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There is one thing Hux had learned about arrogant men, his father, Pryde, Snoke, Ren. They never consider that they can be outsmarted. Which is what Hux capitalized on his entire life. He didn’t become the youngest General in the First Order by being useless a mindlessly obedient yes-man. He did it by playing Dejarik every minute of every day with every single person he came into contact with.
However, he wasn’t so jaded by his own capable genius to admit that, well, that could have gone better.
The wound in his leg stung — that bastard FN-2187 — as he was drug through the hallways by two stormtroopers. Paraded seemed more apt however, as officers and troopers stopped and stared at the fallen general, the one they called Starkiller. He couldn’t see them fully as they stopped, his view obscured as he peeked through his lashes, but he hoped some of them were stopping in respect, and not just gawking.
The troopers carrying him chatted idly, what would be served in the canteen later, when someone named JL-332 would acknowledge them, too distracted to notice Hux’s slow, shallow breathing, or the pounding of his pulse. He wasn’t afraid per say, but he had just been shot, twice, the second time with the intention to kill. He felt justified in his less than mild panic; even he couldn’t be perfectly calm all the time. He was only human after all. Unfortunately.
The troopers exited the turbolift on one of the lowest levels before stopping in the hallway, by the left wall. The one holding onto his left side let go, and approached the wall. A few quiet beeps and the hissing of a wall panel opening. The trooper remaining silently, perhaps with a little reverence, hoisted Hux up under the arms and shoved him through the chute.
—
There was darkness. And a stench.
His back ached; he’d landed on something incredibly hard, like durasteel or even permacrete. His leg ached, the wound likely bleeding more than it had been. And his chest ached, right in the center, where Pryde had shot him.
With a groan, he sat up, fumbling for the closers of his uniform, pulling the jacket off. He ran his fingers over the thick material of the blaster proof vest, feeling the still warm, singed and blackened starburst. After a moment, he unbuckled the vest and tossed it aside, taking the first deep breath he’d taken in probably years, his lungs no longer compressed by the tight fabric. Even in the stale and stinking air of the bowels of the Destroyer, it felt good to fill his lungs, like the burn of muscles after a training session.
Armitage Hux was not a stranger to attempts on his life, and had been subverting death his entire life. He had worn that vest at nearly all hours of the day for years, not only as much needed insurance, but to also help bulk up his frame.
Thin as a slip of paper, and just as useless.
Well father, one of us is still alive.
He then pulled a slim vibro knife from his boot. The mechanics built into the handle glowed very faintly, not enough to be seen under the bright fluorescents of the ship, but enough to illuminate the dark room he’d been dumped.
Oh how fitting…
It was a trash compactor. Of course it was. Pryde didn’t even have the courtesy to incinerate him. Or jettison him out the airlock.
Be thankful for that Armitage, he thought ruefully, or you’d actually be dead right now.
He looked around the compactor. It appeared to be mostly scrap, metal, glass, broken circuitry, non organic. The stench appeared to come from several plastibags in the corner, leftovers from the canteen leaking and rotting. It was a blessing and a curse that this is where he was disposed of. On one hand, there was no chance of there being a dianoga or any other vermin hidden amongst the garbage; but on the other hand, compactors full of scrap were often jettisoned into space. Hux needed to find a way out of here, and fast.
He crawled across the durasteel panel he had landed on, towards the maintenance hatch. There was a small keypad next to it. Hux punched in his clearance code, which should have opened almost any door on the destroyer, thanks to his rank. The keypad’s display flashed red and played a deep note. Denied. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, slowly entering his code. Maybe he hit the wrong buttons, it was dark after all, and the buttons themselves were not backlit. The keypad once again flashed red. He tried two more times before hitting the keypad in frustration.
That damned Pryde had already deactivated his clearance code. The Alligent General was nothing if not efficient.
Hux took a deep breath, calming down, focusing. Throwing a tantrum would get him nowhere. He was not Ren.
