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After the first contaminated shipment of bacta was discovered, things quickly went south. Within a week, it became apparent that the entire medical supply chain had been compromised. Within a month, civilian casualties related to the shortage numbered in the hundreds of thousands as all available bacta was diverted to military use.
When he steps off his shuttle, flanked by troopers and in full parade regalia, Hux hasn't slept in forty-eight hours. Ren follows sulkily behind him, a half a pace too close, gloved hands balled into fists at his sides.
The field hospital is even more crowded and filthy than Hux had been led to believe. Troopers lie on cots in cramped rows as far as the eye can see, while med droids roll up and down the narrow aisle between them, sawing bones and scouring away necrotic flesh without the aid of painkillers. Some troopers lie motionless on their backs like corpses while others lean over to vomit or stumble around on their feet, wrestling with nurses and screaming obscenities. Without bacta, infection and fever run rampant. The stench of cheap alcohol, employed as a primitive means of sterilization, fills the air.
Hux curls his lip in distaste at the sight of so many writhing, groaning bodies while Ren fidgets uncomfortably at his elbow, his filtered breathing loud in Hux's ear. Drone-mounted holorecorders circle above them. Their appearance here is more for propaganda purposes than anything else. Hux's own image– youthful, healthy, accompanied by the supposedly invincible Ren– is to serve as a beacon of hope for the sick and dying throughout the First Order.
The head nurse, a slightly older man with squinting, jaundiced eyes approaches them, bowing dutifully. "General. Sir Knight." His staff all turn and give attention, easily discernible from the mass of bodies by their neat, pale-gray uniforms. Behind him, Hux’s troops stand at parade rest. He is proud of them for not reacting to seeing their brethren in such an abject state.
If only the same could be said for Ren, who stares past the nurse into the sea of injured troopers, rocking on his heels in a way that makes Hux want to hit him.
What's wrong with you? Hux thinks angrily. I told you you didn't have to come. If you can't handle this, you can go wait on the kriffing shuttle.
I can handle it.
“Nurse, these conditions are shocking,” says Hux mildly. “Don’t you agree?”
“General–” The man lowers his head in obvious terror of punishment.
“Of course, I know you are doing the best you can, under the circumstances.” Hux gazes out at the medical staff, raising his voice: “Each and every one of you is to be commended for your service to the First Order. I am here to inform you that our scientists have discovered the cause of the contamination and are working day and night to eradicate it.” He lifts his chin, speaking more to the holorecorders above them than to anyone actually in the room. “It was a biological weapon, engineered by the Resistance, under the supervision of General Organa herself. Remember, the next time she speaks of avoiding civilian casualties, how her agents poisoned our hospitals.”
That can’t be. Ren tenses beside him. She would never sanction something like that.
I know she wouldn’t. She didn’t. Hux mentally rolls his eyes. You know, for someone who can read my thoughts, you’re awfully bad at figuring out when I’m lying. This is a propaganda broadcast. It’s your job to stand there looking intimidating, and it’s my job to lie.
In reality, a naturally occurring pathogen had ravaged the bacta supply, unwittingly introduced by an officer who had taken his shore leave in Hutt Space. But Hux is a firm believer in the doctrine that one should never waste a crisis. He intends to wring as much political capital out of this disaster as he possibly can.
Being seen visiting sick soldiers is an important part of that. It certainly doesn’t hurt that next to all these ashen faces, he looks like some sort of rosy, boyish angel of health. Though the hospitals and camps he’s toured all teem with disease and death, he has remained miraculously immune.
He’d like to attribute this to his own indomitable will, but based on the fact that ever since he started sleeping with Ren he hasn’t developed so much as a sniffle, he strongly suspects some form of mystical intervention. Like so much else in their relationship, this goes undiscussed. Hux doesn’t know the extent to which the Supreme Leader is aware of their activities together, but he can only imagine that if Snoke disapproved of them he’d already be dead. He understands that there are shades of Force magic which Ren is forbidden from engaging in– namely those of the Light– and he doesn’t know whether the protective charm he feels shimmering over his own skin is of this category. But he doesn’t ask, and Ren doesn’t tell, so the spell remains unbroken.
