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Strange, Beauty >> Armitage Hux X Reader

Title: Strange, Beauty

Paring: Armitage Hux X Reader

Warnings: mentions slavery, lil bit of abuse, angst and fluff.

Spoilers: yes, for Star Wars:The Last Jedi. Read with caution!

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When the First Order recruited the factory that you worked for, there was no possible answer to it other than being yes and surviving. Not that you were a resistance-follower, no. The only qualm you had was that before working for the factory, you had been sold into slavery by your own family, and kept against your will. Now, instead of wearing a hand-sewn sack-like uniform, you were outfitted in the standard First Order uniform, and instead of working on Florrum, you were aboard one of the starships. But there was no time to think of your position in life, or wonder wistfully if you could be elsewhere – there was only work, and then, when there was no work, there was sleep.

You were assigned to a sector of the Subjugator where you worked as a mechanic, following the guidelines assigned by droids to complete tasks. It was still known for human labour to still be highly coveted – in a world where droids all had a sole purpose, sometimes it paid to have people working around the clock. So, you did what you did best; ignoring everything else but your job, and did the best work you could until you were allowed a rest.

It was just that which caused your blunder.

It was on a changing of shifts where you had worked so efficiently, your supervisor, a formidable man, noticed your work. You had no idea what you had done wrong, and within days, you were referred to a superior officer, who then granted you a promotion.

"Congratulations," the superior officer shook your hand, and passed you a standard-appearing package. "Not many mechanics have the chance of proving themselves to become engineers."

That was five years ago.

"_________, I swear, we're getting too old to be single." Your friend Osira, a fellow engineer, smacked your arm playfully. You were on the walk from the dining hall to the lounge, savouring what spare time after a shift on Zhellday had to offer before curfew, and then work on Benduday. "I for one, intend on working on getting someone."

You raised an eyebrow. Osira Westmore was no stranger to 'getting someone'. But then again, her home planet and culture spent before signing up to the First Order was quite colourful with its parings, and she was no stranger to relationships. For her, it was the simple factor of getting someone, and keeping them. For you, it was the opposite.

"Good for you," you tell her, siding up to the small bar in the lounge. It was indeed small – manned by a droid on one end, mixing drinks, and a bartender attending to orders. "You're the kind of woman who goes and gets things done when she wants, and I congratulate you."

Osira harrumphs at that, and wastes no time ordering a row of Tipples for herself, knocking them back as soon as she gets them. She blinks, dazed momentarily, and asks, "So, what are you working on? And don't say plans for improving stormtrooper blasters, y–you incorrigible girl."

She slurs the last part, and you laugh, ordering a sparkling water. "Incorrigible, am I?" You repeat, taking a sip. "I'm just doing my job. Following orders."

An alarm sounds throughout the lounge, a fifteen-minute warning until curfew is put into place. Osira flags the bartender hearing it, and orders another round of Tipples. "Yeah, you rule-following killjoy. You'd have thought, of all the people I could befriend, I get the one who doesn't want to colour outside the lines." As her Tipples arrive, Osira wastes no time downing them.