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Hux was not afraid of him.
Of all the attributes the general harbored, that one had come to irk Ren the most in the weeks since they’d met. Intimidation was something Ren had grown accustomed to exuding, something he considered as much a part of his persona as his helmet and tunic, a layer of separation that fostered his identity as a symbol, a legend, a force of nature. In the time that he’d worked alongside other officers he’d been able to sense their anxiety like a scent on the breeze, watched the way that they’d sneak glances at him, trying to parse his shifting moods as though scrutinizing a predator. He’d heard them whisper, audibly and mentally—speculating about his powers, recalling Vader’s reputation for eliminating subordinates that had displeased him.
When Ren had met Hux, he’d had no reason not to expect the same unease. He’d expected an older man, truth be told—not bright red hair, full cheeks, a rangy frame poorly concealed by an overpadded uniform. Hux had looked him up and down with a swift flick of his eyes, the way in subsequent days he would skim reports and study monitors, his youthful face as impassive as a statue.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he’d said, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “I look forward to our collaboration.”
Hux had not been afraid. Two days later he had called out to Ren with his eyes glued to a datapad and had asked whether the knight would accompany a scouting party into a possible Resistance encampment. Two days after that he had chewed Ren out for countermanding an order and giving away their position sooner than he’d intended (notwithstanding the fact that Ren, technically, was apart from the chain of command.) So it had gone on, in spite of Hux seeing Ren crush necks and slice off limbs in battle, in spite of him knowing full well what happened each time Ren extracted intelligence from a prisoner. He never faced Ren with any palpable nervousness, their interactions brisk and efficient, professional to a fault.
Ren couldn’t understand it. Hux was about as Force-sensitive as a rock, he found in the times that he would allow his mind to reach out through the currents running through the conduit of his own frame, pushing up against the general’s psyche. Hux was not incapable of strong emotion, as Ren caught the stress radiating from him during difficult operations, the anger at incompetence and insubordination, the flickers of joy and pride when the troops performed well. There was nothing special about Hux—aside from, perhaps, the occasional remark that hinted at a deep intelligence, something Ren knew many of his colleagues didn’t share. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be afraid.
So it was that Ren found himself lingering after a briefing, watching Hux tap out a message on his datapad as the other personnel cleared out of the room. He stood near the doorway, simply observing the general’s movements—the way he rested one of those rounded cheeks in his hand, twisted his mouth in thought, bounced a leg with idle energy. How ordinary. How banal.
“You don’t fear me,” Ren said.
Hux’s frame stiffened, and he lifted his head, regarding Ren in annoyance. “Is there something you need?”
“You don’t fear me,” Ren repeated, taking a step towards him. “Why is that?”
Hux sighed through his nose. “Living in terror of my associate would hardly be conducive to a productive work environment.”
Ren continued his advance, closing the distance until he was standing beside Hux’s chair. Hux craned his neck to look up at him, brow furrowed.
Taking a breath to steady his mind, Ren followed tendrils of the Force out to the general, finding his consciousness and applying pressure to its barriers. It was an easier task with some sort of physical gesture—the grasping of an arm, the outstretching of a splayed hand—but he didn’t want Hux to realize straight away what he was attempting, not when his mind seemed so guarded to begin with.
Hux’s face twitched, and half a moment later he voiced a gasp of pain. “Ren, what are you—”
“Answering my question,” Ren muttered.
Hux’s mind reeled, resisted as the ache heightened and understanding dawned, but with a jolt, Ren was able burst through. Immediately, with nothing in particular to focus on, he was assaulted by a flurry of muddled impressions: the darting lines of tactical plans rendered in holographic red, fragments of conversation, blurred faces of subordinates. The recurring motif of an imperial-era concerto, distorted like the siren of a passing speeder. The taste of wine, souring in his mouth.
Then, fear in the chaos of a training exercise, a younger Hux dashing for cover as simulated blaster bolts sizzled past him. Fear in the hours before an exam, bent over in the refresher, listening for footsteps. Fear while standing before a man in uniform, gray-haired and stocky with a face that had long ago taken on the distinguished lines of age, who sneered as Hux stammered the words of a practiced speech. Come now, boy. You want everyone to know how pathetic you are? Say it like you mean it, you spineless little—
Hux’s fist connected with Ren’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. Ren staggered back, gaping at Hux, who was now on his feet and livid with fury.
“Get out!” he screamed, jabbing a finger towards the door. “Get out!”
Genuinely taken aback, Ren whirled and stalked out of the room, his thoughts racing with imparted distress, Hux’s memories acrid in his gut.
*
The following afternoon, a lieutenant hesitantly approached Ren, informing him that General Hux wished to see him in his office.
Ren passed through the unlocked portal, the door sliding shut behind him. Hux was seated at his desk, half-illuminated by the glow of a shaded lamp, his features cast in cavernous shadow. As the latch clicked, he glanced up from the monitor his gaze had been fixed on and gestured to a chair, inviting Ren to take a seat. Ren remained standing.
“That man I saw was your father, wasn’t it?” said Ren, voicing the name he’d gleaned from others’ mental chatter. “Brendol Hux.”
Hux’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “Yes.”
“You must hate him.”
Hux adjusted his posture, folding his hands. “Let me make one thing abundantly clear to you. You do not outrank me. You may have the authority to issue commands to my troops, but you are not a strategist, a tactician, nor a logistician. I was promoted to general because I am all three of those things and I do my job better than many of my comrades. I’m not afraid of you because I know you cannot do my job. The vast majority of the Order cannot do my job.”
He rose from his seat, leaning over the desk. “Whether or not I hate my father has absolutely no bearing on my ability to do my job. Neither do the times my nineteen-year-old self became ill in Academy. And I strongly suggest that you not stand in the way of my doing my job, because if you do, I will be sure to let Supreme Leader know exactly why our operations are falling apart.”
Ren studied him, searching his emotions in vain for some trace of fear, some indication of distress.
“Understood?” Hux said.
“Yes, sir,” Ren replied, his tone edged in snide contempt, and turned on his heel, waving a hand to flick off the lights as he left.