Warrior ◊ Star Wars

chapter thirteen; awaited answers

Two years prior

Aboard the Finalizer

The children of the late Brendol Hux were at odds with one another once again.

Commander Marana Hux was still fresh from the fight, buttoning the last notch of her black jacket while storming down the opaquely lit hallways of the star destroyer. She had changed out of her TIE fighter flight suit only minutes ago, sweaty knots of hair escaping her tight braid and sticking to the sides of her neck. Her face burned red from both exhaustion and a seething rage that was just building to its climax.  She rounded a corner, knocking shoulders with a troop commander and nearly barreling right through a small band of stormtroopers. More than anything, she wanted to put her fist through something. Something, someone, had to pay.

The young pilot finally set her eyes on her target; her brother's office doors were kept guard by some minor First Order desk officer who acted more as a glorified secretary than anything else. The man glanced up to see the familiar sight of Mara reeling towards him with no appointment to see the general scheduled. He popped up, saluting his superior out of protocol and forcing out the warning as fast he could, "He's not taking interruptions at the moment-"

Her reply was quick and left no room for questions, "He'll see me."

The officer did nothing to protest, sitting back down as she jammed the button. The doors didn't pen quick enough for her adrenaline-addled patience, and she shoved herself between the frame and didn't even wait for it to close before throwing out the accusation, "Armitage, you absolute sculag." 

The newly-promoted general inclined his head up from a datapad he was reading, not even the slightest bit surprised by her intrusion. He did his best not to directly engage her just yet, crossing the room as she stood still, her face hot with rage. He took a seat behind a large desk while she fumed, fighting off the urge to smack him then and there. Or kill Phasma.

"Have you been drinking?" Armitage questioned with a stoic tone.

She had just docked her fighter and hadn't even made it to her cask of Elba beer. They both knew this, "Don't even pretend you don't know what this is about."

"You're overreacting." He chided, looking down at the numerous reports that lay before him on his desk, not really caring for Mara's outburst, "Go back to your post."

Mara let out a forced laugh from a tight throat. Her chin quivered in fury as her knuckles grew white at her sides. She thickly swallowed before spitting out her words, "You know, I would. I would gladly follow that order if half my squadron wasn't dead! And guess who's responsible for that?"

"You're blaming me for the failure of your pilots?" Armitage didn't look up from a truly meaningless troops report, not giving his sister the satisfaction of knowing he saw her glare, "AT-3475 and AT-3338's deaths were only due to their lack of ability to follow orders."

"Lack of ability?" Mara closed in fast, ripping away the datapad he was reading, "You gave the order to leave AT-3475! You told Phasma to execute AT-3338!"

"Because AT-3475 was dead-"

"He wasn't dead! The only reason AT-3338 didn't immediately follow your commands, may I add kriffing outrageous commands, was because he was trying to save Speeder!" She finally met her brother's gaze, shaking her head with absolute distaste.

Something struck the general's nerve and his eyes blazed in response, yanking back his reading material from Mara, "They have designated numbers for a reason. Stop calling them by those stupid nicknames. Don't make me say this again; you're overreacting."