way. Not with violence, but with time. Disillusionment. That unsettled Poe more than he cared to admit. Yet he was still sharp-edged, unreadable, the cold calculation in his eyes intact.
So why should he stay and entertain this farce at all? Curiosity? Instinct? The awareness that Hux must be important - too important for the Resistance to ignore that came with the knowledge that he must be of significant value to them - the kind of man who knew too much, who had been the machinery of the First Order himself from the inside. Maybe that was why Poe stayed. Not for sympathy. Not for trust. But whatever had driven Hux to suddenly stand against the First Order, - they now stood, more or less, on the same side. For whatever reason Hux had turned, did it even matter? They had a shared enemy. And that, for now, had to be enough. The former general might just be the weapon the Resistance needed most.
That realization settled in Poe’s mind like a weight - uncomfortable, unwelcome, but undeniable. He was staring at a man shaped by the enemy’s inner workings, someone forged in cold strategy and brutal command. There was no telling what damage Hux had done - besides the genocide on the Hosnian system—or what secrets he might still carry.
Poe let the thought go, filing it away under too many questions and not enough time. There were bruises at Hux’s throat, half-hidden by his collar. Poe didn’t ask.
He stepped forward, slowly. "Fine. But I swear, if this is a setup -"
"It isn’t," Hux interrupted. Too fast. Too practiced. He didn’t move.
The silence stretched. Poe could feel the station breathing around them. Ancient. Hollow. Watching.
Poe narrowed his eyes, but he took his hand off his weapon and folded both arms in front of his chest
"You’re a long way from the Finalizer," he said quietly.
"That life is over."
Poe almost believed him.
Outside, the stars burned silent.
Inside, two men who should have remained enemies prepared to become something else entirely.