His quarters were dim and silent, and the narcotic cocktail in his veins should have put him under for hours. Should have at least stilled his thoughts, dulled his perceptions enough to allow him sleep.
But there was no rest for Kylo Ren. He lay in his narrow cot and waited, listening to the hum of the deck-plating and the ringing in his ears and the jumbled, fearful thoughts of the small crew. He should have stopped the unlucky storm trooper who'd attended to him from administering pain suppressants, as agony would have at least given him something to focus on.
He looked inward with the Force, perceiving clearly the gaping wound beneath his ribs, the ragged edges of torn muscle, the splintered bottom rib. Pieces of bone and shrapnel. A punctured lung.
His father's pet Wookie had given him that souvenir, sending a bowcaster bolt through his torso, punching a hole that was large enough to put two fingers in. And the girl, Rey, had marked his face with her own prominent reminder. The storm trooper had at least been able to tend to that, painting the flesh with bacta and gluing the worst of it back together. He wasn't vain enough to bemoan a scar, even one that practically bisected his face, but the thought of constantly seeing a reminder of this failure wasn't a thought he relished. A reminder that some girl, a gutter rat from Jakku, had actually bested him in single combat. Punctured lung or no, it was a blow to his ego. The familiar co-mingling of anger and shame rose again, simmering in the pit of his ravaged belly.
Still, recent events had included some successes. Solo's death ended a grudge he'd been holding for the better part of his 30 years.
So where was his sense of accomplishment? It turned out there was little satisfaction in luring a sad old man to his death, even if that man was Han Solo. Han Solo, half of the reason for his existence and the entire cause of his weakness. The man who'd diluted the powerful Skywalker blood. Who was revered by the fledgling New Republic but failed, in every way, to live up to that reputation.
He thought he'd feel pride, relief, at the death of the man, but instead he felt...nothing.
He must have lapsed into sleep at some point, because the sound of the docking clamps locking onto the command shuttle startled him awake. They had finally arrived onboard Shadow One, Snoke's flagship. Reaching out through the Force, past the metal bulkheads and the chatter of so many minds, he could feel Snoke himself, his tightly-leashed anger. His impatience.
Withdrawing, he cast his awareness elsewhere, finding General Hux with ease. The wretched man had no Force sensitivity, but his mind was still powerful, like the proverbial steel trap. If a steel trap was capable of being smug and self-important. Soon he would bring him to Snoke, the good soldier, the valiant rescuer of the Master's apprentice.
Moving again, he could feel the troops disembarking, their thoughts stormy, frantic even. Starkiller Base's sudden destruction had plunged the entire organization into chaos. Scores were dead, more were missing.
Moments stretched into minutes. He wondered what the delay was. He'd expected Hux to appear in his doorway at any moment, ready to haul him off to see his Master, and if he was lucky, a medic. But it didn't happen.
Eventually Ren steeled himself, pushing himself upright on his elbows. There was no point in prolonging things.
He'd only just succeeded in standing when a sound rattled through the ship. It sounded very much like the docking clamps letting go. Then he heard the thrusters come back online, felt a pop of surprise outside in the hangar. Gritting his teeth against pain and nausea, he walked to the door. It was locked. From the outside.
Fresh adrenaline washed over him. Something was seriously wrong. He put both bare palms on the cool metal, concentrating. Outside, he felt nothing. Either the command shuttle was currently piloting itself, or the hijacker was using the Force to shield themselves from his notice.
Never one for subtlety, Kylo Ren pulled his lightsaber into his hand and went to work on the blast door.