There really wasn’t much difference between commanding a fleet and ruling a galactic empire, Hux had found.
Or, rather – his Empire might not be quite galactic as of yet, thanks to the pesky interference of the so-called Resistance; but he still ruled over half the known planetary systems, with projected expansion plans to an even seventy percent of the galaxy by the time of his thirty-seventh birthday, just as planned. And, to his endless pleasure, he was handling it better than he could ever have expected.
Sure, being Emperor apparently entailed dealing a truly dismaying number of official documents and petty bureaucrats, but he had underlings for that sort of things. A couple of reasonably competed stewards in key positions, and all Hux had left to trouble himself with was giving orders, something he’d never had to struggle with.
Yes, he concluded to himself, being Emperor was truly a delight… or it would have been, if not for the constant hassle of state functions, and all the bullshit that came with them.
Brendol Hux, former general of the First Order, had spent almost his entire life on starships. Settlement was for civilians, in those first few years after the fall of the empire, or for narrow-sighted officers at a dead end in their careers. His father had been one of such men, once upon a time, influential but cast aside, well-connected but of little actual power – until the day the Empire had fallen, and its splendor with it; and all those scorned military men of the Outer Rim took their ships and their blasters and their orderly troopers, and set about rebuilding the new world.
Thirty years later Brendol Hux, Emperor of the Galaxy – or a sizeable portion of it, anyway – had taken up residence in the Core, as it was only suitable, and loathed every minute he had to waste dealing with the aristocratic slime that had been so quick to renounce their Empire and their values upon Palpatine’s death.
The upper crust of the Empire had fared better than the military had, with their riches and their claims to a nobility that preceded the fall of the Republic, guaranteed to land on their feet no matter what. They’d been – sympathetic to the Order, of course, but never openly supportive, their promises open-ended and whispered, their financial support a trickle of what it could have been. Hux still remembered the bitter humiliation of having to beg for money from the Core elite, knowing they would snicker about him behind their painted fans as soon as his back was turned, this provincial young officer clad in last year’s trends.
Even after all he’d achieved, all he’d conquered, the memories filled him with disgust. No, it was safe to say, the Emperor was not fond of his courtiers.
Unfortunately, some unpleasantries of life were to be endured – such as the upcoming celebration for his first year of rule, and the absolute nonsense of a stylist that came with it.
It had been his mother who’d suggested it first, during their routinely-scheduled weekly conversation. His relationship with his parents had never been typical, though it always ran smooth – if his father had been a cross between a steadfast mentor and a caring commanding officer, his mother’s keen eye and dry wit had always been a constant source of amusement and information through the years.
And so, when she’d brought it up for the first time – perhaps you ought to look more the part, Bren darling, for all the Core elitists who think the clothes make the man – and she’d given him a name and a contact within two minutes of his saying he would consider it, Hux had decided to count himself lucky. In these matters, his mother was never wrong.
And then he’d had his assistant call this designer, Kylo Ren, only to be passed through to his assistant, because Master Ren could not be bothered. Master Ren, it turned out, had a seventeen-months waiting list, and his people had to haggle with the stupid fool to get the time reduced to three weeks. Didn’t the man know that Hux had destroyed planets for less? Not that he could actually afford to make any of this public; Ren was apparently the most famous stylist in the galaxy, and the social embarrassment of being snubbed by the man in any way was not something Hux could get away with at this time.
In the end, it had taken eight days of tireless negotiations to get the man to the Imperial Residence. Master Ren, Hux’s assistant had been explained by Ren’s assistant, usually insisted his clients come to him in his exclusive Kuat study, a fundamental step in the creative process. As a compromise, Hux’s people had to grant Ren an entire wing, including nine suits of apartments, a private section of the gardens and a ballroom.
Even before actually meeting Kylo Ren, Hux knew he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience. Two minutes after being in the same room as the man, he was feeling more murderous than he had since the time Snoke had mind-controlled him, which had resulted in Hux blowing up his former leader from two star systems away, and declaring himself Emperor.
Their first scheduled appointment was for 0900, a time of the day Hux had always despised – too early to be anything but morning yet too late to get anything else done after; somehow it didn’t surprise him that Master Ren would sleep in late. All the rooms Ren had commandeered had been swept thoroughly by his security earlier, so Hux left his guards at the suite door and entered only accompanied by his assistant, Savika, whom he figured was too well-paid to dare spread the word of his upcoming humiliation.
