Ginger is the Colour

 

Ginger is the Colour

 

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: Major Character Death

Category: M/M

Fandom: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)

Relationship: Hux/Kylo Ren

Characters: Kylo Ren, Hux, Original Characters, Dopheld Mitaka

Chapter 1

It is the thirteenth month on the isolated, nearly forgotten planet named Pheldlon, an ice-locked backwater world as the fifth planet of a dimmed, deteriorating sun located on the Outer Rim. It was only retrieved by the New Public about eight years ago. Since then, it has been held as an outpost, a not much important one. A military ship squad would visit this desolated supply station once in two years, carrying out necessary inspection work, but no more than that. One could be easily familiar with every face on the base because there are only 76 people around, staff included.

So when the X-Wing sends request to them for landing, Sergeant Jo Danthroe begins to bark at everyone that is not fully occupied in their duties. "If you ever want to see a new face in the next two years you sure drag your lazy ass and come to the hangar ASAP."

The X-Wing has a high-rank clearance level, it seems. A few staff are waiting on the deck, a little bit excited and anxious. Danthroe goes in front of them, curiosity already in its crescendo. He hasn't been informed of any information pertinent to this visit, neither the visitor's identity nor his/her mission. The only thing they have been requested is to provide any kind of assistance when necessary.

The staircase is being laid down; they have a glimpse of the figure. Humanoid, Danthroe notes as the visitor approaches from the X-Wing. He is about 6.3 feet tall, all covered in grey robe and hood. When he walks towards them, the robe flips in the blizzard like a menacing, giant bird.

He pushes his hood back when Danthroe and his men solute to him. A human male in his thirties, Danthroe thinks. Dark, a little dishevelled long hair; face marred by an angry scar from his right eye to the cheekbone, but somehow it doesn't make him look ugly, only adding something exotic to his expression and disturbing people's guess about his age. He is not as menacing as before with his face exposed, eyes somehow young.

"Apologies for arriving in such a weather," the man says, reaching out his hand, "Ben."

Danthroe blinks. "Sir," he automatically answers, "it's our greatest honour to receive you on Pheldlon and provide any needed assistance to your mission." That doesn't mean he knows the identity and rank of the so called Ben. It's probably not a real name at all, a code, maybe.

"My thanks for all your assistance. In fact, the mission, " he pauses, Danthroe recognizes a little grimace on his face, perhaps just out of cold. "shall be carried right away. Sergeant Danthroe, according to the records, you've been here for about eight years and participated in the last Droma Battle?"

"Exactly, Sir."

"Good." he says. "So you are familiar with the local terrain."

"Most of it, Sir."

He nods with a gesture. "And all the wreckages of ships, I presume."

"Some of them, Sir. Many are unapproachable due to the constant gale and blizzard."

"That's not the problem for me." the man called Ben says.

It appears that his list includes a shuttle, a snowfield speeder, portions, water and Sergeant Danthroe himself. In such a weather. Danthroe doesn't question his discretion, but subtly suggests that launching under such conditions would require more preparation.

"Then make such preparation for yourself, Sergeant Danthroe." he shrugs. "I'm not in much need of it. We will depart when you are ready."

"To where, Sir?" Danthroe asks in confusion. Damn, at least he shall have the decency to know what they are heading to.

"The largest wreckage." after a moment he adds, "The one of the First Order."

***
The shuttle takes off about an hour later, at 1000 in the morning. The sky still has a tinge of pale grey, but Danthroe knows better that it will grow darker in about four hours. During the mid-autumn months the second son usually sets at about 1800; after the sunset, flying in such weather would be rather dangerous even with the most advanced devices. Whatever their mission would be, Danthroe decides, he would not suggest a searching scout after 1600.

The man doesn’t speak much of their mission during the whole flight. He just takes the seat of the co-pilot and assists Danthroe make the shuttle through heavy blizzard. When the shuttle begins to take the auto-flight mode, he stares outside the window, palms neatly on his knees.

“The planet is damn cold.” Danthroe comments idly, just to make the fight somehow tolerable.

“I see.”