“Truly, the hypocrisy of the Resistance knows no bounds,” Hux is saying. Right beside him, Ren is rolling his broad shoulders, bouncing up and down in place as if he’s about to break into a run.
In the name of the Nabooan sea goddess: Be still, you overgrown child! Hux doesn’t know if it’s possible to scream a thought, but he tries his best.
Can’t, Ren replies.
What's the problem, anyway? I know you aren't troubled by the sight of a little blood.
It's not the sight of them. It's the way they feel. They're projecting so much pain...
Well, sure. But you're used to that, aren't you?
In battle. Filled with adrenaline. This is different. Just. Standing here calmly, while they suffer. Stars, there are so many of them–
Good grief. Pull yourself together.
I’m trying!
Try harder.
Ren’s mind-voice seems to quiet, though of course there is no actual sound. I– I need you to touch me, he ventures.
Right in front of everyone? Hux balks, almost missing a beat in his speech. Don’t be absurd.
“...fact that the Senate denies any involvement...” he is carrying on. It's a good thing he can regurgitate his own slogans on autopilot, or they might be in real trouble.
I can use the Force to divert their attention.
All of them at once?
Maybe.
Forget it. We’re being recorded. Can't you, I don't know, block the troopers’ thoughts from your mind?
I should be able too. I should be strong enough. But there are– Hux. There are so many of them. Their minds are suffocating me. Hux. Some of them are begging for death–
Don’t you even think about it!
I could snuff them out so quickly. So quietly. No one would notice–
Wonderful. This is just wonderful. You're having an actual panic attack, aren’t you? Kriffing hells, Ren, what do you want me to do? I am not going to be seen hugging you in a damn propaganda holo–
Wait. Ren thinks urgently. I have an idea. Touch yourself.
What?!
Just. Stroke your arm.
Like this? Hux surreptitiously runs two fingers along the inside of his elbow.
Slower…
Ren makes a noise which Hux recognizes as a gasp, though fortunately his vocoder interprets it as static.
I look ridiculous. Why am I rubbing my arm? People are going to think I have a rash or something.
Please. Don’t stop. It's helping. I can feel you...
Feel me what? Stroking myself?
Stroking me. Well, stroking both of us. I'm just sort of. Borrowing the feeling from you.
I didn't know you could do that.
Neither did I. I don't think it would work with just anyone. It must be because I know your body and mind so well.
Hm, Hux mentally sniffs. Presumptuous.
His speech having come to an end, he gives the First Order salute, waiting for everyone else in the room who is able-bodied enough to return the gesture before letting his arm drop back down to his side.
“Thank you, General,” says the head nurse. “I know I speak for all of us when I say– Oh! Forgive me–” He turns his face into his shoulder, seized by a sudden, violent fit of coughing. His yellowed eyes are tearing when he looks back up. Only now does Hux notice that all of them have yellowed eyes. All of them are infected.
He brings a hand to his mouth as if to shield himself from the man’s germs. Actually, he is using his lips to subtly pare back his sleeve before pressing a kiss to his own bare wrist.
Did you feel that?
Yes. Ren shivers.
The knight’s fidgeting has finally ceased. He stands at Hux’s side, calm and silent, the very picture of inscrutable mystic power. Hux looks out at these loyal citizens of the First Order, and realizes they are all going to die. The sickness has already taken hold here. By the time fresh bacta reaches this facility, it will be too late. As he turns to board his shuttle, leaving these people to their doom, a dark thrill steals over him, a cold sense of invincibility. He imagines he can perceive the net of Ren’s power woven around him, repelling all contaminants, keeping him pure. He hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours, or eaten in ten, yet he feels strong and buoyant, like he might actually be glowing with health. He wonders if such a thing is possible, and whether or not it would be visible in holorecordings.
Slipping off one of his gloves, he reaches inside his sleeve to teasingly drag his fingernails along the smooth flesh of his inner-arm.
How about that? he sends.
Yes. Thank you. It feels so good. Twice as good, somehow. As if you’re touching both of us.
Hux smiles to himself, enjoying the idea of this double-touch and the way it makes Ren shiver. Later, when they can have more privacy, he will be sure to ask if it has other applications.