Kylo Ren looked every bit as frustrating as Hux had expected he would be. When he came in, the man was busy frowning and mumbling at the sketchbook in his hands as he paced up and down the spacious sitting room, his long coat… mantle? cape? blowing dramatically as he went.
How unexpected, Hux thought.
Ren stiffened as he entered the room, and turned to look him up and down with a critical gleam in his eyes that left Hux feeling quite unnerved. He didn’t kneel or bow; merely lowered his head an imperceptible fraction, full lips tightening into a mockery of a smile.
“Emperor,” he offered.
“The customary address is ‘Your Highness’,” Savika offered, efficient as always, coming out from behind Hux to circle around Ren. “After that, ‘sire’ will suffice.”
“Charming,” Ren said, sounding anything but.
He crossed his arms over his chest, studying him, and Hux took the chance to do the same. The man was wearing a golden-yellow sort of… mantle that went all the way to his calf, with a complicated red motif on in. The mantle wasn’t buttoned and it opened in the front at the waist to show tight black trousers under it, but it was cut in such a way to make it hard to see what kind of shirt Ren had under it. Still, Hux was almost certain the man was wearing a fishnet shirt – black as well – and while the ensemble was nowhere as outlandish as some of Ren’s more popular creations, it didn’t exactly bode well.
He was broken out of his reverie by Ren’s decidedly loud sigh.
“Well,” the stylist said, looking resigned. “I can certainly see we’ll have a lot of work to do.”
Of all the irreverent, idiotic…
“Excuse me?” Hux asked, all practiced courtesy and barely-suppressed murderous instinct.
Ren had interesting features, with large eyes, a large nose and a long face. Hux tried to imagine how much better he’d look after his fist hit his face.
“I suppose your hair would be an asset,” Ren continued. “But whatever is that you put on it, it darkens it. It is also not working.” Hux had to fight the impulse to bring one hand to his head, suddenly incredibly self-conscious. “Add that to your coloring, and the way you present yourself… very dull. And small.”
Hux did not march in Savika’s direction and physically drag her out of the room, but it was a close thing. Instead he met the eyes of his assistant – saw her holding her breath as she stared at Ren in unmitigated horror – and gestured towards the door.
Ren noticed the exchange, of course. He kept talking. “Not like your marvelous assistant over here, of course. Much better coloring – earthly tones are always the best. And such perfect proportions!”
He was still talking when Hux slammed the door.
He found himself in the corridor, his corridor, breathing out slowly through his nostrils, utterly making a spectacle of himself in front of his very startled assistant and his entire security detail. He didn’t care – as long as none of this got back to Phasma, anyway.
“I want,” he said. “That imbecile. Out of my palace.”
“Sire,” Savika said. “With all respect.”
Hux stared at her, feeling his rage at that arrogant blabbering fool on the other side of the door and warning her with a look to be Very Careful.
Savika took a long breath. “Master Ren is the best fashion designer this side of Naboo,” she began, sounding like she was reading out Kylo Ren’s holonet page. Knowing her, she might have it memorized. “His creations are priceless and highly sought after, his craftsmanship unparalleled and his influence over Core society inestimable. The mere rumor of his taking you on as his client would gain you more advantages than an entire month of diplomatic meetings. You need him.”
That made more sense than Hux wanted to admit to himself. Still, Savika went on. “Yes, his character’s not the best, but –”
He let out a bark of laughter at that. Savika frowned, and Hux was pretty sure he saw one of the Stormtroopers wince. “His character’s not the best,” Hux repeated. Understatement of the year. “Tell me, why hasn’t anyone murdered him yet?”
“Because…” Savika started to answer, then stopped. She blinked and cleared her throat. “It actually makes sense that someone would try, wouldn’t it, sire?” she sounded genuinely puzzled. “Do you want me to look into that?”
What the hell, Hux thought. “If you have the time.”
When he went back inside, Ren was waiting for him, smirking.
“Everything sorted out there, sire?” he asked.
Hux forced himself to smile at him. “Perfectly,” he said. “Shall we begin?”
