(“Last chance to get off, General. If you hurry you might just make the jump.”
“Ren, if you don’t land this ship right now-“
Ren wasn’t listening. Ren was never fucking listening. He was nosing the shuttle out of the hanger doors.)
Hux snarls at the memory, banging his fist against the fire-blackened shuttle console. It doesn’t so much as beep. The thing was destroyed- little more than a twisted pile of junk now. It was a miracle the three of them had gotten out alive, all things considered. One entire wing had been torn off during entry of the atmosphere, exposing the interior to the harsh desert around them. Sand was already beginning to accumulate around his feet. Sand was beginning to accumulate everywhere, he was discovering.
“It wasn’t a miracle,” Ren’s voice says from behind him.
“What have I told you about staying out of my head?” Hux says, without any particular venom. He has reached his saturation point when it came to hating Kylo Ren. There was simply no more room in him to store any more of it.
There is sound of metal-on-metal as Ren pulls up one of the floor panels and begins rooting around in the space underneath with one long arm. He’s lost the mask; ether in the crash or in deference to the parching heat. The scar bisecting his face is still faintly pink, though fading at the edges. Absurdly, Hux notices that Ren's hair is beginning to frizz from the heat.
Hux had never seen Kylo Ren without the mask until recently. Could still barely even imagine him without it. The boyish face underneath had been... not what he was expecting. Hux had been responsible for the revolutionizing of the Stormtrooper training system. He had seen literally millions of troops pass through his program. Masks were commonplace. Nearly comforting in their blank uniformity.
The mask suited Ren better than the face did, he decided. Those eyes belonged to someone sweet. Someone soft. Not Ren.
“I was able to cushion our landing, such as it was,” Ren says, extracting a medkit from the compartment under the floor grating and laying it to the side. Hux makes a noise just to signify that he’s heard him. He hadn’t missed the way Ren had turned away from him at their last dual meeting with Leader Snoke. The way he had kept his eyes firmly fixed forward, as if daring the General to say something about his exposed face.
Well, whatever issues he had with it before, Ren seems to have come to terms with them. He watches Hux, curiously, his arm still buried in the guts of the shuttle.
“It’s just a pity I didn’t have time to save more of the ship,” he says, withdrawing his empty hand. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Saving your life.”
Ren hefts the medkit and stands.
“Saving my life?” he says to Ren’s retreating back. “I hardly heard you thanking me when I dragged your sorry carcass off of Starkiller Base after that girl nearly killed you.”
It’s petty and petulant, he knows. Beneath him. Still, he is hot and irritated, and Ren is trying his last frayed nerve.
“You were under orders,” Ren says simply, without turning to look at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Hux catches sight of TR-4022 focusing very, very hard on sorting through the wreckage of their debris field. Good man.
“It still counts,” Hux adds before Ren can argue, pursuing him over the sand dunes that surround the shuttle, “And another thing- one very important thing, Ren. My life wouldn’t have needed saving if it weren’t for your pathetic wounded ego and lack of self-control. If you hadn’t been itching for a rematch with the little girl who beat you-“
Suddenly Hux cannot breathe. He chokes, clutching at the invisible hand closed around his throat.
“I would think very hard about my next words if I were you, General. I can always say you died in the crash,” Ren says, curling his fingers.
Off to the side, TR-4022 is humming to himself.
Hux glares impotently until Ren releases him. He hopes, for just a moment, that Ren is reading his thoughts right now, and lingers on some carefully culled ones involving Ren’s mother and a bantha just in case. “What now, then?” Ren says, after a few minutes have passed, seemingly, disappointingly, unaware of Hux’s dark thoughts.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the tactician. How do we get back to the ship?”
Hux runs a hand over his face, trying to soothe away the frayed edges of his headache. His skin is already turning red and warm from the unending sun. “We find a way to signal for help.”
“How do we do that?”
Were he anyone else, Hux might be irritated at the assumption that he must single-handedly orchestrate their escape. As it is, Hux has been considering just that for nearly an hour now, building up a checklist of options and contingencies.
“Well, the ship is shot,” Hux says, working his way through his mental list. “There’s no way we’ll muster enough power to activate the distress beacon, even if it somehow managed to still be able to hold a signal.”
Hux progresses to plan B. “Can you, I don’t know, contact Leader Snoke through the Force or something?”
