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"You know what Snoke's going to do to him, right?" The spectre beside him asks. "You know what he's been doing to him for years. It's what they do to you, but so much worse. You can't take him there. You can't take yourself there."
Hux neither turns his head nor argues, merely reminds himself that one does not argue with figments of one's imagination.
Pity, of course, that is how it will go as it always does. He has lived so long with this spectre that he no longer can believe the excuse of exhaustion or concussion. He has run through every possible explanation for his constant companion and nothing satisfies.
And yet, still, he tells no one from the Order. Not Phasma, not the Supreme Leader. The words will not come and they do not notice. Neither has Ren observed. It is as though it is invisible to all but him. Even the discontent that is the natural outcome of his visitation is unnoticed by all.
His spectre laughs, putting his feet atop the console. "Ignoring me won't change anything anymore than yelling about the glory of the order drowns out the voice in the back of your head."
Hux knows the voice he means. It whispers to him constantly. Pleads. Begs. Tells him that he can still choose. He can still leave. That no blood may be washed away, but that absolution can yet still be found and that it is not too late.
Hux squares his jaw and tightens his grip on the controls. "I will not betray my duty," he grits out, though the words are a struggle and the victory of speaking them empty and void. It is a feeling that has dogged him since he sent the order. Sent he commanded the weapon to fire. For all that he has shouted and believed, beneath it all...there is nothing.
As there has always been.
Duty has moved him forward all these years. Duty and honor. Belief is duty. Belief is…
"Duty," the spectre echoes, amused, though there's a darkness to it now. "I remember that."
Hux has a second's breath before the image strikes him. Fire in the sky, billowing across the horizon, as below people run screaming in all directions for a shelter that cannot be found. Terror and desperation claw their way through him with panic burning along behind until all he can do is join the screaming--then it is gone, the nightmare evaporates and he is alone in the cockpit once more.
Alone but for his spectre of course.
Hux slumps in the chair, fighting for breath. He knows what he is seeing. He knows what he felt. What they felt when his order had rained death down from on high. "They resisted," he spits with effort. "They defied the rightful rule of the Order."
"As they defied the Empire before it. It doesn't matter if the Order kills a hundred, a thousand, a world, or an entire star system, it will change nothing. People will rise and they will resist." The spectre looks proud at the thought. "They have a courage most in the Order and the Empire could never understand." He turns his head and grins at Hux. "You might."
"I might."
He tries to scoff. He does. The officer in him is raging at the insult implied in it all. The idea that he could defy the Supreme Leader, that he would betray the First Order, it's incendiary.
And yet he is not incensed. He tries to tell himself that it is, of course, manipulation by his spectral companion. The man has persisted against all odds, evaded detection, haunted Hux's every step, why would it be so surprising to find he is capable of mind control as well?
"You're scared, I know," the spectre says, putting his hands behind his head. Hux can almost hear the creak of the leather on the glove he wears on one. "I can't blame you being scared. You've never known anything but the First Order. Your entire life has been in service to them. You're a general. You've all but reached the pinnacle of your career. You might even replace the Supreme Leader some day--assuming he doesn't kill you first. That would be a lot to turn your back on, but it's not that simple, is it? You've murdered and maimed for them. You've tortured people, slaughtered them, burned their homes to the ground, and turning your back on the Order means facing that. There aren't supposed to be happy endings for men like us."
Hux exhales. It is difficult to maintain rage or indifference in a moment such as this. "You speak from experience, it would seem?"
"I think you know that I do," is his reply. The spectre sits up and then it's the legend that sits beside him instead. The nightmare that kept entire planets awake at night. The monster whose shadow falls across the man that's carved out a place in Hux's soul and made himself to home.
Then Darth Vader is gone and Anakin Skywalker, cloaked in the robes of his youth, sits before him with a sad, weary smile.
"I thought the same thing for decades," he says, honest. "The Emperor controlled me with the same manipulation and fear that Snoke is using on you and my grandson. I thought I was trapped by my own crimes. I thought that the blood on my hands had forever shackled me in that suit."
"Until the very day that you died as I understand it."
"Yes," Anakin agrees, "because I didn't act when I had the chance. I ignored that little voice in the back of my soul. I let myself believe Palpatine's lies. I locked myself in my own cage and millions paid the price of my cowardice." He looks back to where Ren lies, wounded and silent, and Hux has to turn his eyes from the expression on his face. "My own children and their children included."
His voice is rough with the guilt, the pain, but... "I failed my children. I gave them a galaxy full of death and terror. I made peace with Luke." Something that might be a chuckle, tear-soaked as it is, breaks the tension.
When Hux looks, Anakin's face is impossibly fond. "He was so much like Padme. He dragged me kicking and screaming out of the darkness and gave me the courage to break free." He meets Hux's gaze and tips his head at Ren. "Ben might need someone to do that for him."
"And you think that someone might be me?" Hux asks, incredulous. "Are you mad?"
"No, I'm dead," Anakin shrugs. "Dead sees different." He settles back in the chair. "But I didn't mean you. You have your own darkness to fight."
"Ah, General Organa?"
That sad smile returns. "No, I didn't mean Leia either. She's got her hands full right now with the Resistance and the last thing she needs is you two turning up. She doesn't need be fighting the Order and her own people at the same time. There'll be a day when she needs the both of you, but it's not this one."
"You seem awfully confident that I'll be there to be needed," Hux scowls, wishing for all the worlds he'd kept right on pretending this man was nothing more than a phantom or the result of food gone off. His heart is pounding in his ears and he feels very much like he might be ill. "I--"
"Have hated every second of every day of every year of your life from the moment you put on that uniform," Anakin says, solemn and knowing. "Maybe try not hating existence for a while. This is your chance, Hux. I don't know if I'll be able to arrange another."
There is a lot in his life he doesn't know. There is a part of him that is screaming in fury at this betrayal of Snoke and the Order, but...
Hux breathes deep. "Where am I going and who am I looking for?"
Coordinates fill his mind, his hands moving of their own accord, and Anakin smiles. "Tell Mace I owe him one. Oh, and take care of my grandson. You'll have your hands full there, I promise."
And then he's gone.
"Hands full," he sighs, "Yes, I had noticed that."
There is no redemption for the likes of them, but perhaps, perhaps they might yet find atonement.
Hux sets his course.