Hux was staring in the mirror, making a last adjustment to his hair before heading out for the day. He was reciting his schedule when he felt distinctly watched. Not alone. The face in the mirror, caught out of the corner of his eye, was Snoke's, not his own. Hux jerked back, his comb clattering into the sink as he grabbed at his knife. No, the face was his own now. He'd heard of 'growing up to be your father', but Snoke? He had the spooky, unreal feeling this was a nightmare – he was still asleep and only dreaming he was getting ready for his shift.
It is not a nightmare.
That was not his thought, but it was in his head. It was Snoke's voice. He whirled, looking around himself. The knife was in hand now, although he cautioned himself to be careful. If it was Snoke, he didn't need to be stabbing him. But he wasn't convinced of that yet.
Your concern for my welfare is laudable. This is telepathy. You are familiar with it.
Hux swallowed and straightened slightly. Hux's new quarters on the Finalizer might have been larger than he'd ever enjoyed in the past, but there was still no place within them Snoke might be hiding. He supposed this was exactly what Snoke was telling him it was – a Force power being used to speak with him. It verified his suspicions that Snoke could read minds at a vast distance. Apparently, he could also speak.
"Yes? Sir?"
You need not speak aloud. Discretion is one of many benefits of this mode of communication. As well, your time will no longer be consumed in transit to and from my location, unless I ask specifically for your presence. You may cancel all future project reports and status updates with me. Henceforth, I will reach you in this manner when I have need.
Oh. Hux wasn't sure what to make of that. It had consequences and repercussions he wanted to think through.
Now. Submit.
But there was no time for such thoughts. It would be rude to entertain them with Snoke … here. What?
Something slid inside of him, behind the sinuses of his face. There was a pressure and a sensation. His mind interpreted it as an attachment, something he couldn't free himself from. His shoulders jerked and his hands came to his face instinctively. One of them still held the blade.
Put that down. You cannot sever this tie. Only I can do that. This is an attunement.
Falteringly, he set the knife on the counter. An attunement? What if I don't submit? Or attune? He didn't want to have thought that aloud – it sounded too much like defiance – but the thought was there anyway. It was more about concern and alarm than trying to fight.
Then the likelihood you will be damaged by the process increases.
But I can't stop it?
No.
Oh. There was that feeling again and his hands went to his face just as involuntarily as before. He gasped. He went to his knees. He shuddered. It wasn't due to pain so much. It was that it felt so invasive, like Snoke was next to him or inside of him. Like if he looked off to the right in his own brain, that the being on that hemisphere was not himself. Reality as he knew it dropped away and some other creature dwelt there – the ineffable manifestation in the Force of Snoke himself.
A directive to submit implied that resistance was possible. As he had no idea how to do that, he also had no idea of how to submit. He was not being given time to adjust and consider the matter, which he assumed was intentional. Snoke must want him off-balance like this. He balled his fists where they rested on his knees, knuckles whitening as something entrenched itself within his mind.
The pressure receded, but the feeling of having been violated remained. It was like there was something under his skin he wanted to dig out but it was in his own brain. His gut kept twitching. He felt alone, but with this foreign thing still in residence, like a collar around his throat. Snoke? Hello? Snoke? "Snoke?" Hux's voice was raspy and quiet.
Whatever Snoke had just done to him, his emotional reaction to it mattered to Snoke not at all. Hux suspected it was no more to Snoke than the feelings of a nerf herder to nerfs he'd applied a brand to. The irrational part of his mind linked this event with being promoted – the only good part was it resolved his lurking dread that something awful was going to happen as a result of that perfunctory advancement.
Shakily, he got to his feet, replaced his knife in the scabbard, and picked up his comb. He glanced at the mirror furtively, building up the courage to look directly at it. It was just him. But he felt contaminated. He had to hold down the desire to retch. It wouldn't help. Instead, he washed his face and restyled his hair. There was nothing else to be done about it.