Fill: The Emperor's New Clothes, 1/3
Or, rather – his Empire might not be quite galactic as of yet, thanks to the pesky interference of the so-called Resistance; but he still ruled over half the known planetary systems, with projected expansion plans to an even seventy percent of the galaxy by the time of his thirty-seventh birthday, just as planned. And, to his endless pleasure, he was handling it better than he could ever have expected.
Sure, being Emperor apparently entailed dealing a truly dismaying number of official documents and petty bureaucrats, but he had underlings for that sort of things. A couple of reasonably competed stewards in key positions, and all Hux had left to trouble himself with was giving orders, something he’d never had to struggle with.
Yes, he concluded to himself, being Emperor was truly a delight… or it would have been, if not for the constant hassle of state functions, and all the bullshit that came with them.
Brendol Hux, former general of the First Order, had spent almost his entire life on starships. Settlement was for civilians, in those first few years after the fall of the empire, or for narrow-sighted officers at a dead end in their careers. His father had been one of such men, once upon a time, influential but cast aside, well-connected but of little actual power – until the day the Empire had fallen, and its splendor with it; and all those scorned military men of the Outer Rim took their ships and their blasters and their orderly troopers, and set about rebuilding the new world.
Thirty years later Brendol Hux, Emperor of the Galaxy – or a sizeable portion of it, anyway – had taken up residence in the Core, as it was only suitable, and loathed every minute he had to waste dealing with the aristocratic slime that had been so quick to renounce their Empire and their values upon Palpatine’s death.
The upper crust of the Empire had fared better than the military had, with their riches and their claims to a nobility that preceded the fall of the Republic, guaranteed to land on their feet no matter what. They’d been – sympathetic to the Order, of course, but never openly supportive, their promises open-ended and whispered, their financial support a trickle of what it could have been. Hux still remembered the bitter humiliation of having to beg for money from the Core elite, knowing they would snicker about him behind their painted fans as soon as his back was turned, this provincial young officer clad in last year’s trends.
Even after all he’d achieved, all he’d conquered, the memories filled him with disgust. No, it was safe to say, the Emperor was not fond of his courtiers.
Unfortunately, some unpleasantries of life were to be endured – such as the upcoming celebration for his first year of rule, and the absolute nonsense of a stylist that came with it.
It had been his mother who’d suggested it first, during their routinely-scheduled weekly conversation. His relationship with his parents had never been typical, though it always ran smooth – if his father had been a cross between a steadfast mentor and a caring commanding officer, his mother’s keen eye and dry wit had always been a constant source of amusement and information through the years.
And so, when she’d brought it up for the first time – perhaps you ought to look more the part, Bren darling, for all the Core elitists who think the clothes make the man – and she’d given him a name and a contact within two minutes of his saying he would consider it, Hux had decided to count himself lucky. In these matters, his mother was never wrong.
And then he’d had his assistant call this designer, Kylo Ren, only to be passed through to his assistant, because Master Ren could not be bothered. Master Ren, it turned out, had a seventeen-months waiting list, and his people had to haggle with the stupid fool to get the time reduced to three weeks. Didn’t the man know that Hux had destroyed planets for less? Not that he could actually afford to make any of this public; Ren was apparently the most famous stylist in the galaxy, and the social embarrassment of being snubbed by the man in any way was not something Hux could get away with at this time.
In the end, it had taken eight days of tireless negotiations to get the man to the Imperial Residence. Master Ren, Hux’s assistant had been explained by Ren’s assistant, usually insisted his clients come to him in his exclusive Kuat study, a fundamental step in the creative process. As a compromise, Hux’s people had to grant Ren an entire wing, including nine suits of apartments, a private section of the gardens and a ballroom.
Even before actually meeting Kylo Ren, Hux knew he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience. Two minutes after being in the same room as the man, he was feeling more murderous than he had since the time Snoke had mind-controlled him, which had resulted in Hux blowing up his former leader from two star systems away, and declaring himself Emperor.
Their first scheduled appointment was for 0900, a time of the day Hux had always despised – too early to be anything but morning yet too late to get anything else done after; somehow it didn’t surprise him that Master Ren would sleep in late. All the rooms Ren had commandeered had been swept thoroughly by his security earlier, so Hux left his guards at the suite door and entered only accompanied by his assistant, Savika, whom he figured was too well-paid to dare spread the word of his upcoming humiliation.
