Floating. Rhythmic breathing. Lightness.
Nothing else exists.
Nothing else matters.
Together.
Their sense of self. Their bond. Their soul.
All is right.
Until.
A muffled cadence echoing through him.
Pulling him.
Dragging him.
Sounds becoming words, words distorting the velvet softness encasing his dreaming self...
A mechanized voice resonates through the depths.
Wrong. Alone.
Jarring, pushing, throbbing.
This is wrong. Alone. Together. Apart. Right. Stop. Stop –
"Supreme Leader."
Kylo breaks through the surface.
"Sir."
He begrudgingly opens one eye. Two floating holographic irises gaze at him, the sole sources of light in an otherwise cavernous space.
"Supreme Leader," the droid repeats, "it's past time to wake, according to your scheduled – "
He barely recognizes the title. Barely recognizes anything. The droid is annoying enough that he twists away on instinct.
Something's missing. He needs to find... what did he need to find?
"Sir?"
It's not here. He's not there. Wrong. But what's wrong?
His eyes close again. Just a little longer.
"Supreme Leader, it is time to wake."
Fine.
"Time?" Kylo asks, his voice thick with sleep.
"Oh four hundred fifteen hours, sir." The droid doesn't seem to care about Kylo's failed return to unconsciousness. "Your first appointment of the day is in three hours, and you requested that – "
"Okay," he says. He rubs the heel of one hand against an eye.
Appointments.
Right. "Okay, just... just give me a few minutes."
"Are you feeling alright, sir? Shall I call for a medical droid?"
"No need."
"Shall I bring you your morning meal?"
"No." Kylo clears his throat and turns slightly so his voice isn't so muffled by the soft sheets around him. "Coffee is fine. Leave it on my desk."
"Of course, sir. Very good."
The droid patters away and Kylo turns to push his face deeper into the cushioning of his pillow. The dream is leaving him. Its edges are slipping into forgettable nothingness, leaving him feeling empty. Slightly numb.
There's only one thing he knows, though he doesn't understand how. It's wrong to wake up here alone, no matter how much that realization may catch him off guard. Nothing has changed – he always wakes alone.
Doesn't he?
Wherever he was, dream or not, it was different there. Fully separated from his life on the Supremacy. Soft, easy. He felt... tranquil. As much as he wracks his brain for a clue, a memory, a vision, there's nothing that's survived waking. He can't remember anything that explains why he feels so completely unlike himself. The pounding frustration that usually simmers below the surface at all times has largely eased off. He can't remember the last time he slept this heavy, either. But there's an innate recognition that he dreamed, in the same way he knows he breathes. Something about last night was just as essential, just as important... he just can't remember what the fuck that thing was.
And that's going to piss him off all day.
His entire body is weighed down as though he's covered with sand. While he blinks his grogginess away, there are black dots circling his vision. They're made worse as his bedroom's automated lighting slowly transitions from that pervasive darkness, to dim, to clinically bright. Muscle memory guides him as he throws his legs over the side of the bed and shuffles his way to the refresher.
Kylo starts to go through the motions of his morning routine – rubbing more sleep from his eyes, showering, brushing teeth, distantly acknowledging that something needs to be done with his hair.
The shower helps him approach the land of the living, but he's not quite there.
His body isn't used to being this well rested. If this is what actually getting a full night of sleep is like, he's better off without it. The unbalanced lethargy he can't shake off is not worth it.
He absent-mindedly runs a palm against his cheek on the way to his closet.
Stubble. Shave. He needs to shave.
There's a strange blurred weightlessness to his hands as he prepares his shaving kit. His head feels like it's floating and he doesn't know if he likes the sensation. It's difficult to navigate. Impossible to understand. If he ever felt comfortable enough to retry meditation, this would be the perfect time, when he's so far outside himself. Last night's anxieties and frustrations are gone, obliterated by a weak afterglow from whatever he saw while he slept. Nothing and no one in his waking life inspires the strange... peace, perhaps... he's experiencing.
Well. Not no one.
As he runs soap over his face, he distinctly does not let himself recall that moment in the lift, when their eyes met, or the pressure of her palm against his thigh. It should be instinct at this point to bat away the too-often-reappearing memory of their fingers only just grazing against each other.
But it's not.
Especially now, as the lightness filling his head reminds him too much of that soul to soul recognition he thought he saw between himself and Rey.
He was wrong, and he'd moved on. Was moving on. In the process of –
An unintentionally too-quick pull of the razor slices against his chin. The faucet's water turns a faint red and he finds himself staring at it for a bit too long.
