There's someone crying in the cell when he enters and he sighs, already bored with it. Then stares, taking in the face, the tears.
"You don't recognize me?", she asks, her tone almost whiny to his ears, grating more than he would have expected. Maybe it's guilt. He doesn't do guilt.
Of course he recognizes her, that's why he decided to get involved. One more rebel, it wasn't as if he could take over of every and any interrogation or… execution. But yes, he recognizes her and he felt something he didn't feel in a long time: curiosity.
"I fear that I don't", he replies, haughty, aiming to hurt just because. "You will address me as General, though". They don't like that, the rebels, but this is needed especially here, because she was actually a member of the First Order before she defected - quite quick, even at the Academy she had that softness about her, he knew she wouldn't last. He thought she would be killed, or commit suicide though, before she betrayed. Rebel scum.
He is standing, trying not to touch anything in that repulsive cell. He doesn't go down that often. She is sitting on the nasty ground, in a corner, her eyes so disgustingly full of hope as she peers up to him. It suits her, there is something natural to her being lower than him, expecting salvation that will not come. That will not come.
She seems more upset at him not knowing who she is, than at the whole situation. She's not a bad person, she's a dreamer, does she deserve… She's a traitor. His jaw hardens and even her knows this isn't good. She tries her best.
"Academy…". She finds it difficult to even form a sentence. "You were a couple grades below me. I didn't know anyone, you didn't either… we were friends of sorts…?". The last phrase is offered, almost expecting him to already deny it.
"I don't have friends", he replies. His eyes are cold, entirely cold. He fights the memories. She licks her lips, dry from the recycled air of the Starkiller, and probably from not being given enough water. He doesn't care about the last assumption, but her small gesture, not at all meant to be seductive, goes straight to his loins. He decides it is anger.
At the time he didn't think of her like that. He wants to break the memories, he wants to break her. No one should ever know, and what if she spills the beans… He tells himself he has no choice but he doesn't move because she opens her mouth to speak again.
"One day your father sent a holo and you were upset". The cold in his eyes is replaced with a devastating fire. Not warmth, a destructive brazier, an inferno. She figures out his father should have been left out of the convo entirely. There's much worse now than Simply being a rebel and having been a so-called acquaintance to General Hux.
"Shut the kriff up", he all but yells, punishing, and she recoils, more afraid maybe of hearing him use that kind of words than his tone. He clenches his teeth so hard it hurts, approaching in a couple steps and he slaps her, hard. He would have punched a man but the open hand is enough for her head to go waltzing against the wall. She looks at him, tears flowing and he notices her nose is bleeding. He didn't think he was that harsh and decides she is weak, never cut out for real life, for war. She's a woman after all. He assesses the damage and it's not so bad, this prison cell has seen worse. Still he is better known for his refined cruelty than for beating people around.
"You're nauseating, wipe your face", he growls, passing her his handmade handkerchief, embroidered with his initials. A luxury, certainly, but he is the aristocracy of the First Order. She meekly accepts it and he hates the look of pure terror in her eyes, though he feels himself twitch inside his pants. He doesn't want to get hard for her, because of a rebel bitch, he doesn't want to get hard at all. He's not into that kind of decadent debauchery. His interest lie in much more important endeavours than some fleeting pleasure that would leave him wet and dirty.
She can read in his eyes that there's no way out, and she snaps because she scrambles towards him, on her knees, and dares to touch his pristine uniform, grazing at his thigh. There's a moment every woman, or almost - some boys too - turn into a courtesan when everything else has been tried. Sometimes his body reacts to it, but his mind always experiences disgust. So even though he has occasionally been tempted especially when under heavy stress, he wouldn't compromise his career or lower himself. He thought she was different though and maybe that's what angers him so.
