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The General lay dead at her feet.
FN-1878 wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't been for the two medics slowly ceasing their efforts to save what little there had been left of his life to begin with.
The man's perpetually pale skin didn't give it away, and she suspected that his hair, protected from the elements by the cap of his uniform, was as vibrant and carefully groomed as ever. His face didn't give it away, either. Truth be told, she hadn't caught many glimpses of it during her years aboard Finalizer. There was an angry downward twist to his mouth that had slackened with unconsciousness, and his eyes were closed, had been closed ever since the Captain herself had carried him aboard the ship. They hadn't lifted off, couldn't afford to – not while their operation on Dantooine was still ongoing. There were to be no deviations from established First Order protocols; not even for the leader of their armed forces, not even for Hux.
There was very little blood. FN-1878 assumed that most of it had seeped into the wool of the General's greatcoat. She hadn't dared to take a closer look. She wasn't squeamish; at 26 standard years she had seen her fair share of brothers and sisters fall in battle. But she had also been given orders and so she dutifully watched the muddied durasteel ramp leading down from the transport for signs of intrusion.
She'd never been to Dantooine before (and technically, she was still standing on First Order territory, smelled nothing but bacta and the crisp air of the life support subsystems through her white helmet's oxygen filters). Maybe the General hadn't either. He seldom left his command post. It was unlucky (yet not completely unsurprising) that after months of planning and supervising troop movements from the safety of Finalizer's command bridge he had been hit by blaster fire during what had supposed to be nothing more than a show of force. She didn't know the man, didn't particularly mourn him, but officers were officers and this one, so the collective opinion of most of the barracks, had treated his underlings with an adequate amount of fairness.
And now he was dead: another sacrifice laid down upon the glorious altar of battle against the insult that was the New Republic. One not so freely given, perhaps. Men like the General were expert schemers. Dying on the battlefield, the shine of their polished boots dulled by mud and their hands slick with their own blood, simply wasn't part of the equation.
FN-1878 wondered if Hux had realised his fatal mistake, the flaw in his plan, as the blaster bolt had ripped through his thigh. Even now, in death, he seemed to exude an air of superiority. Lying on his back, one gloved hand resting by his side, the other – pale, blood drying under short fingernails – now cradled close to his chest, he looked like a single frame of a holo message come to life. The medics felt it, too. They regarded him with uncertainty – as if perhaps they were expecting further orders or a reprimand for their unforgivable failure.
Neither they nor FN-1878 saw but all heard the heavy fall of boots as someone hurried up the ramp. FN-1878 straightened automatically as she gripped her blaster rifle tighter. Her salute came much too late, of course, but her commander chose to ignore her insubordination.
There, in front of her, stood Kylo Ren. It was as if the General's death had drawn him here but why that was she couldn't say. Rumour had it that the two men didn't particularly like each other, that they didn't see eye to eye on most matters and that it was only due to their common goal and Snoke's excellent leadership that they hadn't yet clashed openly. But there was something in the way Kylo Ren stopped dead in his tracks as he reached the top of the ramp, something in the way she heard the leatheris of his gloves creak as he balled his hands to fists. The way the modulator of his helmet crackled faintly as if it was trying – in vain – to make sense of his heavy breathing. He held his head low and had his shoulders drawn in. His chest heaved, once, twice.
From somewhere above came the tell-tale groan of bursting durasteel. FN-1878 was a veteran. She had long learnt to trust her instincts. Rifle held against her armoured chest, she took a tentative step backwards and hoped the storm would pass her by. She had heard stories about what happened to stormtroopers who crossed Kylo Ren's path at an inopportune time.
The medics weren't as lucky. Secure in the belief that they were, by profession, of the utmost importance to the inner machinations of the First Order they had calmly begun to gather bandages, stims and bacta injectors. One of them, the younger of the two, was bold enough to climb to his feet and face the seething Knight.