Those thoughts weren't doing him any good, anyway.
After he gets the cut cleaned and patted dry, he moves to the closet full of the same command blacks he's worn for the last year. It takes no thought at all to grab a few pieces and throw them on. It's even getting easier to ignore the fading pink line visibly traveling from his forehead to his neck. The worst of the scarring is on his chest, anyway, and he usually has too many layers on for anyone else to see it. Looking at his hair... he still has no idea what to do with it. The dripping ends are curling and waving around his shoulders in a manner totally inappropriate for a military leader to allow, but he can't bring himself to shear off the extra length. Doing anything about it takes too much time and effort and he's got no room for either.
Kylo approaches the corner of his room acting as an office space, his personal droid waiting for instructions. The simple, unassuming metal desk is littered with datapads and handwritten notes. He's once again appreciative that he was able to acquire physical pads of paper and pens, used solely to help organize the insanity he has to deal with day in and day out.
"Time?" He blows on his coffee. The smell alone does more to wake him than anything else has, that cut included.
"Oh five hundred hours, sir." The droid's artificial voice floats towards him, its programmed cheeriness contradicting the uncaring blandness of their surroundings.
He chooses not to sit. The coffee has cooled just enough and its bitter warmth spreads through his chest. Kylo taps the top of his desk and a hologram blooms, the blue lettering a harsh contrast against the vibrant lighting around him. The red alert symbol in the far right corner is throbbing with the hundreds of unread messages that show no regard for the previous day's efforts he put towards fighting his way down to double digits. In its own floating itinerary, separate from the pending alerts, rests the day's agenda. Squadron reviews from seven to eleven hundred hours. Meeting after meeting from eleven to sixteen hundred hours, covering simple administrative duties he'd prefer to delegate. That's something he theoretically has the ability to do, he supposes, but that requires more trust than he's willing to give. The short break between twelve hundred and twelve hundred thirty is hardly sufficient but it's what he's got.
He checks the required attendees list for each meeting. Several names rotate through the hours. General Armitage Hux, however, is expected to be present for all of them.
The realization makes him almost regret cutting down Snoke.
"CF-23, block me off as unavailable at eighteen hundred thirty."
"Until when, sir?"
"Morning."
A few seconds pass, the droid's computations whirring through the otherwise quiet office.
"Your request is completed. Training studio 5C has been reserved for your exclusive use."
Good. No visitors.
Sighing, Kylo sits and starts knocking his unread alerts down from two hundred and thirty nine, sipping his coffee in between typing out responses or marking reports as read. Today's batch is a little easier to get through – most seem to be notices of officer promotions and docking alerts, tasks that really have nothing to do with him but nonetheless require his acknowledgment. He saves the few that catch his interest, like reports of skirmishes in the Outer Rim, or election results in the New Republic.
The droid alerts him when it's time to head to the docking bays hosting the squadron review. He's only gotten down to two hundred and ten alerts, and that number will rise again over the course of the day. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow, since he's sure as hell not fighting this losing battle again tonight.
He rises and grabs the floor-length cloak tossed haphazardly across a chair. He has to throw it around to lay against his back, before attaching it to the front of his tunic. It's a more performative part of his uniform than he prefers, but based on how it appeared one day, along with those new corresponding uniform separates, it seems that someone around here believes there's a certain look expected of his role. All it does is makes him think of Lando and his incessant peacocking. Not a reassuring association, but he can't deny the authority the cloak gives, so he uses it.
Ignoring the recreated mask looming from its pedestal, he retrieves his saber and schools his facial expression into a stoic neutrality.
The immediate surroundings outside his quarters are quiet, the emptiness of the hallways and their white metal walls lending strength to the dreadnought's manufactured chill. Unfortunately, the rest of his ship is not so quiet. Especially where he's headed.
It's not like he's ever been easily ignored within the First Order, but there was a time when the halls he walked emptied as soon as the thud of his steps echoed nearby. Now, he's spending more time than ever before in the officer hub of the dreadnought. And that requires a lot of walking, given that he refused to abandon the quarters he's settled in for the last seven years. He has no choice but to pass through the busiest halls, the most direct routes, that are so unlike the private paths he once lacked an appreciation for.
He's drained by the number of people whose eyes follow him as he passes, saluting in full attention until he's out of sight. It grates on his nerves, like being in a fight that requires a cataloging of every enemy action without the benefit of an adrenaline high.
