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“Pink isn’t exactly Hux’s color, but—”
The stormtrooper breaks off mid-sentence when he sees Supreme Leader Ren come around the corner.
Kylo strides past the squad of troopers as if he heard nothing out of the ordinary, but he furtively skims their thoughts to learn what sparked their intriguing conversation. The images he finds make Kylo wonder whether the troopers need psychiatric treatment, or if they’ve been wantonly flouting the First Order’s anti-drug policy.
Because Hux would never in a quadrillion parsecs wear an outfit like that.
And yet . . . the images seem like actual memories, and more than one of the troopers had seen them. He considers questioning Hux about it (preferably in front of all the bridge officers), but he decides it will be more fun to grill Mitaka.
Hux's Lieutenant of Operations is the browbeaten expert on all the General's affairs. Hux gives the orders, and Mitaka has the thankless job of making sure they're carried out. Everything from deploying armies to ordering deluxe kitty litter. If Hux really does own something outrageously pink, his lackey will know about it.
Kylo spots Mitaka in the officers’ commissary. The man has just brewed some herbal tea (probably to steady his fraying nerves), and he practically drops his cup when he turns around and sees the Supreme Leader within choking distance of him.
“Lieutenant, does General Hux happen to own a pink uniform?”
The young officer's face drains of what little color it had to begin with. He glances around nervously, as if he fears the ginger in question might be listening over his shoulder. “There was, ah, some sort of error when athletic wear was commissioned for the General’s . . . calisthenics training for his elite guards,” Mitaka stammers.
“Go on.”
Mitaka’s teacup is shaking so badly that some of his Haneli chai sloshes over the rim and drips onto his immaculately-polished shoes. With a nervous gulp, he soldiers on with his explanation.
“The General concluded that it was vital to ensure his guards were in peak condition, so he, ah, commenced leading their training using the suboptimal garments until more suitable ones can be obtained.”
“Someone ordered him pink workout clothes by mistake, but Hux decided to lead an exercise class in them anyway?” Kylo sums up.
The lieutenant dodges the question, perhaps to avoid confirming anything that could get him fired, or worse. “The quartermaster responsible for the error is, ah, no longer with the First Order, sir.”
“I’m sure he isn’t,” Kylo replies. “Where exactly is this ‘calisthenics training’ conducted?”
While Mitaka stammers something about the training room near Hux's quarters, Kylo senses a familiar presence. Two, actually.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. This conversation has been most enlightening,” he says as he departs the commissary in a swirl of black cape.
“My pleasure, sir,” the man responds in a quavering voice that utterly belies his words.
***
“Are you sure those two troopers won’t wake up while we’re in the middle of this?” Finn whispers, fidgeting with his turquoise unitard. He had wanted the lavender one, but Poe said blue wasn’t his color. So they played Five Hands for it, and Finn lost.
“They should be out cold for at least a couple more hours. We’ll be long gone with that datapad by then,” Poe assures him.
Or at least, Finn thinks that's what Poe said. It's hard to hear low voices with these stormtrooper helmets on. Hux wants his soldiers to be anonymous, even to each other, so he has them wear helmets both on and off duty, even when they exercise. Finn suspects that if Hux could contrive a way for them to eat with their helmets on, he'd require headgear at mealtimes too.
Speaking of General Hugs, the training room door opens to admit one of Finn's absolute least favorite people. The General strides into the room wearing a mauve workout robe and officer's cap that clash spectacularly with his orange hair. Even from the back row of the class, Finn feels his blood pressure rise at the sight of his former commander. Fuzzy pink robe notwithstanding, Hux still evokes a potent mix of loathing and dread.
The General sets down his workout bag with an audible thud, then removes his floor-length hoodie, revealing a yellow-striped unitard the color of a Hutt’s armpit. “Assume your positions,” he orders. His tone seems even crisper than usual, perhaps to compensate for his unconventional appearance.
“You ever done one of these classes before?” Poe quietly asks as they take starting positions behind their aerobic steps at the very back of the group.
“Nope. Just jogging and obstacle courses,” Finn mutters. “You?”
“No, but if Hugs can do it, how hard can it be?”
Hux taps a wall panel to start some upbeat workout music, then launches into a choreographed routine of intricate hops, turns, and lunges on and around his little platform.
“Look lively, troopers. Do you think all this skipping about is my idea of fun?” Hux demands, pirouetting atop his step like a sour-faced ballerina dipped in mustard. “It is our duty to the First Order to be in peak physical condition at all times!”
