CATATONIC

-1-

“I need you on the ground,” Ren says instead, measured, but tight-strung as a grappling cable. Apparently sensing the retort on the tip of Hux’s tongue, he continues, “But I’m not taking you into the thick of combat.”

Hux thins his lips, keeps up the patient tone. “That’s where this team and I will be most effective.”

“At too high a risk.”

Since when do you care about risks? Hux barely bites back, instead manages, level, “Nothing we do is without risk.”

Ren’s gaze flashes with an insistence that isn’t anger. His eyes are like coals, waiting for a spark. “I’m not taking you into that firefight.”

Really.

Fucking really.

“So you won’t take me into a firefight,” Hux lowers his voice to a hiss, but it still reverbs under the high ceiling, “yet you dragged me ten klicks below the surface of Coruscant.”

“Well, maybe I--” Ren hesitates, gnawing his lips. His gaze drops to the mosaic tile between their boots, then flickers back to Hux’s face. “I shouldn’t have.”

Hux is too pissed off to bask in the near-admission of wrong. “Well, you can compensate by bringing me this time, when it makes actual, tactical sense.”

“You’re not going into a combat zone.”

“I was born and raised in a--”

Ren’s voice drops to a whisper. “That’s an order,” he says, invoking it almost gently, below earshot of the men.

Hux purses his lips, aware of his surroundings again. Of the absolute indecorum of this argument.

Around himself and Ren, three officers stare at their feet, four tap too aggressively at their datapads. The two trooper commanders confer in whispers about a new blaster model. Mitaka seems interested in the mosaic on the floor.

“Yes, sir,” Hux forces out, Academy pert, and the gathered staff returns more or less to professional attention.

--- -2-

Hux whirls toward the sound as a massive shape bursts through the treeline, scattering leaves. Some sort of megafauna. Some sort of monster.

The creature’s smooth skin glistens livid green, its underbelly sickly pale. Its mouth opens wide, baring short, sharp teeth like a Rodian fly-trap’s. It has six legs, each ending in a crustacean pincer, which stab the ground with each step. It reeks of rot and salt, as if it just crawled out of brackish water.

Hux’s pulse skyrockets, and he jumps back on adrenaline. Why do you ever leave the ship, every time you leave the ship it’s some shit like this, every goddamn time—

He yells to Ren that they should run, even as the creature screeches again, lunges toward them.

But Ren stays put. “You should run.”

And Hux would. He would, but he’s already several meters back, and the soles of his boots weigh a kiloton. He’s rooted to the ground. The blood pounds in his ears, and he can’t move, can’t think.

The thing screeches. It’s high-pitched. It rends the air. Its movements ruffle the foliage around it. Its pincers break the damp earth.

Ren steps in front of Hux. Into its path.

--- -3-

But Yago’s lips still twist into something unbearably self-satisfied. “General Armitage Hux,” he says, “was executed six months ago on a charge of high treason. So even if Hux were alive, it would be my sworn duty to have him shot in the back of the head.”

It hits like a blow. Phantom pain lances through his leg, between his ribs. Yago’s right. There’s no defense when he’s--

Before Hux can formulate one, Ren’s gaze kindles. “I’m Supreme Leader,” he returns, typical thoughtless clapback. “I hereby pardon him.”

(Typical thoughtless clapback.)

Everyone knows traitors receive no mercy.

--- -4-

A humanoid figure emerges from the shadows like he’s been waiting there. In two strides, he closes the distance to Hux and Ren. It’s clear he’s part alien, skin teal-tinged and marked with pale striations. His voice is somewhat rough with drink, but his movements are smooth, purposeful, eyes trained on Hux.

“Thought you could just slip out with your date?” he spits.

There are far bigger concerns than correcting the assumption.

“What?” Hux returns, elegantly.

“The bartender told me you were coming this way,” the man says, ill-concealed rage contorting his mouth. “Got a lot more nerve than I’d give you credit for, showing your face like this.”

Shit. Hux’s pulse picks up, and for a second the alley takes on the sharp edges of panic. You knew this would happen eventually, you knew -- Stop.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tamping down the worst case scenario, “what are you--” 

But it’s like he doesn’t even hear it. 

“Kind of man that’ll pull a trigger from a thousand lightyears away. Not even the guts to look at what you’d done.” The man’s eyes flash with the sort of hatred Hux actually recognizes. “My wife was on Courtsilius, General Hux .”

The man takes a step closer, and Hux is about to spread his hands and explain with a baffled simper that he’s got the wrong person. That the Hosnian ‘Cataclysm’ was an unspeakable tragedy and a monstrous war crime.

But before he can speak, sulfurous green ignites in his periphery. The air hums, cracks with the sudden whiff of ozone. The blade of the antique saber impales the man’s chest.

--- -5-

Ren shakes his head. “But I still need you,” he says, eyes glittering, desperate, searching. “What about weapons dev? And you can actually conduct diplomacy--”

Hux cracks a smile. “That’s going a bit far.”

Ren huffs a laugh, but doesn’t indulge him. “You balance me,” he continues. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I love you.”