It's ridiculous that this sort of thing is even on his agenda. Snoke never attended military reviews.
He walks, on and on. Bystanders throw themselves into attentive salutes while he stares directly ahead.
By the time he arrives at his destination, he's properly annoyed.
He stomps through the widening portal between the final hallway and the docking bay. As though on cue, the several battalions of stormtroopers gathered together simultaneously stand at attention. The room is silent but for the echoes of quick movement, and a somewhat perceptible humming from light fixtures far above. Kylo takes his place next to the waiting officers, including General Hux. An unfamiliar officer looks to Kylo, and at his superior's nod addresses the battalions.
"Present arms!"
The review process begins.
Kylo has no idea what's being reviewed or what to look for, but he's here, pretending like he does.
"We are so grateful you could join us today, sir," Hux says, side-eying Kylo before redirecting his glare to the officers barking out orders ahead of them. "I know you have quite a bit further to travel than the rest of command."
Kylo grits his teeth.
It's more important to focus on the hundreds of troopers ahead of him, than to dwell on the fact that Hux likely had this docking bay chosen for the sole purpose of being an irritating jackass. He wills himself to appear interested, invested, rather than unfocused and irritated that he has to be here.
They pass the rest of the review in silence.
Eventually, it comes to an end.
Lower ranking officers salute as Kylo and his generals dismiss themselves. They reconvene in a nearby conference room overlooking the docking bay, a holochip sitting conspicuously on the table top. He chooses a far window to stand ahead of, looking out on the galaxy while the generals behind him shuffle through the door. It's unsettling to them, that he's willing to leave his back unguarded. A few suspect the truth, that he does it on purpose. They don't test their theories on how well he's able to protect himself.
Part of him wishes they would.
The ship is passing by the Cofek-Ta system. Kylo doesn't let himself settle into that connection in the back of his head to see what she's doing. Luke really could have at least taught her more about mental blocking.
Datapads clatter against the table and chairs shriek as they're dragged against the flooring. Then, the unavoidable conversations launch, beginning with obligatory small talk. Subtly snide comments inevitably evolve from passive to direct aggression. When the generals start actually yelling at each other, he turns and sits in his usual spot at the head of the table. They instantly silence themselves as he looks across their matching apprehensive expressions.
"General Milton," Kylo says.
"Er. Yes. Of course, Supreme Leader." Milton, a slender man still learning to cope with the oncoming balding of middle age, clears his throat. "Today we're meeting to address several issues. The existing training regimen for incoming Storm Troopers is one. We also have issues of food supply to review. New this week is a suggestion for restarting our advanced weaponry program, currently still dissolved upon your ascension, Supreme Leader."
Milton's eyes dart to Kylo. Kylo responds with an unwavering stare.
"I'm still unclear on why we're addressing something so trivial and unessential as a redesign of the training protocols I put in place," Hux says. His tone is characteristically heated, especially in contrast to Milton's carefully regulated voice, and Kylo tries to ignore the residual sneer that seems to have a permanent place on the man's face. "My method has been established and has been sufficient up to this point."
"When you had Phasma to enforce it," General Requist says pointedly. "Which you no longer do."
Kylo has been finding more reasons to pay attention to Requist, both as a capable administrator and as the apparent rival to Hux. His tendency to be overly direct is yet another reason to keep an eye on him.
Hux's glare is murderous. "She was a fine leader, yes –"
"She was more than a fine leader," Requist interrupts. "She was essential. I have yet to see a replacement for her that is equally up to the task. Such programs are no longer adequate, if they rely on a single factor to progress correctly. However, even with Captain Phasma in play, your system experiences malfunctions. No other training system in our history has had instances of desertion."
Hux's face screws tighter, a red flush of anger coloring his cheeks. "The traitor will be punished as soon as he is apprehended. No other instances have occurred."
"FN-2187 is but one example of the previous method's inadequacy," Requist continues, a bit ruthlessly, Kylo thinks. "The sheer volume of new recruits who fail to survive your methods is wasteful. Surely, we can implement a system that does not require the breaking of each individual spirit to succeed."
Ruthless, but not wrong.
"Spirit is not essential to being a soldier," Hux says. He's trying, and failing, to regain composure.
"It is, if you want that soldier to be useful beyond their first three years of service."
"They are replaceable. We don't need them to survive beyond three years."
"Perhaps not, but it would be a better use of our invested time and resources if they did."
"Enough," Kylo says.
All eyes turn to him.