Apparently the other stormtroopers have followed this routine before, because they mirror their commander’s spirited movements almost perfectly. Finn, on the other hand, is hopelessly lost, and Poe isn't doing much better. Since there’s no chance Finn can mimic the elaborate moves Hux is demonstrating, he tries to do the same wrong moves Poe does. He figures if they're gonna mess up, they might draw less attention if their clumsy flailing is at least synchronized.
“DP-9791, work those hip flexors!” Hux barks, rising like a grouchy ray of sunshine above his platform and punching the air as if it had insulted his mother. “NF-7812, that Isometric Sparta Kick was a disgrace!”
“Which one of us is DP-9791?” Finn whispers to Poe.
“I don’t think it matters,” Poe replies. “He can tell we’re both botching this. Just do your best until he takes a break, then we’ll grab the satchel and run.”
“And how are we going to do that without him noticing?”
“I'm working on it,” Poe mutters.
The song finally ends, but Finn's relief is short lived.
“NF-7812 and DP-9791,” Hux calls, his pasty cheeks reddened with exertion and annoyance, “perhaps you’ll be more focused at the front of the group. Move your platforms in front of mine immediately.” He raises a mauve water bottle to his lips, watching like an acklay to make sure his order is promptly obeyed.
“See?” Poe says as they pick up their teal and lavender aerobic steps. “We’re getting closer already, just like I planned.”
“No you did not!” Finn hisses, but he has to admit this development is working in their favor. His new spot exposes him to the full, concentrated glare of Armitage Hux, but it’s also within arm’s reach of his satchel. If they can nab it and escape before they’re tackled by the other ten guards, the general’s datapad and all of its priceless intel will finally belong to the Resistance.
The class has barely started the next round of Huxerobics when Finn’s cautious optimism is eclipsed by an unaccountable sense of dread. Hux seems to feel it too. He stops his routine mid-lunge and turns toward the door with a look of mortified abhorrence on his face.
Finn has a bad feeling about this. He surreptitiously presses a button on his watch to call for backup, then the door whooshes open to reveal a towering black pillar of glowering menace—Finn's other least favorite person.
“General Hux.” Kylo Ren addresses his officer, but looks directly at Finn and Poe. “Do you always include members of the Resistance in your classes?”
“Of course not!” Hux sputters. “These are my hand-selected, elite—”
With a flick of his fingers, Ren pops Finn and Poe's helmets right off their heads with the Force.
“You were saying?” he asks.
Hux opens and shuts his mouth a few times, his face turning a deep purple that actually goes rather nicely with his hat.
“I take it from your stunned silence that these guests are uninvited,” Ren continues. “Escort them to the detention level for interrogation.”
“You heard the Supreme Leader,” Hux says, choking a bit on the title as he addresses his guards. “Escort the—”
“To be clear, General, I’m ordering you to escort them. I would think you’d be eager to show the entire ship your striking new uniform,” Ren sneers. “You can take your colorful guards along for backup, assuming they aren’t Resistance operatives as well.”
The stormtroopers glance uncertainly at each other, then everyone’s attention is arrested by the sound of a muffled explosion and blaring alarms. Apparently, the backup Finn called for arrived even faster than he’d hoped.
Kylo Ren’s smirk hardens into a scowl.
“Take these prisoners to the detention block,” he orders. “I’m going to the bridge.”
“My place is on the command deck,” Hux objects, “not escorting Resistance scum to their cells!”
“You have your orders,” Ren growls, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as he sweeps out of the room, taking his ominous aura with him.
The temperature in the room seems to warm a bit, then Hux boils over. “Clap some binders on them and let’s go!” he snaps.
None of the stormtroopers move an inch. A few sheepishly gesture toward their waists where their utility belts would usually be.
“You mean to tell me no one has a set of restraints?!?”
“What kind of moron would bring binders to a dance class?” Poe asks.
The troopers glance uncertainly at each other, as if they can’t tell whether they were just defended or insulted.
“I notice you didn’t even bring a gun,” Poe adds.
“I don’t need a blaster to do leg lifts!” Hux shouts. “Keep your hands raised where we can see them and get moving!” He yanks on his pink robe and satchel, then stalks out the door after Finn and Poe, with his guards following close behind. Unlike their commander, a few of them brought blasters to class.
“That shade of yellow looks great on you, Hugs,” Poe drawls as they begin their long walk to the detention area. “It matches your teeth.”
“Cool it, Poe,” Finn warns. Hux may have implicit instructions not to kill them, but Poe should know better than anyone that subordinates don’t always follow orders.
The cocky pilot either misses the hint, or he’s determined to exit mortality in a blaze of snarky glory.
“What? You don’t think the Pastel Brigade would enjoy some light banter on our way to the Finalizer Motel?” he asks.
“Shut up,” Hux growls.
But apparently, Poe Dameron is physically incapable of shutting up.
