Say you'll remember me

Standing in a nice dress,

Staring at the sunset, babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your

Wildest dreams

Days. Weeks. Months. Hux couldn't decipher anymore. In real time, it had been three months since the destruction of Starkiller Base though to look at a clock or a calendar would remind him of how long he'd been without his precious Lucilla; something he had promised himself some time ago that would never happen. Against his better judgement, even with a great deal of hesitation, the redhead felt himself being pulled to Ren's advice. And so the shuttle landed on Tatooine but it took him a fortnight alone to convince himself to leave the shuttle, petrified of what he would find. Or worse; if he would find nothing at all, only that he had been prey to a dark Jedi's cruel sense of humour.

That first, hermetic fortnight had consisted of self-torture. He forced himself to watch the holonews, made himself scroll through the holonet, read the articles and listen to interviews with distraught families. Even more sickening was the official statement from the Arkanis Academy claiming they did not condone the existence of Starkiller, let alone what it did. They also claimed ignorance of the plan to destroy the Republic and denied any involvement in the 'unfortunate incident' and a 'crime against the galaxy' (his father's hypocritical words). Liars. The ex-General thought vehemently. Cowards.

If there was anything that could take his mind off Lucilla (admittedly not for very long), it was his greatest failure: The destruction of Starkiller Base. Billions of units wasted, countless Stormtroopers killed, numerous staff lost. And of course…. Her. She was gone; leaving pain, heartbreak and disillusionment in her wake. Naturally, the guilt had already hit him; he pinpointed it to the third night on the planet, several hours before the sun rose. Denial had followed him before then; it was the Resistance that were responsible and he would plot revenge but waking in an empty bed with invisible blood on the sheets (they had been changed since Kylo passed out in them) was a call of responsibility and blame he couldn't ignore.

Since then, he replayed those horrifying few seconds when he turned and walked away from the boulder clogged corridor. Everything in that mental recording was so vivid, he even caught himself standing in the limited floor space and attempting to reverse it; even half a step backwards would have been progress. But it didn't change. It never did. He had (involuntarily) integrated the soundtrack of his beloved's last moment to the background of the haunting memory and self-loathing decision; what he would have heard if he had been able to pass. And now he couldn't shake it, he woke to it echoing in his mind and so many times he had checked the bed to ensure it was just a nightmare. More than once, he got up and checked the refresher as had become a habit on Crucival. His routine had become reliant on grief. Skipping meals had been the norm before Lucilla and it had done so again with her gone though he told himself she'd understand. Even his rigorous grooming had become neglected.

The General's sleep (if it could be called that) was fitful and plagued with a looped sobbing since he touched down on Tatooine, even more so since the inevitable realization of his own hand in Lucilla's death. It was not regimented as it once was; more a succumbing to exhaustion when he could no longer keep his eyes open. Why would he willingly return to a world of blackness where he couldn't control what he saw and heard? And sometimes he did hear her. Not just the wailing and the screaming and the dull thumps against the door; those were commonplace. Rarer were the whispers, the disappointed sighs and the failed attempts at communication that broke his slumber with frustration. He often wondered if it was worth it to sleep in the vain hope that that night would be one where he would hear something other than the chilling usual. Would he be rewarded with that sweet taste of Coruscant he would give anything to hear again if he braved her last moment by choice? Terrified of the answer, Hux abstained for as long as he could until sleep took him forcefully.

How many oceans had he wept since she left? How many rivers had coated the floor of the shuttle and none of them for Starkiller or his life's work? For her and only her. How many times had he cried himself weak and dehydrated? He couldn't answer that, he'd lost count. And of all the places to be imprisoned, it seemed only fitting in punishment where he continuously found pieces of her from their period of sanctuary on Naboo. Something as simple as a raven hair on the sink, a dainty fingerprint on the mirror or a slender pin beside the bed turned up constantly almost on purpose; as if they had been given some life by her demise to make him suffer by placing themselves in his path. It worked. If he was mad enough to give a defeated kudos to inanimate objects, he would have conceded fair play. How much more torment could he take before he did start to lose his mind? Had he already lost it? Was he in the process of it? There was only one way to prevent it or slow down the deterioration if it had already started: leave the shuttle.

It had been just shy of three months since he made the brave decision to leave the shuttle and embrace the unknown of the sweltering planet. He could only hope for answers and as luck would have it, his thoughtless touch down had been only fifteen minutes' walk from the nearest town. What drew him there in the absence of constructive thinking, he wasn't sure but he let it lead him. Every day was the same in the town of his incomprehensible choosing; he rose with the sun, the horrors that had awaited him at night had abated somewhat when he started to expand his surroundings. He washed, dressed and left as the village began to come to life, it instilled some sort of normality and routine that the hellish two weeks had deprived him of. He sat at the same outdoor table of the same café every morning, munching purposely on the cheapest thing on the menu; conserving funds was essential and consulting his bank account was out of the question if he wanted to remain hidden. Somehow, he managed to convince himself that his current existence was favourable to imprisonment or possible execution. Thankfully, the new beard helped him maintain a degree of anonymity.