Kylo Ren looked every bit as frustrating as Hux had expected he would be. When he came in, the man was busy frowning and mumbling at the sketchbook in his hands as he paced up and down the spacious sitting room, his long coat… mantle? cape? blowing dramatically as he went.
How unexpected, Hux thought.
Ren stiffened as he entered the room, and turned to look him up and down with a critical gleam in his eyes that left Hux feeling quite unnerved. He didn’t kneel or bow; merely lowered his head an imperceptible fraction, full lips tightening into a mockery of a smile.
“Emperor,” he offered.
“The customary address is ‘Your Highness’,” Savika offered, efficient as always, coming out from behind Hux to circle around Ren. “After that, ‘sire’ will suffice.”
“Charming,” Ren said, sounding anything but.
He crossed his arms over his chest, studying him, and Hux took the chance to do the same. The man was wearing a golden-yellow sort of… mantle that went all the way to his calf, with a complicated red motif on in. The mantle wasn’t buttoned and it opened in the front at the waist to show tight black trousers under it, but it was cut in such a way to make it hard to see what kind of shirt Ren had under it. Still, Hux was almost certain the man was wearing a fishnet shirt – black as well – and while the ensemble was nowhere as outlandish as some of Ren’s more popular creations, it didn’t exactly bode well.
He was broken out of his reverie by Ren’s decidedly loud sigh.
“Well,” the stylist said, looking resigned. “I can certainly see we’ll have a lot of work to do.”
Of all the irreverent, idiotic…
“Excuse me?” Hux asked, all practiced courtesy and barely-suppressed murderous instinct.
“Well, sire,” Ren said. Snarled, really. “You’re quite drab, aren’t you?”
Ren had interesting features, with large eyes, a large nose and a long face. Hux tried to imagine how much better he’d look after his fist hit his face.
“I suppose your hair would be an asset,” Ren continued. “But whatever is that you put on it, it darkens it. It is also not working.” Hux had to fight the impulse to bring one hand to his head, suddenly incredibly self-conscious. “Add that to your coloring, and the way you present yourself… very dull. And small.”
Hux did not march in Savika’s direction and physically drag her out of the room, but it was a close thing. Instead he met the eyes of his assistant – saw her holding her breath as she stared at Ren in unmitigated horror – and gestured towards the door.
Ren noticed the exchange, of course. He kept talking. “Not like your marvelous assistant over here, of course. Much better coloring – earthly tones are always the best. And such perfect proportions!”
He was still talking when Hux slammed the door.
He found himself in the corridor, his corridor, breathing out slowly through his nostrils, utterly making a spectacle of himself in front of his very startled assistant and his entire security detail. He didn’t care – as long as none of this got back to Phasma, anyway.
“I want,” he said. “That imbecile. Out of my palace.”
“Sire,” Savika said. “With all respect.”
Hux stared at her, feeling his rage at that arrogant blabbering fool on the other side of the door and warning her with a look to be Very Careful.
Savika took a long breath. “Master Ren is the best fashion designer this side of Naboo,” she began, sounding like she was reading out Kylo Ren’s holonet page. Knowing her, she might have it memorized. “His creations are priceless and highly sought after, his craftsmanship unparalleled and his influence over Core society inestimable. The mere rumor of his taking you on as his client would gain you more advantages than an entire month of diplomatic meetings. You need him.”
That made more sense than Hux wanted to admit to himself. Still, Savika went on. “Yes, his character’s not the best, but –”
He let out a bark of laughter at that. Savika frowned, and Hux was pretty sure he saw one of the Stormtroopers wince. “His character’s not the best,” Hux repeated. Understatement of the year. “Tell me, why hasn’t anyone murdered him yet?”
“Because…” Savika started to answer, then stopped. She blinked and cleared her throat. “It actually makes sense that someone would try, wouldn’t it, sire?” she sounded genuinely puzzled. “Do you want me to look into that?”
What the hell, Hux thought. “If you have the time.”
When he went back inside, Ren was waiting for him, smirking.
“Everything sorted out there, sire?” he asked.
Hux forced himself to smile at him. “Perfectly,” he said. “Shall we begin?”