“Eight years in the freezing hell. If things works out as regular, I would leave this ice ball next year. ”

The man turns his head. He has wide, dark eyes, but they are not intimidating as his first appearance. “I remember. You have remained here since the Droma Battle. What’s it like?”

“Not much a grand one.” Danthroe shrugged. “Severing the logistic route of remnant First Order bases. We had strategic advantage over them; they fought with claws and teeth but still lost the battle. Several ships were fired down from the outer space, scattered around the Grimwenth Plateau. Later we call it Graveyard Plateau.”

“Have you dispatch a scout team for any survivors or information?”

“Never had I heard of such a thing.” Admits Danthroe. “Nothing could survive on the ice ball without supply. And who cares if those bastards just stopped existing? Should be a good thing for the universe.”

And that’s their last line of conversation during the flight.

***
After a tedious flight in the blizzard for about three hours, their aims are finally approaching. At first look they are just black spots taking shape on the horizon, but Danthroe recognize them at once due to his previous scouting experience.

“There.” He points at the largest wreckage, calling Ben’s attention. “We’re going to land in twenty minutes. Hold on to the armrest; the landing maybe nasty.”

Ben’s hands lift from his knees; they begin to take a firm grip on the armrest with almost white knuckles. As the shuttle’s height decreases, the contour of the black spots become clearer. A Star Cruiser; half of its main structure being buried deeply under the snow, only its left wing and broken bridge point starkly, meaninglessly against the steel grey sky.

"Not a Star Destroyer?" asks the man--Ben, with a strange feeling of slight relief.

"No," says Danthroe. "No ship of Star Destroyer Class participates in that battle."

"The records of the battle in the database are rather limited." Ben comments.

"I think so," replies Danthroe. "After all it's not an important battle."

Ben barks a strange laughter. "Yes," he says, "after all these years. Reduced to merely a star cruiser."

He does not make any comments until they land on the nearest flat area. There is still about half an hour walk to the precipitous terrain of that wreckage.

Ben walks on the treachery ice and snowfield with graceful gait, like it’s nothing. Danthroe could not see his expression with hood low on his eyes. What does he want on a long-fallen ship, he thinks. Any significant info would be out of date after so many years, not to say the First Order has already been thoroughly plucked from the universe.

When they finally reach the overwhelming giant steel body, to Danthroe's surprise, Ben easily finds an emergency exit. He shakes and sweeps the snow from the door, pulling it with his strength. The hinge is nearly useless due to the extreme cold and long time out of use. It cracks but does not move.

"Maybe we could return to the base and come back later with some tech guys." Danthroe shouts in the deafening wind.

Ben just shakes his head, "stay back," he commands.

Stepping behind several steps, Danthroe knows better than to question the strange man’s authority. Ben reaches for something hanged on his belt--it's not a blaster, or any other weapon that Danthroe has witnessed. A dark, metal cylinder with a few decorated lines.

And then Ben activates it.

A blue, steady beam suddenly ejected from the cylinder; a mild hum even made the air a bit dense--Danthroe doesn’t know how he could tell that in the gale, maybe just a natural hint, an instinct sense. And all he can do is to watch in awe as Ben use the weapon to cut off the frame and tosses it aside like it's made of plastic.
Ben stands in the snow, facing the roughly created entrance, his attitude a mixture between something amused and lost.

"I do not think you would still mind it…at least not now." He says in a soft, even weary way. Though no one else is here, Danthroe still gets a feeling that the conversation is not directed to him.

Really Strange man, he thinks.

 

Thanks to the temperature far below freezing point, the inner part of the ship does not have a stale smell of wreckages often do. Ships have crew and they die, quickly or slowly. There is always a mess in such a wreckage.

They pass a long, narrow corridor with scattered bodies. Storm troopers. "And now they are trooped by the storm." says Danthroe. It's a bad joke, he knows, but he has to say something to distract him from the teeth clattering cold and...he hates to admit that, a little bit fear in the Graveyard, inside the ghost ship. The other man doesn't respond to his joke.