Day in, day out for almost three months; the routine remained the same and nothing seemed to change. To someone who had been sent somewhere specifically, lack of unusual activity should have been a warning or at least a disappointment and while Hux knew and noticed this, he found himself unable to leave the town. Surely, it would be wiser to try somewhere else after such a long period of nothingness? No answers to questions he didn't even have? Why was he able to justify sitting in the same inexpensive café, walking the same streets and observing the same people every day with no sign of a change or anything at all? While that question dogged him at regular intervals, he was unable to answer it, unable to justify his listless, repeated actions and unwilling to. Going with the flow was a nice change but sitting with his cheap pastry and his cheap caf also had an inexplicable twinge of purpose to it.

The more he watched from his outdoor seat, the more he saw. The continuous comings and goings of everyday life highlighted everything he had missed aboard Finalizer, Starkiller and even the Academy. But even here, little reminders had begun to creep in of all the things Lucilla would miss and he in turn would miss by her absence. Couples walking in the street hand in hand, he and Lucilla would never experience that. The children playing unfamiliar games, he swore then and there he would not pass on genes to someone who was not born of his beloved companion. The elderly making their way slowly down the sand covered road, he might live to that age but Lucilla was already gone. It was now beyond the realms of possibility for her hair to grey and her face to wrinkle.

Noticing the little quirks of humanity was one thing but Hux couldn't ignore the prevalent slave culture that thrived on Tatooine. He pondered how many of these people were actually slaves and how many of them were free? Did they crave freedom? Did they know any better? He also saw things that some people probably chose not to see. Like the small group of girls being herded into a cantina across from the café in the early hours of the morning. None of them familiar but all looking frightened and riddled with dread. Maybe those around him chose to see past these girls, they assumed their purpose was their own but Hux saw it for what it was; after all, he had dealt with the aftermath. He had comforted it, held it, loved it.

With the first part of the ritual (breakfast), out of the way; Hux made his way into the heart of the town towards the market that popped up every day without fail. He walked from stall to stall, not looking at or for anything in particular but it was a valuable asset to prevent returning to the shuttle (and therefore, self-persecution) prematurely. His pace was leisurely, his gaze uncommitted to anything in particular; that is, until something caught his eye. It seemed to bob in and out of the crowd, hovering at one stall then onto the next with far more interest in the produce than he did. That behaviour wasn't unusual at a market and certainly not enough to attract attention from a blow in, rather the colour of the cloak was enough to do that. Powder blue. He remembered it; the contrast with the pale skin, the way it was settled upon by kinks of black, how terrified eyes barely looked up from beyond it.

His pace picked up with his curiosity urgently piqued; the way it moved was the same, the height was perfect. Even the way the handle of the basket was gently gripped as if it could feel pain fell into line with the suddenly desperate workings of his mind. The early hour of the morning meant nothing to the shoppers clamouring the street, eager to get to the market before the best produce was gone and ordinarily, that wouldn't have troubled the redhead. Now though, when he kept losing the intimate shade, they were a hindrance. Frantically, he searched over heads and around forms of different shapes and sizes, he grew more worrisome that he would lose it and never see it again. So when it surfaced again, flawlessly and gracefully, he refused to take the chance of losing it again.

"Lucilla." No response. The street was too noisy; she didn't hear him. He resorted to shoving a male of an unknown species, ignoring the indignant roar of protest that rumbled after him; an action he knew he would need to repeat to get to her. "Lucilla!" The blue figure continued on, unhearing. His pushing became more frantic, eliciting more scandalized and outraged responses as he cleared his own path but the crowd seemed to grow around her again and again; swallowing her. Mind in overdrive, heart pounding, chest heaving; Hux finally realized why he was here. Why Kylo Ren had sent him here (he could examine the Knight's generosity another time) and why he had waited excruciatingly for months. As if time had cut itself into ribbons, severing out several moments of chase; a shaking hand closed around the blue clad shoulder and turned it.

The urge to cry again was immense as bile rose in his throat. Looking back at him was an exceptionally confused looking woman in her fifties with blonde hair and brown eyes. Not Lucilla. He offered no apology; he simply stumbled back a few anguished steps, unable to tear his eyes from the face that had unknowingly betrayed him. It made no sense; it couldn't have been anyone but her. Yet this imposter had tricked him! How?! How could it not be her?! Her movements, her height, her care with her basket and that sweet curiosity as she peered around each stall…. The sickened agony must have shown itself in his face as this woman looked back at him with curious sympathy but before she could voice her concern for the flame haired stranger, he had backed off enough to bring himself to turn away.

Making his way through the market in the opposite direction wasn't so much of a chore this time. His feet propelled him automatically with the rest of his body on autopilot, retracing his steps without realizing it. Hope and purpose withered in his chest and if he had more control on his mind, he would have scolded himself for even allowing himself to think it was even possible. She's dead. He told himself harshly, refusing any sort of coddling gentility. She's dead and it's your fault. You left her there to die alone. You're the coward, not your father. You should have faced death with her, not run with your tail between your legs. You didn't deserve her, you didn't love her-

The shuttle welcomed and bred those hateful thoughts. For hours, he lay curled up on the bed as his improvements whittled themselves away to nothing. Each tear spilled stung as a reminder and every effort was made to restrain his hand from the holo nearby of his precious Lucilla before her enslavement. Yet, that feeling, that strange pull to the town remained. No matter how he tried to convince himself, something forbade him from crawling to the pilot's seat and leaving. Something was keeping him there.