A/N: this was inspired by a discussion about how the rest of the galaxy found out about Luke vs. Kylo. It wasn't a terribly serious discussion. The result is a stream of consciousness brain fart. Enjoy!

the cockpit of the Upsilon-class command shuttle Usurper, the shuttle having landed on the surface of Crait, first solar planet in the system PZ-43 Gamma

Look down. Tap the console a few times. Doesn't matter which — planetary altimeter, the targeting computer, the flaming hyperdrive. Glance at the instrument in question, then back to the holokeys.

An intent stare is the key. The point, Lieutenant Dodd Malcolm knows, is to look like he's deeply engaged in something. Always radiate focus. He's just a guy following orders and delivering results, the only two things that should matter to the First Order. There's Malcolm, doing his job, The Bosses will say to themselves if they ever pay him any mind (but not too much). And should his superior should interrupt him, well! That would be interrupting the First Order's good work, wouldn't it.

Nevermind that his nearest superior, half a step removed from The Boss Himself and standing hopefully more than half a step behind Malcolm, practically is 'the First Order's good work'.

All hail nepotism.

"Well, now that that's over." As if challenged by the thought, which was most certainly not a telepathic summons but seems to have acted as one, a gloved hand lands heavily on Malcolm's shoulder. "When Ren returns, it will be to a First Order with no allowances for such undisciplined foolishness."

General Hux sounds unsettlingly like someone who's just won a war, despite this whole mess being a draw pulled half-digested and filthy from the gullet of victory. Sure, it's one thing for Kylo Ren to humiliate himself in front of the remnants of the First Order's vanguard. Hux's dislike for the man is legendary and, being fair, he's not exactly alone in that regard. Few among the First Order officer corps think highly of the youth's dramatics, or so Malcolm's heard. But for Ren to do it on a live Holonet stream bounced off every relay from Dantooine to Tatooine?

A stream that General Hux himself ordered set up. Which actually might explain his smugness.

Seems like an unnecessarily self-destructive way to go about undermining a rival, though. Malcolm isn't one to point fingers — no, he'd never throw blame — but really, wasn't there an enemy outside the cockpit who needed killing?

Not bothering to ask Malcolm's opinion, Hux launches into a monologue worthy of an Inner Rim holodrama. His hand remains where it is, an uncomfortable weight on Malcolm's shoulder.

Self-preservation wars with long-ingrained habit, the urge to keep the sneering commander in Malcolm's line-of-sight with the training to face front until ordered otherwise. Malcolm compromises by surreptitiously tilting his head back and to the side, in that way one indicates attentiveness without looking or, most of the time, actually paying attention.

Another important habit, one that Malcolm long ago perfected: don't meet the general's eyes. Eye contact has been a magnet for punishment since the first sentient toddler pushed a bowl off the dinner table. Broadcasting Kylo Ren's embarrassment to over sixty-nine billion unique Holonet users across will have somewhat greater impact than spilling nerf stew. It's some kind of public relations catastrophe, truth be told. And soon enough The Bosses will order their officers to clean up the mess that They made.

Malcolm would prefer not to be considered a part of that mess, but he's not sure how to escape The Bosses' notice with A Boss literally holding him in place.

Though Hux seems fairly distracted. Malcolm wonders whether the young general even knows he's actually on a livestream right now despite having been the one to order Malcolm to run it. Kid's not all that bright.

"…hunted them, run them down to nothing, with no military strength and no allies, until our Supreme Leader..."

who does he...right, I guess Ren's the Supreme Leader now, since the scavenger girl he's obsessed with apparently smoked the old one —

"…for us to return to the grand business of restoring order to a galaxy that has forgotten First Order rule…"

though how "Supreme" Snoke could've been if some desert rat gutted him in his own throne room, I don't know —

"…hence the name of our glorious galactic crusade, which my father, from whom I inherited my position and nothing else…"

and say what you will about Skywalker and the Death Stars, at least that guy was a fully-trained Jedi monster, and also Vader's son I guess, which seems to carry more weight than being Darth's grandkid —

"…more than 'the Resistance', in scare-quotes to make me sound authoritative, but I do not…"

oh sith-spit those religious nuts can read minds can't they —

"...mumble mumble buzz something pride mumble buzz buzz something power..."