“My-my Lord, the General-”
Underneath her helmet FN-1878 cringed but outwardly she remained unmoving, seemingly unperturbed, as Kylo Ren casually lifted a hand and the medic flew backwards in a blur. There came the crunching sound of breaking bones as the man hit a bulkhead and crumpled to the floor.
The other medic froze in mid-motion, mouth slack and an outstretched hand blindly reaching for a stimpak. Like a grantaloupe caught in the headlights of a speeder he hoped that his paralysing fear would somehow protect him, but to no avail. Another flick of Kylo Ren's wrist and the man's blood mingled with that of his colleague on the metal floor.
FN-1878 didn't make a sound. Her lungs burned and her brain urged her to draw deep breaths, a primal reflex to prepare her for the danger to come. It took every ounce of her will not to give into her fear and instead remain a passive bystander, nothing more than a piece of equipment. If she didn't move, if she didn't draw attention to herself, Kylo Ren would continue to ignore her presence here.
Perhaps he'd destroy more of the ship, driven by the depths of his unfathomable rage. Even he, so FN-1878 suspected, couldn't deny the General's importance. To lose him to a minor operation on a backwater planet in the Outer Rim was a waste of resources, one to which the Supreme Leader wouldn't take kindly.
FN-1878 listened for the low hum and the foreboding red glow of the weapon strapped to Kylo Ren's side. The unstable blade would cut the thick durasteel walls to shreds. She wondered if her armour could withstand the rain of molten metal. Would it hurt very much, she asked herself, to die by that wicked, angry saber? As Kylo Ren sunk to his knees in front of the fallen General, FN-1878 realised that fate had denied her an answer. She exhaled slowly through her mouth and relaxed her painful grip on her rifle.
Close to her, so close that she could see his shoulders shake, Kylo Ren let out a keen wail. It was a strange sound, one the modulator in his helmet wasn't made to translate. Mangled static drowned out his deep voice, caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. FN-1878 wondered at the intensity of it. She'd never heard anything quite like it and it puzzled her that someone could be in so much pain over the death of another. It was, she thought, as if Kylo Ren had sensed the General's last moments, and his suffering had imprinted itself on the Knight's soul. It was a possibility, FN-1878 supposed. Men like Kylo Ren could sense a great many things, so they said, but he seemed lost now as he extended one hand towards the General's pale face. The shadow of long fingers danced uncertainly across the dead man's lips before he withdrew to rid himself of his glove.
Black leatheris fell crumpled to the floor. FN-1878 found herself staring at Kylo Ren's hand, the skin smooth and unmarred but not nearly as pale as that of the General. She watched, mesmerised, as that hand cupped Hux's cheek – gentle, careful, as if afraid to wake him. That same hand, FN-1878 mused, wielded the gruesome red of his lightsaber. Now it tried to grasp at the inevitability of death.
FN-1878 didn't understand. What could Kylo Ren possibly gain from such behaviour? Whatever he was looking for, it eluded her and him both. Soon the unfamiliar tenderness of his movements was replaced by anger. Fingers dug into the smooth fabric of Hux's uniform. They prodded and they pulled until they reached where the stray blaster bolt had burnt into his flesh. They didn't stop there. FN-1878 swallowed a gasp as she watched the same gentle fingers that had caressed the General's face claw their way into flakes of the darkest red. She'd seen it many times before, the blood of the dead. Sticky and lifeless, it stained Kylo Ren's hand up to his wrist. He'd sat up, she now belatedly realised. On his hands and knees, he pushed his palm into the General's wound and judging by his grunts and his shaking arms it cost him – though exactly what it was he was doing FN-1878 couldn't say. She didn't want to know, either, and she tried to avert her gaze but soon curiosity got the better of her.
Had she begun imagining things or was there fresh blood welling up from between Kylo Ren's fingers? The Knight had taken countless of lives. Could he grant it, too?
FN-1878 inclined her head so she could see better through her own helmet's restrictive visor.
