What better way to celebrate the beginning of the newly revived Ascension Week, her first as Empress, than full of champagne?

I'll tell you: Full of champagne and rolling about as a giggly, drunken mess in bed with her husband. Her husband who, incidentally, was just as much a drunken mess as his royal wife. Despite his self-appointed (or self-inflicted) command he would need to attend to in approximately five hours and thirty-four minutes.

Would anyone have expected, from the outside looking in, the scowling and glowering Grand Marshal (who notoriously disapproved of the frivolity of fun) to tear his Empress' extravagant ballgown from her body with his teeth? Or lift her under her thighs with the garment hanging, half on, half off, and press her to the poster of her own bed as a grounding? Or force his lips to hers with mutual hunger and passion that his stoic demeanour didn't match?

"Are we trying…?" Came the Empress' soft, hopeful simper, shortly followed by a hitch in her breathing as one rosy nipple was vacuumed and suckled with greed and possession. She reinforced it herself, crossing one alabaster arm across the back of his shoulders and stroking the nape of his neck with her thumb.

"May as well, angel…" Orion replied, distractedly trying to undo his trousers with one hand. "As we're both here." The Grand Marshal took his wife's wiggle as a desire to be let down and really, wouldn't that be practical? So he heeded it, and no sooner had his trousers pooled at his ankles (and the rest of his dress uniform find the floor at random, scattering intervals) did his feet automatically carry him back to the bed where the Little Empress waited.

There was very little (if anything at all) clumsy about Grand Marshal Orion Hux. Save for that night, and that night only. He could put it down to two things: Passion. And the copious amounts of alcohol that had his back teeth floating.

Perhaps the endeavour did not have his usual impeccable focus, the endeavour of pleasuring his wife to absolute ecstasy; but could that be a surprise when his system was attempting to cope with far more than his usual nightcap? The clumsy, heavy thrusts (lacking in his usual precision) would more than likely have resulted in painful protests; if the Little Empress was clear-headed, of course. Which she was far from. As a matter of fact, her own lapsed sobriety lead to the Queen of the Known Universe clinging to her husband, her legs hooked about his waist and her fingernails leaving deep imprints in the meat of his buttocks; both for added depth for conception.

The events of the past week (or un-events, at they had turned out to be) had left Lucilla at a loss. With so much of her focus dedicated to conceiving another child (a child she so desperately wanted) and failing, she had all but proven Orion's sentiments right and her condition that night solidified it. Normally, her attitude to alcohol was measured (literally) and as their conception attempts were so frequent, the Little Empress could have been pregnant at any time (if only); therefore, an abundance of alcohol would affect the little one she might be carrying, unknown to herself until the next check-up. Abstinence, as they say, is key. Until that night when it seemed hope was beginning to dwindle, and one glass of champagne led to another. And another. And another.

Orion moved in for one more lung-draining kiss, or a sloppy attempt at one; Lucilla's response was just as haphazard and messy.

"I'm coming, sweetheart…" And really, Orion couldn't come quickly enough. Wearing out fast and showing it in the strain of his movements, it almost harked back to her demanding days of pregnancy when she couldn't get enough of it and he could barely keep up; when demand outstripped supply without dramatic intervention. "Then, I am in dire need of sleep..." Panting in unison, Lucilla found herself agreeing. Sleep sounded tempting but, as a testament to her desperation, the little dove would take every single opportunity (no matter how slapdash or unwholesome) and make the most of it.

As quickly as it had begun (it seemed to be a new record and had Lucilla been sober, she might have been insulted), the former General's final floundering thrusts delivered the coveted load as deep as promised and… his unconscious slab hit the mattress shortly after. Naturally, out of the preservation of her husband, Lucilla rolled those magnificent sapphire eyes and wrestled (with great difficulty, given Orion's size and deadweight) with his shoulder; to pull that flaming head out of the pillow. It wouldn't do for the Grand Marshal of the First Order to smother himself in a drink-induced coma, would it?