Kylo, sir, Supreme Leader, if you're listening, I think you did as good a job out there as anyone could expect. I mean it.

Look. Were it up to Malcolm, he might have idly proposed — not argued — that they focus on taking out the old man first, stream it second. Why bother milking the revenge? Just blast the Rebel devil from orbit and be done with it. Malcolm's old enough to remember Jedha and Alderaan and the rest. He was present at not one but two Base Gamma Ones. Worked fine all those times.

Give or take.

Hux's hand on Malcolm's shoulder is really starting to concern him, but its owner still seems distracted. For now.

Malcolm wonders if the man knows what salt is called when it's atomized by the collective impact of a thousand densely packed energy particles delivered via the nose cannons of a dozen heavy artillery walkers. Is it dust at that point? Some other sort of particulate? Or do we call them ionized salt molecules?

The general gives a chest-deep grunt, a sound that Malcolm would kill not to have to hear again. "And how will we outmatch the Resistance? Why, in this grand battle, will we emerge the stronger?"

Later, he isn't sure what prompted him. Maybe it's because he's tired. (Exhausted, actually.) Maybe that's why he misses the rhetorical quality of Hux's question. Yeah. That probably explains it. He would never be so dumb as to speak out of turn to a superior who is also one of The Bosses.

Never.

Malcolm swivels his chair, finds the surprised eyes in the general's pasty face, and speaks his own eulogy:

"Because our troops require only one order, sir: the first."

Beside him, Obel's sudden stiffness indicates that the younger man is either struggling to hide a laugh or concerned his copilot will be a corpse in a minute. Maybe both. Hux's face, on the other hand, looks like a Kowakian monkey-lizard swallowed a handful of Klatooinian gastro-lychees. Which isn't much different from how it usually looks, but rarely is that ugly mug ever pointed at Malcolm. Actually, this might be the first time the boy general has looked directly at him.

Well. What do you know.

Decades of practice — and completion of the curriculum at the Imperial Academy on Carida — so what if he was at the bottom of his class and flunked out of the ISB track? Prestige is prestige — keep Malcolm's face perfectly and humbly blank. Some people might call it an exceptionally stupid expression. They would be correct. Armitage Hux is a perfect product of the First Order's young officer corps, which means he needs to know he's the smartest — bravest, strongest, whateverest — in any room he's in.

So idiocy serves as self-preservation: of course the dumb lieutenant wouldn't make fun of the First Order. He does not understand rhetorical questions because his instinct is to serve. He's a right and proper believer.

See, if there's one thing the First Order pulls off unambiguously well, it's zealotry. After Endor, when the Empire had promptly keeled over like a whiskey-sodden pirate afflicted by Tatooine's heat, most of the decent bastards had either wisely jumped ship or less wisely died. The unfortunate result was that the First Order's early officer corps ended up full of performative fanatics. Who then taught their youth to be actual fanatics. Even allowing for the usual censorship (self- and otherwise) in a regime like this, this left those with Malcolm's sensible realism deeply in the minority. One simply does not question the First Order.

(Technically that's what Malcolm said. Technically. Who can fault him?)

Hux is still staring at him. A scowl curls the general's lip.

Malcolm frequently likes to joke — privately, of course, he isn't an idiot — present evidence to the contrary notwithstanding — that they advertise that with levity. Hence, sticking his regulation boot so far into his mouth that he can swallow the bantha shit on the heel.

He's long wondered how far he'd go to justify the eyeballs on the First Order's stream. Apparently the secret is to douse himself in liquid rhydonium and hand an industrial blowtorch to a narcissistic child. A child who, right now, seems like he might just shoot him.

What actually happens is, somehow, worse.

Hux's eyes go distant.

Then thoughtful.

Oh no.

And then:

"Good. Very good."

To Malcolm's plunging horror, Hux starts nodding. Nodding. As if to signify approval. "Yes. An excellent point, Lieutenant. Under our stewardship, every planetary government will need only listen once, to a single voice. One command. One order."