For a long time, long enough for the bloody sheen on the back of Kylo Ren's hand to dull, nothing happened, yet the man did not cease his ill-aimed endeavour. His back bent and his chest heaving, his helmet's modulator crackling under the strain of his rapid breathing, he now pressed both hands, one gloved in black, the other bathed in red into the General's gruesome wound. FN-1878 could see the General's lifeless body shake with Kylo Ren's exertions. In that moment, she felt sorry for them both. For whatever reason, be it Snoke's impending wrath or something more, something she didn't fully understand, the Knight wasn't prepared to let go, and he clutched at the last thread of life the General had offered him. Then he screamed: a broken, hollow sound that cut off suddenly as the body underneath him arched his back and let out a pained gurgle.
FN-1878 recoiled in shock. She froze as her armour scraped against the bulkhead behind her, and for a moment she feared the worst.
Kylo Ren didn't even notice. His hands still digging into the General's wound, he seemed frozen in place as he watched Hux draw one shaky breath, then exhale with an undignified whine. His hands flailed blindly and his feet sought purchase on the metal floor. His face was an animated grimace of pain. Feverish spots of red high on his cheeks stood in sharp contrast to the sickly pallor of his skin. Then there were his eyes, bright and forest-green, and full of unshed tears. Hux screamed as he unsuccessfully tried to curl around himself, around Kylo Ren. It was, FN-1878 realised with a sinking feeling in her stomach, as if she had witnessed an exchange of sorts taking place; as if the life he'd given to Hux had come with a high price, and now he was the one trapped in stillness as the General writhed against him in agony.
If that was indeed what had happened. FN-1878 feared that if she tried to make sense of it all she'd go mad – or worse, that they'd send her to be reconditioned. All she could do was watch.
So she watched as Hux fumbled for Kylo Ren's hand and pushed it away. She caught a glimpse of angry red tissue that had knit itself together imperfectly. The wound that had killed the General was now miraculously closed, and Kylo Ren swayed, fingertips dripping blood, the fabric of his tattered cloak tearing itself loose as he overbalanced and slumped forward. Hux, disoriented and still in shock, barely managed to keep him from crashing head-first to the ground. Together they lay, an ungraceful heap, on the dirty metal floor.
“Ren, what have you done?”, FN-1878 heard the General's harsh whisper. Tears were streaming down his face but FN-1878 wasn't sure he'd noticed as he pawed awkwardly, soothingly at Kylo Ren's helmet and shoulder. “You poor, deluded fool, what have you done?”
“You're not leaving me”, the Knight gasped, and the desperation and youthful vulnerability in his words transcended even the artificial pitch of his voice-modulator. “I won't have you leave!”
FN-1878 shifted her weight away from the bulkhead. Until now she'd thought of Kylo Ren not as a man but as a weapon, yet here he was: exhausted, anxious, less than what she'd imagined. His bloodied fingers had sought out the curve of Hux's cheekbone and the General let him be.
“I'm still here, and you're damned heavy!” he frowned, his full lips drawn into a disapproving sneer that was betrayed by the tenderness of his own touch.
Kylo Ren laughed, then, a humourless bark that didn't quite mask the relief in his voice.
“Where even are we?” His head resting on the floor, Hux turned away from her as he began to survey his surroundings. Although it seemed so impossible to her now, FN-1878 remembered that he'd already been unconscious when Phasma had carried him aboard the ship. He had neither noticed the medics, nor had he seen them die by Kylo Ren's hands: “Who are these men?”
“I had to-”
“Of course you had to.” Hux let go of the Knight's shoulder and groped around for the custom blaster that he wore strapped to his side during battle. “And apparently it falls to me to see things through, as usual.”
The true extent of her General's words eluded her until he had already drawn his weapon. FN-1878 raised her own rifle, not in self-defence but in ineffectual surprise. The bolt from Hux's blaster hit her square in the chest, and it hurt, but only a little while. She was dead before her body had hit the floor.