Apparently the so-called Ben is heading towards the control room. Maybe there is something he needs; a piece of information, a chip drive, or other storage device. The bridge to the control room dangerously inclines to the surface of ice, and they stopped right there.

The door of control room is broken. But it's not important at all, because a large part of the control room is covered underneath a thick layer of ice. Although the design's original purpose is to protect the structure and safety of the people inside, it still cannot stand the immense impact force caused by the unfortunate crash down to ground.

It's quite dark now. The light is so dim that Danthroe could only recognise the outline of things under their feet. A control console, some furniture fixed on the durasteel floors and walls. But Ben kneels on the ice; his hands put on it, like he's trying to wake the ice, to give energy or talk to it.

All in a sudden his whole gesture stiffens. "Oh." he says quietly, gazing at the west corner of the ice-covered room.

Danthroe also looks into that corner. Something, somebody, maybe--he could not recognise anything other than a hue of faint ginger, like an extinguished ember against all the sterile dark, chrome and grey.

"Object targeted?" asks Danthroe.

Ben does not reply. He stands up, slowly, walking towards the direction of that colour. His expression totally blank, showing nothing joyful of finding what he needs.
Danthroe follows him nonetheless. While getting closer, under the light of his head torch, he catches a glimpse of the object that attracts Ben's full attention.

"The guy has ginger hair." he comments, scanning the uniform. "An officer?"

"A General." To his surprise, Ben replies this time. He kneels again on the ice, fingers weirdly tracing the cracks of the translucent barrier between him and the thing. A general. Danthroe gazes suspiciously. From this distance, there is nothing could be discerned to suggest his insignias or stripes on the sleeve.

"Sir, if you need to retrieve any info in that room, I would like to suggest we may go back and bring more men tomorrow."

"There is no need." after a moment Ben says, voice a little distant. "Sergeant Danthroe, I understand your inclination to return the base. The mission is to be closed. Just...would you check the sub-control chamber over there to find if there’s a grey droid? Old communication type, FD317. If you find it, bring its chip back to me."

 

Chapter 2

While the Sergeant temporarily out in another chamber collecting some invented chip, Ben sits down on the ice.

“Hello,” he says. “Hello.”

He doesn’t know what to say. There have been so, so many years since they last conversation, or mutual jabs; it feels awfully wrong now to think how to begin a small talk. You’ll definitely drop an acrid comment about my awkwardness, he thinks. But it’s difficult to memorize a certain phrase, like all his memories have been melted into thick mist or some disgusting jelly; only a distant feeling of what Hux’s reaction would be remains.

About eight years and a half, he remembers. It’s not that he is counting all the days. He had stopped doing so about five years ago, when the last base of First Order had been destroyed by the Resistance. No information were useful; he checked and double checked, even personally interrogating (not in his old way, of course) some officers in person. Yes, we knew who he was. No, we hadn’t contacted any commander of that rank for a long time. No, we knew nothing about the present status of that man. Maybe the database would tell you something. As if he didn’t go through it already.

General Brendol Hux II, Current status: missing.

 

He takes a deep breath, deeper than he thinks he could manage.

He vaguely remembers that it’s exactly the last words he said to him, via an encrypted personal corresponding frequency; the merit you’d got from messing with a top-rank officer. He didn’t hear any response though, except for a few sounds like occasional white noises caused by breeze. Only until he jumped into hyperspace with all signals muted, he began to realize that it might be Hux’s shuttered breath. It’s not a farewell, later he thought. I hadn’t said any appropriate goodbye, so you also could not, should not, do that to me.

So self-obsessed. He could almost hear the snort and smiling sarcasm.

 

***

Once, after a long and tiresome day, Hux lay beside him and the room light had not been ordered to be zero percent, his fingers tracing Hux’s small back and finding some lines there. Not lines, his muzzy mind still could tell. Scars. Long and fierce ones. His fingers pressed a little harder against them, wondering where Hux did get them from.

And Hux fidgeted a little under the slightly increasing pressure.

“Some battles?” He asked.

No verbal response. But in his mind he could hear the broadcasting voices. It doesn’t matter at all. Please don’t ask this. And a smear of dark, cold feeling emitting sense of fear and shame.