And because he hasn't embarrassed Malcolm and the entire First Order enough yet — in front of billions, certainly, thanks to the horrifically high-quality audio pickup of Malcolm's Holonet stream — he lifts his hand and claps it on Malcolm's shoulder. As if they're pals.

Malcolm jerks his eyes to the screen showing the cockpit to the Holonet stream, where Hux has looked up from Malcolm to stare into the middle distance, and tries to imagine shrinking into the cockpit floor. "And that, galactic Holonet, is how the galaxy will be ruled."

He knows he's on camera. He knows.

Just coat this whole venture in krayt spit already. Please.

Finally — finally — the hand lifts from Malcolm's shoulder. With a wildly unnecessary flourish that he must believe — which is not at all, Malcolm deems (but doesn't say), how it looks in the stream — Hux exits the cockpit, presumably to join the breaching of the Rebel-Resistance base.

The clomp of Hux's boots on duratseel rings back up the ramp until the door sshhsshh's closed.

As the Holonet stream chat in the corner of his eye scrolls so fast that the console beneath his fingers seems to tremble, Malcolm is annoyed to realize he feels nothing but relief.

Worst of all, his relief is only mild.

It's disappointing, serving these men. Say what you will about the old Empire's blind spots: back then The Bosses had presence. Real presence. Some moffs and colonels could walk onto a bridge and the oxygen in the air would snap them a frigid salute. To compare the likes of Hux and flaming Pryde — proud of what? — to names of legend like Piett and Gideon and Tarkin…laughable.

And Kylo Ren, the new Supreme Leader. What a laugh. Malcolm could ignore Ren when the kid was anywhere but in the cockpit with him, which is more than anyone said in the stories they told him about being in the same sector as Vader. (Malcolm never had the honor, or the terror.)

But hey, the more that The Bosses strut their self-importance, the less likely they are to throw Malcolm into a brig or a demotion. Or into a wall without laying a hand on him. Using the Force and all.

Okay, it did freak him out a little when Ren did that to Hux earlier. Baby Vader indeed.

Malcolm shakes his head and returns his focus to the stream. He still has a job to do, after all.

Laypeople in the Holonet streaming community would be surprised to learn how much video editing could be done during a live recording. Not as much from a command shuttle cockpit as from a good setup in a ground base, but even so. Good thing, too, because there's plenty of editing Malcolm needs to do to deal with this clusterbomb of command error.

Most of the stream is beyond salvage; one can only do so much to cover up tactical lunacy, and the past is the past. But at least he can muddle the embarrassment moving forward. Most viewers are like Corellian hounds catching a scent, with a collective intellect that drops as more people join.

Sure, Skywalker just humiliated the Supreme Leader on the First Order's own Holonet broadcast. Halted an assault group even larger than the one that annihilated the Rebel base on Hoth thirty years back. (Now that made for a memorable livestream.) And Skywalker came out of the base ten minutes ago. No, twelve now. There's no chance the Resistance is still behind that blast door. Their leadership is dumb, but they're not that dumb. (As much as Malcolm hates to admit it, they're not First Order Bosses-dumb.)

Oh, they've definitely escaped by now. The old Rebellion did more with less. This base's mere existence being Example Aurek.

But Malcolm can generate noise, and noise…is good. Noise confuses, distracts, deflects. Drowns out the inevitable sparks of hope et cetera about to blare out from Resistance propaganda. What good is lighting a fire if everyone's too busy talking about it to throw on another stick?

Yeah. He'd have been great in the ISB. If Professor Sarsgan weren't dead, he could shove Interrogation Techniques 101 where Carida's star won't shine.

Stormtroopers sprinting, keeping cover behind those busted junkyard whatever-the-blazes that the Resistance had tried to throw against the Order's heavy walkers. Pounding footsteps churn up lines of red soil stark against the salt. Neat and ordered, like bloody arrows zeroing in on the massive blast door set into the mineral-rock.

But then if Malcolm had been in the ISB he would also probably be dead by now, so maybe everything turned out for the best.

"Malcolm."

He pans from one squad to the next. Zoom in, zoom out. Focus on the lead trooper, then widen to capture their bent diamond formation.