“Hey, come on. We’re all just a bunch of well-dressed guys out for a stroll. How about we swing by the commissary and offer to buy some of the lady troopers a drink? It’s not like Hugsy here has anywhere important to be.”
“That’s it!” The furious ginger makes a grab for one of his guards’ blasters.
With the troopers’ attention focused on their irate commander, Poe grabs Hux’s satchel and takes off running.
Finn is hot on his heels. “Please tell me you planned that,” he pants as they duck down a side corridor to escape the blaster fire sizzling through the air around them.
“Most of it,” Poe grins.
Just as their pursuers round the corner and resume firing, another explosion rocks the Finalizer. Whole sections of the corridor buckle and groan, filling the hallway with scalding steam. Maybe their backup is being a little too effective. At least the steam cloud will make it easier to lose Hux and his guards.
“Where do we go from here?” Poe shouts, dodging the torrent of sparks pouring out of a crumpled bulkhead.
Finn takes a moment to get his bearings. “This way!”
After half a dozen twists and turns, they reach an evac bay and scramble into one of the escape pods. Finn punches the release button before they’re even strapped in.
While Poe steers them away from the destroyer, Finn scans the area for their ride home. “When we find them, how will they even know it’s us in this tin can?” he wonders.
A hail of green blaster bolts scream past on their left.
“That’s how!” Poe shouts, veering sharply to the right.
He dips and swerves erratically, jerking their unwieldy escape pod into breakneck turns the First Order’s engineers never meant it to attempt. The more TIEs appear on their scope, the more frenetic Poe’s evasive maneuvers become. Finn’s stomach starts wishing they were back on the ship playing tag with the Pastel Brigade.
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Don’t be sick,” Poe says, angling them into a banking corkscrew of a spin.
“Then quit flying like a sloshed mynock!”
Poe wrestles the escape pod out of its wild spin and the stars stop swirling. Once Finn can bear to look out the viewport again, he spots a Corellian ship bearing down on them fast. Red blaster bolts mix with green as the beat-up freighter picks off one TIE after another.
Poe switches on the comm system. “Kestrel to Falcon. Do you copy?”
A series of howls blares over the comm.
“Roger, Chewie,” Poe says. “Kestrel out.”
The Falcon obliterates the last of the pursuing TIEs, then Poe makes a beeline for the freighter. Their pod bursts into the Falcon’s cargo bay and barely settles onto the deck before the outer door slams shut and the ship jumps to lightspeed.
***
“The prisoners blew up a hallway?” Kylo asks.
Hux may have reported to the throne room in his usual somber attire, but he looks just as uncomfortable as he did back in the gym. Still, he seems determined to salvage what is left of his dignity. Lifting his chin in defiance, he declares, “I am convinced that they were indirectly responsible for the explosion which resulted in their escape.”
“So the captives in your charge indirectly blew up a hallway.”
“Yes, Supreme Leader.” Hux never uses Kylo’s title unless he’s trying to be persuasive or evasive. Kylo senses it’s the latter this time.
“Is there anything else you need to report, General?”
The ginger’s left eye twitches. “The fugitives made off with a datapad full of highly-sensitive information,” he grudgingly replies.
Kylo knew bad news was coming, but he didn't expect it to be that bad. If the Resistance hacks into Hux's device, they’ll know the location of every star destroyer, the timing of his upcoming trip to Mustafar, and countless codes that will take days to change and disseminate.
He has fantasized for months—years, even—about demoting Hux. Now the logistical headache is taking all the fun out of it.
“Given today’s debacle, it would seem that General Pryde would be the better choice for the new office of Grand Marshal, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hux’s eye twitches again. Twice. “Yes, sir,” he finally grits out.
Kylo notices Hux didn’t say his fancy title this time, but he’s too annoyed to care. So Hux hates him even more than usual now. What’s he going to do? Join the Resistance?
***
In the Falcon’s cargo hold, Finn is still recovering from the adrenaline rush of riding a rocket-powered barrel through a war zone.
“I can’t believe we pulled that off,” he says between deep, shaky gasps.
Poe holds up Hux’s obnoxiously yellow bag. “And we even got—”
His voice trails off when he sees the blackened evidence of a blaster shot on the side of the satchel. As he opens the bag, the acrid smell of fried circuitry wafts through the cramped cockpit. Hux’s device is a smoking ruin.
“Maybe the tech guys can salvage some of the data,” Finn offers, without much conviction.
Poe dubiously examines one of the charred fragments, then drops it back in the bag. “Not likely,” he sighs, “but better it than us, right? Now let’s get out of these clown suits. If Rose sees us like this, we’ll never hear the end of it.”