"What is your progress on the training program redesign? Or does this need to be delegated to someone else?" It's impossible to ignore the intentional, cold finality in Kylo's voice.
A tense silence lasts for a few moments.
"Progress is being made but it is slow," Hux says without emotion. Kylo is reminded of the soulless droid that woke him. "We have a theory on motivation tactics other than threat of reconditioning. Another option we are testing includes alternate training protocols in tandem with existing ones. Test groups from the incoming class of recruits are being carefully selected. We are due to begin the studies in the next few months."
"I want an update by the end of the week. Is that doable?"
"Yes, Supreme Leader."
"Good." Kylo looks to Milton, keeping himself aware of Hux's swirling hostility. "Proceed."
Milton in turn looks to another general across the table.
So much of this conversation could be done through alerts and messages.
"Food supply," General Proust says. He's one of the youngest at the table, with a calm confidence that Kylo has begun to admire, but he doesn't trust the way Proust keeps his face perfectly blank at all times. If Proust thinks he can hide his ambitions from a Master in the force, then his pride will be his own undoing. "Resources are getting harder to secure. We have grain and protein sourced primarily from four different systems. In the past we've been able to avoid the risk of a single point of failure. However, all four systems are now reporting lower yields this harvest due to environmental shifts, despite being in different parts of the galaxy. Our reports do not indicate anything beyond normal weather patterns for each system. Intel on the ground indicates that portions of our promised supplies are possibly being redirected. Until we receive more information it's purely conjecture to assume where. Obvious choices might be the New Republic or the Resistance."
"There's not enough Resistance left to cause much of an issue," another man says. General Victrum, Kylo thinks.
"We don't know that," Requist says. "We should shortly."
Kylo's stoic expression stays firmly place, despite his interest. Instead of giving himself away, he mentally prods at a general who hasn't spoken yet.
"Shortly?" General Cox asks monotonously, his expression dazed.
"We may have an in with the Resistance itself. One of their financial backers is changing their allegiances after being reminded of the benefits of loyalty to the First Order. Based on his testimony, I can safely estimate their current numbers are less than a few hundred fighters and support staff. For now, they're not a threat."
"As long as they're alive, they're an infestation waiting to happen," Hux says. His expression is darker, more hostile, than when Requist questioned him. Hux avoids meeting Kylo's gaze and keeps his mind perfectly blank.
Kylo feels his eyes narrow. There's something there that he needs to be made aware of.
"The New Republic, then?"
"For now," Proust says, "that's the most likely recipient. They are still recovering from their losses in the Hosnian System, after all."
"We have a suggestion for how to avoid future problems in that regard, my Lord," Requist says, addressing Kylo. "My direct reports and I have been formulating a concept for a new weapon."
"While I can appreciate the sense of initiative behind your concept," Kylo says, deliberately keeping his tone even, "I believe I made myself clear in this regard. I am not interested in pursuing mass weaponized projects until the First Order has achieved more stability in its colonies."
"This proposal directly affects that goal, sir."
"Does this proposal have a name, General?"
"Deathhunter. We have developed the original Starkiller plans –"
"From the more original Death Star plans."
Requist dares to smile. "Yes, my Lord."
"We do have quite the naming stratagem, don't we?" Kylo asks sarcastically.
"There are... certain aspects of tradition that still maintain their appeal."
"Of course," Kylo says. He turns back to Proust. "I want to hear more about our options regarding food supply. That seems to be the more pressing issue, rather than building yet another weapon that won't survive its infancy."
"My Lord –" Requist tries to begin.
"Food supply, General Proust."
"Sir," Proust answers after a brief pause, "we've been running the numbers for potential outcomes. We have enough supplies on board to go another six weeks before needing to access emergency stores on each dreadnaught. That gives us some time to investigate the truthfulness of these reports citing environmental catalysts to the delays, but we can't depend on the updated delivery counts to be enough."
"What do you suggest?"
"My recommendation is direct," Proust says coolly. "We simply take what we need."
"No. Next."
Proust looks surprised for once. "We have millions of soldiers to feed. Appropriating resources is a simple and straightforward way to address questions of potential shortages."
"Straightforward, but not simple. What is your next recommendation?"
"Aside from appropriating resources," he says slowly, "we could open up trade discussions with nearby systems that aren't under our influence. Otherwise I'll need to investigate what else is available to us."
"You should have done so already, General. After the diplomatic position we're in because of Starkiller and Hosnian Prime, we don't need to bleed the systems still under our control dry."