"Hey, Malcolm."

And the way these guys move…oh yeah. That's the stuff the Holonet is made of, right there. Would be better if they didn't look like they were quaking in their standard-issue plasteel-reinforced infantry boots, but given that they've just seen a bathrobed-man half a century old literally brush off an invasion-level fusillade, Malcolm will take what he can get.

And the rest of the galaxy will take what he gives them. Idiots.

There. A final clack of the console keys and he's done.

All told, it's pretty professional work. Almost like the Imperials of Malcolm's youth. Hah. As if almost counts for anything other than planetary bombardments.

For the thousandth time Malcolm wishes he'd been promoted to the Avenger in time for Hoth. (And transferred before Endor, of course.) Good ship, good history. Terrible end.

"Dodd."

Malcolm closes his eyes for long enough to exhale his displeasure at the interruption. Obel was there when Hux gave the order. More than anyone else in the galaxy, he should know how pressing Malcolm's job is right now. "What."

His co-pilot clears his throat like he hasn't already been trying to interrupt Malcolm's good work. "I know you're focused on the stream and all—"

"That's right, and it's something I really should be—"

"You forgot to set up a donations tab."

Malcolm freezes. Blinks.

Oh.

Oh.

A creeping heat that spreads and shrivels in his face. Wet, like being dunked in water.

He glances down.

Sixty-nine billion accounts on the stream. Many more viewers, certainly. Across tens of thousands of planets galaxy-wide.

And no place for them to donate a single credit.

The sloshing in Malcolm's stomach. He knows this sign. He's going to vomit.

He does.

The chat's exploded again. Malcolm studiously avoids glancing at it as he wipes his mouth, spits out bile. Likewise he avoids his expression mirrored in the video stream. Whatever it looks like he'll be seeing it plenty for the rest of his life, once it's memed and spread to every corner of the galaxy. Which could possibly be very, very short, if Hux or any of the other generals decide they don't like the end result of this Holonet production. Or if Ren decides he's offended.

Malcolm's throat burns and he swallows, grimacing at the acid taste.

Of course The Bosses might actually be banthas and Malcolm will instead live another thirty years. Forty years, even. A life in which he could spend every hour counting off by tens, and still not reach the number of credits he's just missed out on by not tapping the check box to allow viewer donations.

His co-pilot — who hasn't made a move to help Malcolm clean up his uniform or his console, the bastard — keeps talking. Malcolm turns toward him, finds himself mesmerized by the movement of the man's lips. Manages to make out you're still running the stream.

After a moment, his thought-train catches up with his vision. Malcolm feels his own lips mouth the word 'what'. He's pretty sure they do, anyway. The squawk that comes out sounds more like Basic spoken by an eopie.

"You're still running the stream," Obel repeats dutifully. The patient drag in his tone indicates this isn't the second time he's saying it.

Co-pilot, pazaak buddy, shore leave partner…Lieutenant Obel Lark does have a few good qualities for such a young guy, if you ask Malcolm. Discretion isn't one of them. Terrible sense of timing, too. Like now.

"Not trying to tell you how to do your job," Obel continues. He sounds like he's commenting on Crait's weather, maybe. Sunny with a chance of salt.

Which begs that question again: is it still called 'salt' if it's been superheated to gas particles? Can dust be salt?

Malcolm blinks. Again.

"Yeah" is all Malcolm says.

"Feel like it would probably benefit the First Order to control the narrative on this. Because. Well."

What in flaming Hutt-spawn carcasses do you think I'm doing is what Malcolm doesn't say. The stream's still running and he's not sure a comedy routine would be better than a screwup.

Although.

"Hey Obel."

No reply. But Malcolm decides that Obel's unresponsiveness counts as a yes in this case. Also, his bastard co-pilot owes him.

"That's salt out there, right?" Malcolm jerks his head at the scene before them. "The layer we've been pounding, the stuff on top of the red earth." While we thought we were blasting Skywalker out of this dimension.

Obel's eyes flick to the camera filming the cockpit before sliding back to Malcolm, his brow furrowed. "Mm-hmm. Diagnostics indicated it's a thin layer across the whole planet."