Ren appears thoughtful.
“Not at this distance, no” he says. “I can send out a sort of general distress cry that might reach the Finalizer. If so, I could guide the ship to our location. But…”
“Yes?”
“There’s no way of targeting the crew of the Finalizer specifically.”
“Which means what, to those of us who didn’t go to magic school?”
Ren frowns at him, but Hux cannot tell if it is because of what he is about to say or because of the ‘magic’ crack. “It means that any force-sensitive person in the area might hear it.”
“Ah,” Hux says. “Such as your desert rat.”
“Or General Organa,” Ren adds, coldly.
Well we don’t want mummy running to your rescue, do we? Hux thinks sourly, to cover up the disappointment he feels at the unsuitability of this plan. They’re in no state to fight off the Resistance should the wrong person come running to Ren’s psychic distress cry. Damn. Which left plan C.
“There’s a village within a sizable walking distance of here. I saw it on the readout as the ship was going down. This is a pre-industrial planet, but once we get there I’m confident I can scrap together a transmitter so long as we take the targeting crystals from the ship. “
“How sizable of a distance?”
Hux shakes the sand out of his brain and runs a few quick mental calculations, “Three weeks brisk walk?”
Ren looks around them at the endless expanse of desert. Reddish-gold sand stretches in every direction, unchanging, seemingly to the very edge of the horizon. Hux isn’t exactly enthused about this plan either.
“General? Lord Ren?” TR-4022 interjects hesitantly. “If I may, sirs, there’s one problem with that plan.”
“Yes, TR-4022?” Hux prompts.
“The emergency ration kits appear to be… gone, sir.”
It was his own arrangement. Every shuttle contained a week’s survival rations- nutrient paste and a water condensation module, designed to pull moisture out of the air- for every essential crew-member. It was intended for occasions just such as this.
“I’m worried it may have blown out during out descent, sirs. I’ve found one of the water condensers, but none of the food rations. “
Ren’s mouth quirks in what might have been a humorless smile. It sits awkwardly on his face, like a guest that knows it isn’t welcome.
“Three weeks walk,” he echoes, “Are you any good at hunting, General?”
Fill pt. 2 - Kylo/Hux - Roughing it. Hux is Not Amused
“Ren, if you don’t land this ship right now-“
Ren wasn’t listening. Ren was never fucking listening. He was nosing the shuttle out of the hanger doors.)
Hux snarls at the memory, banging his fist against the fire-blackened shuttle console. It doesn’t so much as beep. The thing was destroyed- little more than a twisted pile of junk now. It was a miracle the three of them had gotten out alive, all things considered. One entire wing had been torn off during entry of the atmosphere, exposing the interior to the harsh desert around them. Sand was already beginning to accumulate around his feet. Sand was beginning to accumulate everywhere, he was discovering.
“It wasn’t a miracle,” Ren’s voice says from behind him.
“What have I told you about staying out of my head?” Hux says, without any particular venom. He has reached his saturation point when it came to hating Kylo Ren. There was simply no more room in him to store any more of it.
There is sound of metal-on-metal as Ren pulls up one of the floor panels and begins rooting around in the space underneath with one long arm. He’s lost the mask; ether in the crash or in deference to the parching heat. The scar bisecting his face is still faintly pink, though fading at the edges. Absurdly, Hux notices that Ren's hair is beginning to frizz from the heat.
Hux had never seen Kylo Ren without the mask until recently. Could still barely even imagine him without it. The boyish face underneath had been... not what he was expecting. Hux had been responsible for the revolutionizing of the Stormtrooper training system. He had seen literally millions of troops pass through his program. Masks were commonplace. Nearly comforting in their blank uniformity.
The mask suited Ren better than the face did, he decided. Those eyes belonged to someone sweet. Someone soft. Not Ren.
“I was able to cushion our landing, such as it was,” Ren says, extracting a medkit from the compartment under the floor grating and laying it to the side. Hux makes a noise just to signify that he’s heard him. He hadn’t missed the way Ren had turned away from him at their last dual meeting with Leader Snoke. The way he had kept his eyes firmly fixed forward, as if daring the General to say something about his exposed face.
Well, whatever issues he had with it before, Ren seems to have come to terms with them. He watches Hux, curiously, his arm still buried in the guts of the shuttle.