He didn’t push further. After a few minutes, while he was going to fall into the numbness of sleep, he heard Hux’s voice, inside his mind.

I was found messing with a boy at the Academy. Twenty lashes by my father. Ten for the unbecoming behaviour, ten for incapability of taking thing under control.

Oh, he thought vaguely. That Bastard.

Not exactly so. Hux sounded bitterly amused. He’s certainly no better than his peer officers as a father, nonetheless no worse. He’s just…one of them.

He was dead. He didn’t need to probe into Hux’s memory for the information.

Hell, yes. About ten years ago.

He would be proud now, knowing your promotion as General.

Maybe. Hux mused. He always thought the First Order is merely a mimicry of his beloved Empire. He founded it from the Empire’s ashes, but had a continual despise for the policies, plans and enforcers that had not be conformed to his own design. Prior to his death, he had been Admiral for almost fifteen years with increasingly fading hope for elevation in power and influence. To him I had also been a disappointment; he once said he did not see things in me.

What?

He thought I was weak.

He felt the walls were already being built around Hux’s thoughts. He always knew Hux’s mind was strong and well trained; even for him, it would be a task for tearing off the protective mental screen. And at that time he was tired and sleepy; so he just let that topic slipping away.

 

***

He’s still sitting on the ice, cold seeping into his skin through layers of thick cloth, though it could not be compared to what had seeped into Hux’s fleshes and bones and locked him down there. Did he had a quick death in the crash, or waited there to let the hypothermia take him over—he wonders, as if the details still mean something now. Mitaka had called me hypocritical before I came to Pheldlon, and maybe he is right about that.

It was two weeks ago when they came across each other. On another remote asteroid that used to be a hub where ships frequented for supply and repair work, now it’s served as a heaven for all the vagabonds in the universe losing their belief or hiding from past crimes. Mitaka, a Lieutenant of the First Order with perfect Academy scores and disciplines, was working in a junk yard categorizing all sorts of wasted appliances that one could imagine to exist in the whole universe. What an irony, he thought, for the man hated so much for the useless and untidy electronic devices mutilated by his lightsaber.

Mitaka ran like a frightened rabbit as soon as he recognized his face. Of course. The man had been scared by him too much by the past force chokes. And of course, he didn’t make it far before he was dragged back. Don’t kill me don’t squeal me why are you here what do you want I have nothing to do with the First Order I just want to live my life. Mitaka’s overflowing dread almost made him sick.

Later, he bought Mitaka a drink in a closest pub, something strong from Corellia. Mitaka was still quivering when he made a shot of the brown liquid. “Why me?” he asked.

“I think you might know something about Hux and the Finalizer.”

Mitaka’s eyes went wide. “Damn,” He said, “why do you think I know?”

His heart nearly sank for the retort. “I believe you had been aboard the Finalizer.”

Mitaka stared at him, suddenly chuckling, a miserable and sarcastic sound. “Only until you defection.”

“Then.”

“After your defection,” Mitaka said, “all the officers of the Finalizer had been removed. Some interrogated, some demoted, others were exiled or reassigned. The Finalizer was renamed and given to a brigadier general, and rumour said that it didn’t survive the Citadel Battle. Anyway, I was in the Outer Rim those days; all the information are second handed or several handed, and I knew nothing about General.”

Then there was mutual silence. Only the inebriated talks of smugglers and ship crews vibrated in the background. After a while, he said, “Then who would have such information.”

“I don’t know!” the man snapped. “I hadn’t contacted with anyone of the First Order since I fled the damn desert where I was exiled. Hells, you wouldn’t do that if you were me.”

That might be a lie, he thought, considering for the first time in the recent eight years to make the frightened man tell by the Force. His fingers clenched almost unconsciously, half forming the gesture he used to interrogate—

No, you had made your vow and you would not break it. You are not a Jedi but you still hold on to some creeds. Not the old way, not again. You’ll find someone who knows by other means.

“Fair enough.” He said, standing up and poised to leave.

“That’s all?” Mitaka called from behind. “You are not going to squeal me?”

