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Ben slumps to the ground as everything begins to fade. The shattered Sith arena. The throbbing pain of his injuries. The warmth of Rey’s hand clasping his.
For a moment he sees nothing, feels nothing. Then his surroundings gradually brighten and come into focus.
He didn’t expect death to be so grey. He’s sitting in a grey room with a grey door. Grey chairs line the grey walls. Calm, grey-sounding music wafts from somewhere or other.
The only bit of color in this place is a grouchy ginger cat in the arms of an even grouchier ginger human sitting across the room from him. Ben figured confronting Palpatine and giving his life to save Rey wouldn’t outweigh years of violence and oppression, but he didn’t expect his punishment to be this bad. “This is hell isn’t it?”
“Oh, you’ll be there soon enough. That haircut alone is grounds for eternal torment,” Hux smirks. “You’re only here in the afterlife’s lobby because they haven’t decided where to put you yet.”
“Why are you here then? I would think your destination was obvious.”
“We’re petitioning to have me transferred to a section of hell that allows pets,” Hux sniffs.
A silver-haired woman in a pewter dress appears in the doorway holding a grey clipboard.
“Armitage and Millicent Hux?”
Much of the Hux’s sneering bravado suddenly evaporates. “Yes?” he answers, a little breathlessly.
“Mr. Hux, I’m afraid it is against our policy to commute the sentences of genocidal fascists, so your request for a transfer has been denied.”
“We demand a second opinion!” Hux shouts, clutching Millie so hard that her eyes bug a little. “We will appeal—”
“I wasn’t finished, Mr. Hux,” the woman cuts in. “We find it commendable that you have earned the loyalty and goodwill of your cat, so we have approved her eloquently-written request that you both be transferred to the Traitor Level. Instead of being perpetually bombarded by Starkiller Base’s laser, you will be repeatedly stabbed in the back for the rest of eternity. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Yes, yes! We accept!” he says, feverishly petting a smug, loudly-purring Millie.
“Very well,” the woman says.
Hux and Millie disappear in a blinding red flash, then the grey woman glances down at her clipboard. “Obi-Wan Chewbacca Skywalker Organa Solo?”
The Solo in Ben wants to point out that there is literally no one else waiting in the lobby, but his Organa half figures his final judgment is not a great time to be snarky. For once, the Organa half wins.
“Yes?” he replies.
“Your case is a bit more complicated, Mr. Solo. According to our records, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were supposed to survive Exegol with Rey so the two of you could teach the next generation a balanced approach to the Force,” the woman explains. “Unfortunately, some sorcerer named Abrams in an alternate universe orchestrated your death instead. Your alter ego in that galaxy is trying to get you resurrected somehow, but he’s meeting stiff resistance from that universe’s Palpatine.”
“Is the alternate me a Jedi or a Sith?”
“He’s an actor.”
“You’re kidding,” Ben says. “Who’s the other Palpatine?”
“A movie executive who works for an imaginary rodent,” Pewter-Dress Lady replies, as if make-believe employers were an everyday occurrence.
“This is a hallucination, isn’t it? I bumped my head when I fell down that chasm, and I’m going to wake up on some ledge with a splitting headache.”
“That would certainly make more sense than a CEO turning down a movie proposal that could net his company millions of credits--billions if you count all the merchandise and action figures.”
Ben doesn’t even try to make sense of that statement.
“Who is Rey in that universe? And who’s Hux?” he asks, nodding at the empty chair with a few cat hairs stuck to the upholstery.
“Hux is the toxic Star Wars fans.”
“Star what?”
“And Rey is all the reylos—a bunch of fans who believe you and Rey are soulmates. They were devastated when you died, so they’re launching a social media campaign to bring their Palpatine to his senses.”
“My fate depends on a bunch of people posting things on the holonet?” He knew fortune was fickle, but he’d never have guessed it was crowdsourced.
“They’ve also hired a plane with a banner to fly over Disney headquarters, and they put up a billboard ad in Times Square.”
Square time and imaginary bosses—that universe sounds like a mess. “You’re sure I didn’t just hit my head?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Solo. On the bright side, the actor already has a script and a good director lined up, and that’s half the battle right there. The reylos don’t have a lot of resources, but they are certainly determined, and I don’t think that universe’s Emperor is actually evil. He’s just not very bright. Hopefully his advisors can talk some sense into him.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” This lobby doesn’t have any magazines, and there are only so many ways you can rearrange identical grey chairs.
“You could play dejarik with Hego Damask in the rec room,” she suggests. “Maul hasn’t stopped by to visit in a while, so Mr. Damask has been rather bored lately.”
“Darth Plagueis? Why is he here?”
“Let’s just say his Force trick for evading death didn’t work out quite the way he hoped.”
Ben sighs and gets to his feet. He’d rather play dejarik with an emeritus Sith than sit here staring at the wall. “He probably cheats, doesn’t he?”
“Naturally.”
“I hope that billboard thing works soon.”
“Rebellions are built on hope, Mr. Solo. I think your odds are pretty good.”