Okay, sure, whatever. "What do you call salt when it's been turned into its particulate atoms by the steady, repeating impact of densely packed energy bolts shot by heavy laser cannons?"

They stare at each other for a long moment. A hair on Obel's upper lip waves as the man appears to chew on the question in ways more than just figurative.

Malcolm holds his breath.

"…salt."

Perfect.

This time, Malcolm breathes easier when he catches the chat erupt one last time. You're a genius, Dodd. ISB didn't know what they were missing.

For good measure, he makes a show of shrugging. "Huh," he says, hand slipping to the keys just out of sight of the camera.

"Huh," he says again, drawing attention to the most slackjawed expression he can muster as he taps a quick combination. The donations tab lights up, suddenly open to the viewing public —

YES

— another ten seconds, make it clear to them that it's part of the plan, part of the show,

and,

cut.

The stream ends. A job well done.

Letting out a breath far deeper than he knew he was holding, Malcolm leans back in his chair. All scripted, as far as most of the Holonet is concerned. Plenty will know otherwise, but memetic intelligence always approaches the lowest common denominator. If Malcolm's lucky, that's what The Bosses will latch onto and not...you know.

His co-pilot grins. "Nice one."

There's not a chance in the three Mantellian hells that Obel Lark knows what he's talking about, but Malcolm's feeling generous right about now, and his lips lift in a serene smile like he's basking in the man's compliment and not in the hailstorm of credits that poured into his account during that last pause. Er, the First Order's account.

For now.

Malcolm does have the password, after all.

He watches Hux and his elite guard disappear into the shadow of the base's blast door, his mind still moving a parsec a minute. Possessing that password makes him...he's not a liability, no, and Malcolm, Dodd Malcolm, could never be a threat, they'd never see him as...but he has the password to a repository suddenly overflowing with credits. Which the First Order can't yet know about. They can't.

"Might be a good time to think about requesting a transfer," Obel says into the silence, his eyes fixed on the stormtroopers now entering the too-quiet base. Maybe he's thinking along similar lines. Malcolm wouldn't be surprised.

"Might be." Malcolm takes in a deep breath, a new queasiness swimming in his gut like a living thing. Now that the stream's ended, he has time to think on the consequences of following orders and setting it up in the first place. Along with how stupid The Bosses really are. What kind of poodoo-eating morons would blow up a government that had outlawed the First Order's enemy and was a scant couple years from falling into their laps.

He purses his lips. "I heard the other day that Sesid's supposed to be a quiet posting these days. Pleasant planet, too. Cold oceans, volcanic beaches, mostly compliant locals. Taking well to First Order occupation."

Obel forces a chuckle. "Volcanic beaches, huh? Never loved a planet that felt like it was trying to kill me."

Shrugging, Malcolm taps the engines into standby. He knows from experience that it's best to keep the command shuttle's engines hot. Just in case a wildly enraged Someone decides he needs to leave the scene of disaster in a hurry. "Volcanoes there are supposed to be dormant."

Malcolm glances over to find his copilot already looking at him. Better the planet blow its gasket than a tantrum-prone boy mystic with a god complex or his angrily zealous pet general. Neither of them needs to say it. They're both thinking it.

Thinking it very, very quietly.

"Well," Malcolm says, moving his weight in a vain attempt to sit more comfortably. "We probably have a few hours before The Bosses are done with the base."

"Probably."

"You'll put in the request before then?"

"Yeah, I got it."

He'll give Obel this. When the credits are down — and thanks to the donations box, there are about to be a lot of credits down — the man's a solid work buddy. This should give Malcolm some time to set up a permanent donations tab on his (er, excuse him, the First Order's) streaming account. He's not ready to rule out a situation like this happening again before the two of them get their transfer.

"Good." Also, the Holonet's dumb. They'll donate to Malcolm's (the Order's) stream for more content like this. As if Malcolm has a say in how The Bosses will kark things up next. But hey. Credits are credits. "Good."

comments and critique are always appreciated!

Especially if there are hanging sentence fragments somewhere, I have a terrible habit of leaving those unfinished.