“Why bother?” He answered. “You are in the Neutral Region, and it’s not my duty to track ex-First-Order-Officers.”

“Then why do you collect information about General?”

He stopped. “It’s none of your business.”

Suddenly his wrist was caught by the man. Such a bold act. “Why?” the man asked. “You never care about anything beyond the scope of your magic craft.”

He had to admit that he was almost impressed by the unexpected burst of courage, but the most important of all, he’s ensured.

“You know something.”

“What, Ren,” Mitaka spat, “You want to use me to hunt him down? Bring him to the so-called justice of the Republic?”

His heart pounded in his chest, so fiercely that he thought it literally bumped against his ribcage. The man absolutely knew something. He could sense it by the Force, though he couldn’t pin it down.

“Call me Ben.” he said.

“Ben, then?” It felt like the alcohol had lent tremendous valour to him, or it’s just a drunk talk. “Easy for you to change your name and colour like a damn chameleon, thriving on each side. How could you do that, Ren?” Mitaka smiled, a mocking one that he never thought the timid, nervous young man could manage. I am not thriving, he thought.

“I have been searching him for eight years.” He said instead.

“Oh,” the man’s smile stiffened; he blinked, this time without immediate retorting. Blinking, once, twice. “Ren, you hypocritical bastard.”

He waited, silently, nails digging into his palms. A habit he unconsciously picked up in the recent years; sometimes it reminded him of Hux.

Mitaka’s smile burst into hysterical laughter. “After destructing everything and everyone you dare to claim such a slice of care. He said he knew nothing about your plan. A Lie, isn’t it? Ren, you dragged him down. You dragged everybody aboard that ship down. I heard him screamed, hells, he--”

And he suddenly stopped, avoiding Ren/Ben’s eyes, like the words had finally drained the remaining strength of him.

“Someone said he was last seen in the Droma Battle and his ship had been shot down. Near some planet called Phelond, or something pronounced like that.”

***

And now he’s on Pheldlon. This ice ball bears some similarity with the Star Killer Base—which seems like a century ago, a life away. And He knows. By the Force he knows when he just landed on the snowfield in the gust.

He has had so many imaginations and theories. About how they would meet, one day, about what would he say to him as a greeting. He imagined that he had already moved on, having another name, another identity, even a family, like a lot of ex-officers of the First Order had done. He also imagined, more often than not, that he’s still alone, living on some backwater planet and he would do everything, anything, to speak with him again, to ask what had happened in those fateful moments and those proceeding years. Would he mock, would he despise, or would he only look at him with perfect calm of a stranger. He has imagined all kinds of possibilities.

And he is on Pheldlon.

 

***

They lay together in the bed, again. It had become a habit for both of them in the recent weeks, in lieu of the hasty leaving after sex. Ren’s fingers tracing the ridges of the scars, using the Force to sooth Hux’s stiff shoulders and intense migraine. One scar, ridge much rougher and fiercer than the others, called his attention.

What’s that for. He asked mutely.

That. Hux responded half-heartedly. That’s my father recognized my weakness and stamped it out.

What happened.

I’m not overly fond of discussing that now and get out of my head, Ren--

It’s too late; the potential emotion was too strong and he just saw. Motions, feelings, all the memory flooded into his eyes, sweeping his mind. He was there, about sixteen or seventeen years’ old, standing on the thick ice. An ice lake, he realized, two holes dug into its core like the eye sockets of long-deceased giant; he could discern the dark, freezing water through them. There were other boys, all in plain and grey uniform, queuing in a straight line; the first one jumped into one of the holes, emerging from the other one seconds later. A training session, then. He--Hux--was the fifth, and his mind was screaming.

Theo. Theo died. In the Unknown Region. He shouldn’t be sent there Is there anything to do with me I am sorry so sorry—

And it’s his turn then; he walked over to the edge and jumped, like the others but lack the vitality. Seeming languid. The water devoured him at once.

