Kylo Ren's Silencer blocked the comms sync with Hux and the rest of the fleet - 'simple equipment malfunction', if you like. He would not collide with any nearby ships, he would hit every ship he shot at. This, he Felt to be true.
The transmission reached his ears anyway:
"...Luke Skywalker… Hexect..."
Luke Skywalker. My uncle. I'll kill him too.
Part of him didn't want to. Disciplines dictated he would choke it, strangle that odd color in the scheme of himself - his soul.
He'd followed such discipline before.
He would be like his grandfather, this ship would become his body, his lightsaber, his conduit to all beyond himself. Through his Knight's mask, he closed his two oyos, and opened his Third.
The Silencer's hull became his skin. Its wingfoils became his arms. Its blasters, his fire-breathing mouth. He would burn his enemy: the last of the Jedi. With that, perhaps his new Father would be pleased.
Kylo could even hear His Supremacy's voice now, calling from his incredible city-ship: Kylo Ren, my Son, you will do this for me.
I will, Father.
He punched his drive, and he was running through the void. Blasterfire all around him as the Banshii screamed their deadly screams to one another. He weaved through them, occasionally silencing an enemy forever.
To Kylo Ren, this is Existence:
Grass. Mud. Fire. Stormclouds. Monstrous soldiers clad in silver, crimson, green. Jaws without hinges open in warlike screams to reveal curved fangs, and the real combat is in their throats. They scream, and as he passes between them he screams, too, and their skeletons fold like twigs under the weight of his burning cries.
He knows his own men: silver and red, with large spiked helmets vaguely reminiscent of his Ancestor's deformed face - his true face, the face of Darkness. The face every Terror Trooper on the real plane now wears, exposing the vile faces of every Trooper's true selves. He glimpses glowing cybernetic eyes, metallic tattoos, artificial noses, rusted fangs, scalp covered by greasy armorweave instead of hair.
Somewhere in the midst of this battle, he finds his target: the black-clad creature shrouded in the emerald lightsaber aura he despises so much. With pure white eyes without pupils, the robed creature lifts its hood, reveals an elder countenance hidden under the slightly translucent helmet.
With a black-gloved hand he reaches out towards him, he hears the wrinkly old monster utter a word, a dead name.
"I see you."
On the two-dimensional plane, the battle is everywhere. But even further beyond that, in this proxy-place Kylo has constructed, they may levitate above the rest of the bloodshed, become removed unto themselves.
Just as in the real world, they're flying. Clouds and lightning await orders as two sorcerers work their magicks. Electric-blue lightning becomes red and green in their hands as they hurl the things to one another in a silence to rival any material vacuum, yelling their cries into the void of dead air.
With one bolt of furious blood lightning Kylo hacks away, burning off his enemy's robes, revealing his true nature, like that of one of the Old Masters: white battle armor over light brown robes, that aged deformity which made even Kylo, a hand of the Darkness, fearful. His uncle was so disgusting he would take pleasure in striking him down, just as he had done to - !
He cannot say the name. He simply lashes out with all his power, leaking from every pore, letting it take the path of least resistance so that it may inflict pain, damage, death.
This is the Existence Kylo Ren has made.
And Luke Skywalker sees it, too.
From a distance, a well-trained eye would see how the Silencer tracked the rogue Hexect, which always seemed to not have any side in mind when it opened fire. The battle seemed to move around them, and they as if the battle did not exist.
Serbris Ren was assigned a very different task. He had also denied Hux's comms sync, and was now shooting his Silencer towards a New Republic scumship. Of course, fighters greeted him, but this was still no different than some of the wild game he'd hunted, which would lay traps and diversions for him at random. If he didn't shoot past them in time, he'd shoot at them without ever stopping.
He saw the isolated fighters not with his own eyes, but with the Eye he'd been given.
Luke Skywalker. Kylo Ren. Leave your family squabbles in the void, this war is bigger than you both.
He fired on them. And in doing so entered their little vision. With his presence, it changed again. The sky got red. Everyone was an animal.
But Serbris Ren never let himself fully depart from Reality. He knew when he fired, what ammunition he was carrying, his accuracy. The hunt was still on; and just like the two Skywalkers, his ship was an extension of himself.
New Republic ships surrounded him on all sides. The Silencer swung about like a whole turret, firing off torpedoes and green laserfire in all directions. He needed to keep on them, even as their skirmish took on a life of its own outside the sphere of Duonoughts and Scumships. The Hexect and other Silencer danced circles around each other like the duelists inside, fire and lasers going off all around them. And just as he predicted, they moved outward.
He Reached out, probing minds of pilots and astromechs, tracking their movements by the marks they'd left. They marked themselves as little red lines in his Third Eye, and he weaved through them instant by instant. No, I will not let him jeopardize this, too.
He fired again. Was hit starboard by glancing fire, which was possibly even meant for him. The TIEs and Republic fighters around them grew thinner and thinner, from the proximity of several meters apiece to several hundred.
"...Silencers...Ren...follow them!"
The meaning was clear enough. That might've been Hux's voice. Now, to tune in to uncle and nephew…
A sword met a sword, clashed with a scraping squeal. Not lightsabers, but the outdated metal blades, not even vibro-enabled. Lightning, a mainstay of melodrama in the Hunter's mind.
"Just die, old man!"
"At your hand? That won't be easy."
They were flying. For a non-literal narrative of the clash of fighter ships, the basic premise was still there.
Somewhere over a mountain, a silver giant had a stone ready to hurl. Would he be polite and knock things off-course, or let it do its thing? It was easy to choose the former.
The Hexect couldn't last long. The pilot's will was unbreakable, yet imagine a double-amputee as a star athlete - a kickboxer, or a runner, perhaps.
In Reality his trigger finger squeezed with superhuman quickness in its repetition. Grazed the Hexect's hull, plus one or two 'strays' on the other Silencer. From his cockpit with the Force he let go of his footing in their constructed unworld and reached out his right hand.
Solid-round munitions? Coming from a Star Destroyer some hundreds of kilometers away? Swatted aside with ease.
Hexects built cheap, with oft-unstable fuel cores? As stated before, already the wear was obvious.