Ten Days Later - Three Days After Empire Day

"Yes, darling, I should be home in time for dinner, I- Yes, angel, Kattada wine will be perfectly acceptable- No, little dove, I haven't seen Mitaka but- Of course, my love, I know he's due to join us…"

Previously, such com calls were held in private; either in his office or in an isolated corridor somewhere when he got a moment, not on the bridge for all to hear. But when one is married to the Empress, that carries a certain stamp of exemption. More to the point, the Empress' own Star Destroyer under the Grand Marshal's command demanded only the finest the First Order had to offer. The most loyal, competent and diligent of officers and Stormtroopers were relocated from their previous posts and reassigned to the coveted positions aboard Quietus, where only the best were accepted. To that end, the Grand Marshal could hold a communication openly with the Empress like any other husband with his wife without the prospect of being eavesdropped upon or snickered at.

Other than that, the bridge was like any other. Busy and bustling but running like a finely tuned chrono device; such is the result when the cream of the First Order crop is headhunted and accumulated in the one place. The spotless durasteel catwalk remained unscathed by the mouse droids skittering back and forth and the umpteen pairs of standard-issue boots that paraded, mid-duty; the Grand Marshal loved a pristine floor. Every console was occupied with each occupant doing what set them apart from their cohorts back on whatever vessel they had come from.

While many of those officers had gone to great lengths and (in some cases) done outrageous things in a bid to secure their service aboard Quietus, they may have wished they hadn't. On that particular day anyway.

"Little dove, as much as it pains me, I have to go; there is a matter that requires my attention." A ploy? To get her off the com so he could continue with his command? No. Not when a tech tried to subtly get his attention but, for fear of the repercussions (reconditioning) for interrupting, did not voice it as such but made it known all the same with urgency. "Lucilla, I- Yes, sweetheart, I love you too."

"Grand Marshal…" The doe-eyed brunette addressed her superior (everyone's superior) with the respect his very presence dictated when he finally swooped upon her console; the console that monitored Quietus' vicinity for approaching crafts. "We have an alert via the hyperspace tracker. It seems something is hurtling through hyperspace right into our coordinate zone; it's a VCX-100 light freighter, monstrously altered. As it happens, sir, it's already in the Order's ship log..."

The model of the ship had just dropped from the tech's tongue and clicked in the Grand Marshal's brain but the fact that it was registered set alarm bells ringing. And it was about to get worse. World-changingly worse. Life-destroyingly worse.

"22908... It's registered to a-" The serial number belonged to one person and one person only; synonymous with grating on Orion's nerve every time he was mentioned. Now though, it was more than mere annoyance or frustration that it inspired; the realization colliding with Hux's brain like a punch to the gut or a douse of icy water.

"Keir Bey."

However, before he could initiate any sort of protocol, dispatch a Tie squadron or even swear, it was already too late.

The unextraordinary freighter (a sudden blur of off-white and grey unravelling itself from hyperspace) appeared from nowhere; at super speed and in slow motion all at once. He'd know it anywhere. How many times had his lip curled in absolute disdain to see if docked in the hangar of Supremacy when Keir took it upon himself to visit his daughter? Standing out like a beaten and battered sore thumb against the immaculate finery of Supremacy's designated fleet of shuttles and Tie squadrons?

Some present on the bridge saw it before it tore through the entire command centre, piercing the most crucial part of Quietus like a needle to the eye; a flurry of paleness against the dark sophistication that the Order had become associated with. In a stroke of random mercy, some didn't. Those were the lucky ones; it was over before they even knew what happened. In that, blissful ignorance saved them, they went in painless oblivion.

Grand Marshal Orion Hux was not among them; he was one of the unfortunates that saw his death hurtling towards him, powerless to stop it. Thankfully, if it had to happen and it seemed the universe dictated it, it was over in the splittest of a split second; in a sudden eruption of glass, durasteel, mangled human flesh and just… dust.

Lucilla…

Lilia…

In some tragic unity, his attacker had the same names on his mind; tortured and agonized, blind and mad with grief. But what else could he do? Make one last statement with his trademark negation of thinking about it first. The most important part though?

Taking the man who had taken and poisoned his daughter and granddaughter with him.

Justice, if only in the blink of an eye, for Keir Bey.