.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster,
which doth mock
the meat it feeds on
He had very delicate hands for a man, especially for a general. He observed them in the harsh light of a nearby sun, lost in idle thought for the first time in days. The long, pale fingers made a peculiar dance as they moved through the air, aimlessly. Beautifully, faintly, like servants to his irrational whims.
The general dreaded them. In fact, he sought to wear the black leather gloves that came with his uniform at all times. Not that he believed his delicate hands or boyish freckles would make him any worse of a leader. He was very confident in his abilities, and had always been. There was something in him, resonating from his posture and eyes, his voice. Something, that made people listen to him, something, that made his word superior to an individual's sentimental will. As if he was born to be a leader, and others were born to follow.
No, he was not made insecure by his looks. However, acknowledging these flaws made him even stronger. His delicate hands made him appear subtle when he was giving harsh commands - his freckles made him seem less of a threat in the eyes of his competitors. He knew how people were going to perceive him, and could use that knowledge to his own advantage.
Indeed, the general took pride in how every aspect of him worked like a machine. A machine made to rule and bring order. There was only one power that was out of his reach, no matter how hard he tried.
The delicate waltz of his hands ceased. He clenched his fingers tightly around an imaginary object, as if he was trying to break it. A subtle wrinkle appeared on the general's forehead as his grip tightened. After a second he let out a sigh and let his hand drop. He knew he could never possess the force, and therefore he could never be in absolute power.
It was a sick twist of fate. The man who had all the attributes to become a great leader lacked the one ability most cherished by those in power. And, out of all people, that sickly, petulant boy had made his way up with no other virtue than an absurd cult force.
The force had nothing do with prevalence, order or prosperity in his opinion. The emphasis put on it was nothing more than Snoke's religious sentimentality. And if there was one thing the general hated, it was sentimentality.
"General Hux?" a barely polite, sharp female voice interrupted the general's thoughts. He snapped imperceptibly and had to collect himself for a split second, as Captain Phasma marched inside his quarters with two swift steps.
"Yes?" he raised his eyebrows.
"I'm sorry to bother you on such a late hour, sir. The Supreme Leader wishes to have a word with you", Phasma said.
"Speaking of the devil", the general sighed by himself, and could almost sense Phasma raising an eyebrow under her silver helmet.
"Excuse me, sir?" she asked.
"Very well", Hux said and stood up. He knew Phasma had heard him, and was also one of the few people inclined to ask questions here. However, he also knew she had full respect for his authority and was unlikely to go against it without a heavy reason.
"Escort me to the communications centre", he commanded swiftly.
The tall captain seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then turned around and opened the quarters' doors once more.