Ren! He punched in Ren’s code after a moment of recollection. Of course Hux knew Kylo Ren’s clearance code. He wouldn’t let the Supreme Leader keep him out.
The keypad flashed green, played a short tune, and the hatch unlocked with a thunk. Hux pushed open the heavy door a crack, and peered out into the brightly lit hallway. Empty. He squeezed through the door, not willing to expand more energy than needed to open it fully, kriff why was it so heavy, and dashed to a small alcove.
Knowing he was committing treason, Hux had made near a half dozen different provisional plans, collecting blackmail material on several First Order High Command, calling in favors in sympathetic systems, preparing safehouses across the galaxy. And most importantly, having a ship prepared in a small hanger bay.
He never noticed how cold the halls of the Destroyer were, now that he was in only the thermal tank he wore under his uniform jacket. Bumps formed across his pale arms, and he ran his hands over them as he stalked through the abandoned halls in the underbelly of the destroyer. He was searching for— there! The durasteel grated panel wasn’t even half a meter wide. Hux pressed down on the panel and it popped open, revealing the air duct. He was never more thankful for his thin frame as he slipped into the small tunnel.
Every dozen meters he had to stop, his thigh burning from the strain of crawling through the air duct. It was during one of these brief periods of rest that he heard the announcement.
“All crew prepare for hyperspace jump.”
You’ve got to be kriffing kidding…
The last place Hux wanted to be right now was Exegol. Gritting his teeth, he kept crawling, vehemently ignoring the screaming pain of his body.
It felt like a lifetime later. His ears had popped at some point, the tell that they had already made the jump. He sat in front of another grate and kicked. It didn’t budge. He kicked again. The grate had the audacity to dent. He groaned. He did not have time for this. Balancing with his palms, he kicked using both feet. The grate nearly flew off, skittering across the hanger floor.
There were no troopers or techies in the hanger; of course not, that’s what Hux had planned. He had hacked the system cycles ago, rerouting imagers, changing schedules, even disabling certain doors, practically making this hanger bay nonexistent. Unless you knew what you were looking for, or got very, very lost, you would never find this place.
And sitting in the center of the hanger, fully stocked and fueled, was his personal ship, the Máthair Caillte, a cresent-class transport ship from Arkanis, named after the mother he never knew. And of course it had several custom modifications beyond the exterior, which had been painted a matte grey, the shade of storm clouds on Arkanis.
He quickly limped across the bay to the hatch, which lowered with the hiss of hydraulics. Waiting at the top of the ramp, was a small, fuzzy orange face. Millicent meowed at Hux, annoyed.
“Yes, love, I know, this has just been an absolutely rotten day.” He gave her a quick scratch behind the ear and closed the hatch, making his way past the small lounge and galley, through the narrow corridor, into the cockpit. Moments later, the engines hummed to life, and the doors to the hanger slide open, revealing the blurred streaks of hyperspace. Millicent jumped into Hux’s lap as he raised the landing gear and took off.
The ship shuddered, breaking through the forcefield and the hyperspace bubble that surrounded the Destroyer. Millicent dug her claws into Hux’s leg, into the wound that still seeped blood. Hux gasped, not only from Millicent, but from the force, slamming his head back into the seat.
And then there was stillness. And empty black space. And freedom.
And for the first time in Armitage Hux’s life, he could make his own decision. His own choice regarding the direction of his life. No one, not his father, not his superior officer, not Snoke, not Ren, could tell him what to do now.
Millicent meowed pointedly, lapping at the blood that had gotten on her paw.
“Do you think you’re the exception?” He rubbed her, letting a genuine smile grace his lips. “Well then dear, where do you want to go? Ruuria? Gerrenthum? Or maybe some place closer to the core, like Duro.” He pulled up a map on one of the duraglass panels. “We can do anything. Go anywhere. Be anyone.”
And it was the best feeling in the galaxy.