"I can't imagine many other systems see us as a viable trade partner. Sir."
"Your point is noted," Kylo says with a pause. By his tone, it's made clear that he does not care the least how Proust, or likely any other person at this table, would handle the situation. "I expect an update from you by tomorrow with all options in front of us. Find other systems we can trade with first."
So many eyes dart from one face to another before settling on safe territories like the table, or the far walls. Kylo understands their joint confusion. Snoke wouldn't have hesitated to order a full pillaging of the resistant systems in question. He also feels Requist's annoyance in particular at the fledgling Death Star copycat not being seen, after all the work put into the concept. He can't let that fester into something detrimental.
Between all this, he recognizes the shift before it becomes fully realized.
"Requist, update me on this Deathhunter concept privately. I'll have a time sent to you at a later point."
"Yes, sir."
The room goes still. Quiet.
He can't fight the connection tightening between him and Rey, but he closes his eyes and tries with all his might to block out any surroundings or memories of recent conversation. The pull is powerful, nearly all-encompassing –
"I will be back shortly. Please continue." Kylo stands, and his generals rise with him. He leaves the conference room and confused generals behind.
His head is throbbing with the effort it takes to keep the connection at bay. Even walking quickly, he barely makes it to a quiet docking bay overhang with no one present before the connection floods his senses and overcomes his failing blockade.
The metallic walls around him disappear, replaced by gray-blue swirling clouds above. Wind, real wind, tousling his hair. Mountains, backlit by strikes of distant lightning, in the background. Closer, artificial lighting revealing the grounds just outside her base.
She's training, out in the grass.
He watches as Rey's staff spins impossibly fast in front and behind her, the bright floodlights reflecting off her glistening skin. The connection is open between them, her focus multiplied by his.
She knows he's here.
Her eyes are closed. She should be asleep, with it being the middle of her night. Maybe she isn't sleeping, just like he can't most nights.
She'll look to him whenever she's ready. Until then, Kylo studies her technique, approaching close enough to feel the cool air being pushed around by her staff. He steps from behind her to her left and makes sure there's enough distance that she won't hit him.
She may have been lucky, when they fought on Starkiller, but he can't deny she's more than capable as a fighter. She's also obviously more familiar with what it takes to maneuver her staff – he thinks he'd prefer his own saber any day, but he can see why a staff might have been a better tool on that wasteland she escaped from.
His brief research into Jakku, months ago, told him everything he needed to know. She's a survivor.
The staff slows, her eyes open, but she still avoids his gaze.
They stand, uncertain. The electricity between them is constant, just like every connection, but he feels like they're on the verge of something different. She's buzzing with energy.
With nerves, he realizes.
"Ben," she says, looking up to meet his eyes.
And nothing else matters.
"Rey," he says softly, almost worshipping the sound as it leaves his throat. She doesn't respond, other than taking a step closer. Just one.
Seconds pass. For all he knows it could be years.
It's only when she breaks their contact and looks past him that he turns to see the blurred but discernable shapes of her General and the Pilot approaching. The bond between him and Rey grows stronger. As he returns to her gaze, he senses the opening between them that he's been resisting for the last year.
I can't, he hears in his mind. Her presence is firm but nonthreatening. If you can control this...
Images of a small, gray room bloom into his vision, as if he's there. He sees a flimsy metal-framed cot, a wooden desk, a towering pile of parts in the corner, all flashing across his mind's eye in bursts.
I'll come, he answers.
The connection fades, the wind from her planet slowing and disappearing into a secondhand acknowledgment that this moment, this memory, was real. She's still there, if he closes his eyes and really focuses. There are tastes that don't belong to him, emotions he doesn't recognize in himself, that can only be coming from across the bond. Their bond.
She called him Ben.
That afterglow of peace has returned, stronger than when he first woke. Kylo instinctively recognizes the sensation for what it is.
He's still grasping at the implications of this moment when he hears steps come up from behind.
"Sir," a female voice beckons. A Lieutenant, but he's never seen her before. "Sir, General Hux directed me to find you?"
"Fine," he says.
As he returns, he refuses to explain himself. The Generals are too afraid to ask. A hologram of a floating blueprint levitates from the chip in the center of the table.
"We've been discussing Deathhunter, sir," Requist says, answering the question Kylo didn't want to ask. "I thought it best to familiarize Command with the broad specifications, before providing you specifics privately as you requested."
He reluctantly navigates the bond's length to find a point of full closure.
"Continue."