"Did you have a crush on me, rebel scum? Or is it a trick that works sometimes, albeit on weaker men?". His tone drips with contempt and he vaguely considers that maybe she didn't mean it that way, from the tears brimming in her eyes. They are huge with panic, staring up at him, as if he was an Emperor, a god… Her bosom is hiccuping with repressed sobs because her friend…
"What did they do to you?", she whispers, and he cannot believe she still finds it in herself to care. But he was always that way, he wants to always have been that way. He extends his hand to push her away but it finds her hair instead, the disheveled bun she is wearing, a memory of the Academy, and strokes a gentle rhythm.
"I remember", he mutters, barely audible. They are worse off for this sudden tenderness, both of them.
Her eyes are shining like the stars when they meet his. Her face gets closer to his groin and she cannot get too near or she'll find… He panics and shoves her into the ground, finally. She doesn't even protest.
"Did you think this was going to work? This was what I wanted?". He yells the last word. He doesn't know what he wants, and hates that she thinks she does. She remains on the brink of an answer, mouth ajar - or maybe she was going to kiss him there, he cannot allow himself to picture that - and doesn't dare move a muscle.
"You'll be executed with the others", he says, and it sounds surreal. He is breathing hard, a mix of emotions he won't care to analyze now, or ever, if possible, but you couldn't hear it from his voice.
She meets his eyes again. He can read so much in them he takes a step back and hates it.
"No", she over articulates. "You do it".
"As you wish", he hears himself declare tonelessly. He inhales deeply, longer than needed, as if stalling. "Kneel, rebel". Hux won't shoot someone lying on the ground. He thinks he can skip the insult as he retrieves his pistol. There's no strength left in her. She shudders and kneels and already looks like a corpse. She dry heaves from fear, or from seeing what Hux is now. He aims, hesitates, then aims again. He'll make it quick. He won't hurt her. There can be no pleasure in this, only duty. Hux hopes she knows. He pulls the trigger and she falls.
Why couldn't she just get married and breed and stay out of men's business. He actually realizes he doesn't know anything about her. He didn't ask her about her silly Resistance. Or what she did since she piteously ran away. He could go through her file, check and find out. Maybe she has a couple kids waiting for their mother to come home. He knows how…
There's someone crying in the cell. Again. He doesn't cry, because he doesn't feel anything anymore. A general doesn't cry. A Hux doesn't feel. He tells himself it is alright, there will be some footage to do away with, and nothing important happened. Father would approve. He tucks his gun back into his holster and somehow his pants' material rubs against him. He is still hard.
Many hours later he is still hard. He thinks it will take forever and fail, or end up in some disappointing, barely there relief. Or that he will have to resort to thinking of scenes he wouldn't deem sexual, the adrenaline spikes of battle or flying, young soldiers in fetching uniforms passionately dying for him, images of their General dancing in front of their eyes as they do - yes, he has questioned the normality of this desire - which could work but would leave him feeling perverted. He is always hard after his speeches, or ordering mass destruction, the heady power of it all, but that seems wrong too, and he doesn't want to spoil the moment.
This isn't the case for once. Swearing, hating that he gives in, he takes off a glove feeling oddly vulnerable, unzips and takes himself in hand. He is fully erect thinking of nothing, then he remembers her little hand on his thigh, pleading, and imagines what would have happened if he didn't reject her, push it away. She would have rubbed and pressed him just right, discovering his erection, and he would have found himself in her hand instead, whispering his title, his name even, at least until her mouth… He comes and can't stifle a guttural sound.
He is immediately called back to reality. His cum is already cooling on his hand, and his other hand is patting down at his impeccably coiffed hair before it fishes for his handkerchief and unfolds it. His eyes take in the blood smattering it, dried already, covering his initials. It is fitting, he tells himself, and General Hux isn't afraid of a little bit of blood, but still he thinks of the shy, friendly girl at the Academy lying down on the ground of an anonymous cell many floors below, and gives a full body shudder he doesn't understand. It is cold on the Starkiller, he muses. Everything is cold.