“It’s just a pity I didn’t have time to save more of the ship,” he says, withdrawing his empty hand. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Saving your life.”
Ren hefts the medkit and stands.
“Saving my life?” he says to Ren’s retreating back. “I hardly heard you thanking me when I dragged your sorry carcass off of Starkiller Base after that girl nearly killed you.”
It’s petty and petulant, he knows. Beneath him. Still, he is hot and irritated, and Ren is trying his last frayed nerve.
“You were under orders,” Ren says simply, without turning to look at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Hux catches sight of TR-4022 focusing very, very hard on sorting through the wreckage of their debris field. Good man.
“It still counts,” Hux adds before Ren can argue, pursuing him over the sand dunes that surround the shuttle, “And another thing- one very important thing, Ren. My life wouldn’t have needed saving if it weren’t for your pathetic wounded ego and lack of self-control. If you hadn’t been itching for a rematch with the little girl who beat you-“
Suddenly Hux cannot breathe. He chokes, clutching at the invisible hand closed around his throat.
“I would think very hard about my next words if I were you, General. I can always say you died in the crash,” Ren says, curling his fingers.
Off to the side, TR-4022 is humming to himself.
Hux glares impotently until Ren releases him. He hopes, for just a moment, that Ren is reading his thoughts right now, and lingers on some carefully culled ones involving Ren’s mother and a bantha just in case.
“What now, then?” Ren says, after a few minutes have passed, seemingly, disappointingly, unaware of Hux’s dark thoughts.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the tactician. How do we get back to the ship?”
Hux runs a hand over his face, trying to soothe away the frayed edges of his headache. His skin is already turning red and warm from the unending sun. “We find a way to signal for help.”
“How do we do that?”
Were he anyone else, Hux might be irritated at the assumption that he must single-handedly orchestrate their escape. As it is, Hux has been considering just that for nearly an hour now, building up a checklist of options and contingencies.
“Well, the ship is shot,” Hux says, working his way through his mental list. “There’s no way we’ll muster enough power to activate the distress beacon, even if it somehow managed to still be able to hold a signal.”
Hux progresses to plan B. “Can you, I don’t know, contact Leader Snoke through the Force or something?”
Ren appears thoughtful.
“Not at this distance, no” he says. “I can send out a sort of general distress cry that might reach the Finalizer. If so, I could guide the ship to our location. But…”
“Yes?”
“There’s no way of targeting the crew of the Finalizer specifically.”
“Which means what, to those of us who didn’t go to magic school?”
Ren frowns at him, but Hux cannot tell if it is because of what he is about to say or because of the ‘magic’ crack. “It means that any force-sensitive person in the area might hear it.”
“Ah,” Hux says. “Such as your desert rat.”
“Or General Organa,” Ren adds, coldly.
Well we don’t want mummy running to your rescue, do we? Hux thinks sourly, to cover up the disappointment he feels at the unsuitability of this plan. They’re in no state to fight off the Resistance should the wrong person come running to Ren’s psychic distress cry. Damn. Which left plan C.
“There’s a village within a sizable walking distance of here. I saw it on the readout as the ship was going down. This is a pre-industrial planet, but once we get there I’m confident I can scrap together a transmitter so long as we take the targeting crystals from the ship. “
“How sizable of a distance?”
Hux shakes the sand out of his brain and runs a few quick mental calculations, “Three weeks brisk walk?”
Ren looks around them at the endless expanse of desert. Reddish-gold sand stretches in every direction, unchanging, seemingly to the very edge of the horizon. Hux isn’t exactly enthused about this plan either.
“General? Lord Ren?” TR-4022 interjects hesitantly. “If I may, sirs, there’s one problem with that plan.”
“Yes, TR-4022?” Hux prompts.
“The emergency ration kits appear to be… gone, sir.”
It was his own arrangement. Every shuttle contained a week’s survival rations- nutrient paste and a water condensation module, designed to pull moisture out of the air- for every essential crew-member. It was intended for occasions just such as this.
“I’m worried it may have blown out during out descent, sirs. I’ve found one of the water condensers, but none of the food rations. “
Ren’s mouth quirks in what might have been a humorless smile. It sits awkwardly on his face, like a guest that knows it isn’t welcome.
“Three weeks walk,” he echoes, “Are you any good at hunting, General?”