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This, Phasma decided, as she watched General Hux and Kylo Ren walk off, is the last straw.
Yes, okay, they were her superiors. Technically. But the phrase “command triumvirate” had to mean something. And you would have thought that someone with shiny chrome armor who was an inch taller than Lord Ren, thank you very much would have been hard to ignore.
Yet every time she tried to offer some of her wisdom, the co-commanders were too caught up in their bickering to pay full attention. Face to face, inches apart from each other while she looked on.
Why don’t you two just fuck already? She had to wonder, though for all she knew they already were.
When they barely noticed her advice about her troopers in her squadron who she trained and led into battle regularly, well…that was bad enough.
But when they followed it up with an offhanded remark on how her armor was, apparently, looking less shiny today…
This called for revenge. And she knew just how she would do it, too.
Officers’ parties were usually subdued, boring affairs. The majority of budgeting went to weapons development and post-Ren repairs, so it usually consisted of old Imperial music, idle chatter and petty gossip. But at least there was an open bar.
Of course, General Hux never drank, because stars forbid he ever let loose for a moment, and Kylo Ren never did because...well, Phasma wasn’t sure why. Perhaps alcohol didn’t mix well with the Force.
Tonight, that would all change.
It began with a little friendly competition.
“I bet Unamo can outdrink Mitaka and Thanisson,” she whispered to an officer whose name she could never remember.
“Yeah? You’re on.”
They brought drinks over for the parties in question and stood back to watch.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a small crowd forming around the situation. Unamo was four shots in and still not a hair out of place, while Mitaka, also with four, and two-shot-Thanisson weren’t faring so well.
“And what, may I ask, is going on here?” Hux appeared beside Phasma, sneering at what he saw.
“Someone said Unamo can hold her alcohol better than any officer on board. Those two decided they needed proof.”
“Any officer?”
Another fifteen minutes later, Mitaka and Thanisson had tapped out. Unamo and Hux stood at the center of the party’s attention, staring each other down as they put back yet another shot. Both still looked far too collected, as though they were discussing galactic policy over tea.
“…what is the General doing?” Now it was Ren who had appeared, seemingly out of thin air, beside Phasma, and she nearly jumped. He was in full robes and masked, hadn’t even bothered to dress up for the occasion. Or, possibly, that was all he owned.
“He said he can outdrink anyone on this ship,” Phasma explained, proud of herself for suppressing a smirk. “Even you.”
The hairs on the back of her neck raised as energy filled the air around her, radiating off of Ren. He was hunched and clenching his fists the way he did upon hearing bad news, just before lashing out.
“Even…we’ll see about that.”
He stormed into the center of the circle and everyone immediately took two steps back. Unamo decided that was enough for her and bowed out, leaving a space for Ren to slide in and loom over Hux, who looked entirely unimpressed.
“Here to challenge me, Ren?” He didn’t slur, not even a little.
“Here to best you, General.”
“I don’t see how you’re going to do that with that tin can on your head.”
“Just watch.”
He held out his hand and a half-full bottle flew from the shelf, nearly hitting the poor bartender, who did nothing to deserve this. He caught it and opened it, his gaze never leaving Hux. He held out a hand again and something much smaller was drawn to it: a long plastic loopy straw, red of course. He stuck it into the bottle then felt around on his mask for something. When he found what must have been a tiny opening, he shoved the straw into it. A moment later, the tense silence was broken by slurping noises.
Hux gaped at him.
“You finished that entire…Ren, the objective is to have one drink at a time until one person is undone, not give yourself alcohol poisoning! How am I going to explain this to Supreme Leader, hells, how am I going to explain this to you, tomorrow morning…”
“Your move, General,” Ren interrupted.
Hux glared, clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders. He reached held out his hand and, with no Force powers to speak for, simply waited until the terrified bartender got the hint and grabbed a bottle from the shelf, handing it to him.
1 hour later
“Faster!”
“M’ goin’ as fast as I can!”
“Not-“ hic “fast enough!”
Patrolling troopers darted out of the way as the co-commanders came barreling through. They’d found some sort of wheeled metal cart, large enough for Hux to fold himself into, with a handle at one end which Kylo was currently pushing as he ran down the hall. Hux kept trying to sit up and then toppling back in. To everyone’s horror, Kylo had his lightsaber ignited and held loosely in one hand. They were shouting and laughing; it was a miracle neither of them had thrown up yet but it was bound to happen. They carried on that way until almost 0100 before disappearing into Hux’s quarters.
Where they got the cart, no one knows. Where it went, no one is completely sure of either, but probably the trash compactor. All the footage has been deleted from the ship’s records and the crew has been forbidden to speak of it upon penalty of death. That evening lives on only in the memory of Captain Phasma, and she treasures it very, very much.