He embraced himself for the impact. However, under the ice, everything seemed different; the light more soft and blue, even the freezing temperature soon becoming welcoming and comfortable. I could forget and don’t have to face all the mess and my weakness and—

Hux held still in the water; for a moment he didn’t sink. After that, his hands clawed instinctively but futilely at the ice above, but his legs too frozen to give efficient kicks. I’m going to be drown in this damn freezing lake, he thought in his compartmentalized mind, but what finally grabbed and enveloped him was all the feeling of mercy in lieu of panic.

Ren suddenly jerked, his lungs burning, inhaling sharply and shallowly like he was just pulled out of deep water.

Hux wasn’t staring at him. His eyes gazing at some non-existent dirty spot on the durasteel, expression blank.

Later I was told that a droid pulled me out. Three days spent in the medic. They thought that’s an accident but my father knew better. That time he used a cane. And he’d been so disappointed.

A lot of words, phrases and emotions had roared in Ren’s heart and mind, evolving from how could he did this to you to did you just accept it or desire it (are you still having this kind of thought). But he’s too afraid to ask, even in his mind; so he just caressed the ginger carefully, holding his fingers, one by one.

And he knows the answer now.

***

They had talked about all the things not long before his return. Not verbally, just in their mind. The pull of light, the possible defection, the variable future. What can I do, what they would make me to do? Ren? Training soldiers, commanding battles and giving orders?

There are a lot of things you can do, and we could do it together.

And how would they put me into justice?

Silence.

I will talk to General Organa and if only she wants me back by her side she’ll—

Spare me all your stupidities, Ren. You know quite well that I could not, will not count my life on one person’s mercy. And talking with you like this has already constituted high treason.

Technically it’s not conversation, Hux. It’s just thinking. Even your rigid regime cannot convict you for merely thought.

No. But If I remain silence about your thought I would commit high treason.

 

It’s the last talk they had on that topic.

He wonders, somehow, if he could come back through time to those moments, that he maybe, just maybe, could devise some ideas, some plans to persuade Hux leaving with him, heading some neutral region and then living as a technician, an engineer, even a designer. With your brilliant mind you could do many things aside from mass-killing. I knew how the world works out there, don’t be afraid; don’t be. You claim restoring the universe into rigid order as your belief only because you know nothing about the beauty in the so-called chaos and the real life, a life you never have the chance to live. And you are scared by the fundamental change. You choose to die unchanged rather than live by my side—

But at that time, he couldn’t know such things himself. And Ren—Ben—has had his chances to choose: light to dark, dark to light. He’s the child of Force, apprentice of Supreme Leader Snoke, son of General Organa; a too valuable asset for both sides to lose. Hux was only a cog in the machine, a cog moulded and polished to serve only one purpose, acknowledging nothing about choice.

Finn still had chosen his way, and a lot of officers had also chosen. But Hux is different; now he knows with every aching bone. He should know from the start the only choice that he would make about his life’s purpose. He should and he still neglects it somehow.

It’s still not your choice to make. Some voice says. It’s his. And he also knows that it’s exactly what Hux would say, like the several concrete inches of ice that separates them. He used to step on thin ice and heavy snow to save you, he thought, but you could never have the chance do the same to him. His thin and warm smile, his caress and care, his eyes, his mind, all their possibilities. All buried under the snow and would only be remembered by Ren/Ben.

***

 

The footsteps are closer. He doesn’t need to look up to recognize who is coming. The Sergeant. Of course he can’t find the invented chip and comes back. But there’s some task he still needs him to complete, then.

“Come here, Sergeant.” He says.

Sergeant Danthroe obeys. He takes out his communication pad and shows him the information, Hux’s picture, post, among other things. The Sergeant stares at the holo-projection and again, down the ice, at the dim ginger colour.

“Can’t believe we’d shot down the guy who blew up the whole Hosnian System. Damn, what a revenge. We could boast it for all the coming winter.”

“Put your signature here.” He said.

The Sergeant does as told, watching him complete the information and hit the sending signal. A red light flickers, crossing dark, cold and deep universe and finally bearing message to the Core Worlds.

Brendol Hux II, Current status: Deceased.

Confirmers: Ben Solo, Sergeant Danthroe.

---End---