Work Text:
Hux kept his chin raised high as a junior officer of the Resistance marched him from the transport to the bustling heart of Starfighter Base. His arms were shackled in a binder behind his back; his greatcoat and uniform, long-ago traded for the rags of a prisoner of war. Even as such, Hux vowed to let no sign slip that he was even marginally inconvenienced by his capture and forthcoming degradation. He anticipated torture. It would not break him.
There was a high wind on D'Qar that day, but everyone--everyone--lined up outside their huts to watch the team bringing in the Starkiller. Hux kept a sneer of contempt plastered to his face, even when the wind cut through his thin garments with a fierce sting. The officers at his arm, stumbling a little against the gale, ushered Hux toward the door of a hexagonal building. They passed through two sets of locking doors, both with guards stationed inside. This must be it, Hux thought, the sloppy penitentiary of these Republic-born savages. He was made to wait outside a room while the junior officers went in and confirmed permission to proceed. It took a long time; Hux hadn't been given food or water since his capture, but of course, that was no matter. He'd faint on his feet before asking these animals for anything.
When finally the nod was given and Hux passed through the last set of doors, he found a command room, completely empty except for one woman. She was older than Hux and wore her years like the honors they were riddled with. Her long, grey hair was pinned up, wound in a tight, meticulous braid around her her head. "Bring him in, then leave," she barked, and the officers yielded to her command like it was the will of the Force. She'd been swiping through a datapad, attending some work before Hux dared to become the next matter on her to-do list. When she looked up at him, he felt his face grow hot.
Something...something about this woman was posed to crumble him.
It wasn't her large, dark eyes, which bore such a marked resemblance to Ren's that Hux instantly recognized the familial connection. It wasn't her posture, so confident and sharp and assured that it rested, almost certainly, on a blend of aristocracy and true authority of spirit. It was something about the pressure Hux felt in his mind, like a cat rubbing up on his ankles; a soft, sweeping, beckoning pressure, powerful and dangerous enough to rival the sense of mental ransacking he got when standing before the Supreme Leader.
"Yeah, that's right," she said, eyes narrowing. "You'd better be scared of me."