I didn't see a single person over the next three days. Droids delivered three punctual meals and serviced my room every single day, keeping everything perfectly clean and stocked. I spent all my time doing anything to keep my mind occupied—sleeping at all hours of the day, keeping up with the latest news on the holonet, and pampering myself with baths and saunas. And I read.

I read a lot.

On the fourth day, I sat at the table with Lords of the Sith propped up against a bowl as I ate lunch. The book contained incredibly specific knowledge about the Force. It went in-depth on the abilities that the Dark Side enabled users to wield, such as enhanced reflexes and strength, telekinesis, persuasion, mind reading, the power of lightning, the ability to create life, and precognition.

The only known ability exclusive to the Light Side was metaphysical immortality, the ability of a Jedi to leave his consciousness on the physical plane after death. The book claimed that this was a superfluous ability, easily replaced by good record-keeping and thorough training. Considering all the Sith were now dead, it may have come in handy after all.

On the next page, I came across a handwritten note. It was written next to a paragraph detailing a strange, bloody ritual used to enhance the user's connection to the Dark Side. It was scrawled in ink sloppily, though I couldn't picture myself doing a much better job.

"Like Jedi—religious. Force = neutral."

Suddenly, my door signal went off. It was the door to the command suite.

I paced in front of it for a few stressful moments. Should I even answer it? Why does he want to speak to me? Could it be an emergency? After smoothing the elegant collar of my gray blouse, I opened the door.

Kylo's lesser counterpart stood there with his usual scowl in place. He wore nothing over his uniform, revealing his slim build to my wandering eyes. Fortunately, I had taken advantage of the holonet to read every speck of dirt I could find about him.

I crossed my arms and raised my chin haughtily.

"Armitage Hux. Thirty-five years old. A man living in the shadow of his father, who wouldn't even acknowledge him as his bastard son."

Judging by his nonreaction, he had heard much worse insults in his life. He merely scoffed.

"Put your knives away, woman," he muttered. "I am not your enemy."

He walked off to the left, leaving me with the unspoken expectation to follow him. I hawkishly flew through the doorway.

"Say my name," I ordered.

He stopped in front of a metal storage locker. The design was unique and had a raised First Order emblem on the lid.

"Open it, Caltrel," he dared, quirking an eyebrow.

Taken by curiosity, I knelt in front of the crate. The moisture-tight gaskets hissed when I undid the clasps. Inside lay a pair of gunmetal gray gauntlets and pauldrons. I realized how heavy they were when I moved them aside, exposing a breastplate underneath. I placed my hand on the matte metal, feeling the coldness and sturdiness of it. It was reminiscent of Captain Phasma's armor but not exact.

"It looks like Phasma's," I murmured.

"What an astute observation."

I glared at him over my shoulder. "Where is she stationed now?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" His eyes darted away. "She's dead."

I stumbled to my feet in shock. His voice became quiet.

"She was held hostage by Resistance insurgents on Starkiller. She refused to comply with their demands. They cut the armor off her body and shot her in the head."

My eyes widened.

His expression dimmed. "Brutish scum."

I returned my gaze to the armor, seeing it in a new light. With that knowledge, the Resistance fell to a new low in my eyes. Hux's voice became worshipful.

"Phasma's legacy represents a First Order that no longer exists. One of patriotism, duty…and restraint."

Closing the lid, I brushed my hand reverently over the shiny emblem on top. My mind traveled back to my early days in the First Order, when my life was simple and organized. I wondered how differently things would have gone if I had been left under Phasma's care.

"This armor was a long-awaited upgrade of her own personal design. And it can be yours…for a price."

I stood and faced him. He immediately detected my piqued interest, and a pleased smile spread on his lips. His ability to read people seemed to rival my own. I neutralized my expression.

"What do you want?"

He gestured to me in a businesslike manner. "You may be young and suggestible, but you are rational. Logical. You see a mountain, you go around it. You're faced with death, you compromise."

I stared at him, wondering where he was going.

"Ren is the opposite," he sneered. "He sees a mountain, he tries to tear it down. He faces death, and he laughs. Without Snoke's guidance, he will drive the First Order to ruin."

I shrugged. "Perhaps he will."

He was suddenly silent. His eyes analyzed me, and not just my face. I carefully concealed my discomfort. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a murmur.

"However immeasurable it may be, your influence over Ren is invaluable."

I pursed my lips, trying not to reveal that I shared the same thoughts. "You want to manipulate him," I accused, crossing my arms.

"I want to guide him," he amended.

"Explain."

He did so with relish.

"Supreme Leader Snoke had a keen eye for politics. Over the course of a decade, he crafted an illusion of neutrality that blinded the New Republic to the First Order's rise. He practically had the Chancellor eating out of his hand. Obviously, that illusion has now crumbled, and has left the entire Galaxy with the impression that the First Order is the aggressor."

"But we are the aggressor."

Indignant fire erupted in his eyes. He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward. "Do you support the cause? Or do you lack mortality altogether?"

I remained calm. "I believe the New Republic is corrupt and lawless. I believe the Galaxy would be better served by the First Order."

He withdrew, making a sound of approval in his throat.

"You are bright indeed. I suppose your extremely limited experience as a diplomat has given you insight."

His backhanded praise gave me an inescapable thrill. I looked away.

"...Thanks."

"In short, my overall aim is to sway public opinion. We cannot win back our influence over the Chancellor, but we can win the loyalty of his disgruntled citizens. Effectively, this requires more strategic diplomacy and less…pulverization."

"The Outer Rim might have been willing to negotiate. But the remaining Rims are too financially dependent on the New Republic."

"Indeed they are," he granted. "However, once we blockade key planets in the Mid Rim, its economy will destabilize. Chaos will erupt throughout the Rim, to which the First Order will readily provide a solution by way of our generous patrons in the alternative market."

I frowned in surprise. "Impressive proposal."

He smirked. "Thank you."

The pleasantness in his voice left as soon as it had arrived.

"Or, as Ren and his foolish Generals would have it, we will spend the better part of three years occupying every individual world in the Mid Rim. Followed by years of fierce opposition and the probable resurrection of the Resistance."

Unable to maintain it any longer, I dropped my facade of indifference.

"I want to help you," I said, much to his delight. "But if he looks into my mind, he'll find you out."

He nodded. "I accept full responsibility for that risk."

I smothered an excited smile. "Then we have a deal."

"There is a gymnasium down the hall," he said, gesturing in the direction of my quarters. "I'll have the droids take the armor to the female locker room. Only you have access to it. If you have any questions, find me on the bridge."

He then offered me an old-fashioned handshake. I took his hand firmly, and he gripped back with equal strength. When I attempted to withdraw my hand, he held on with a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Thank you for your time, my lady."

I dipped my head. "General."

Excitement drove me to follow the droids to the gym. It was surprisingly close, with the word "COMMAND" written on the door. I wondered how I had missed it. The gym had the standard First Order fare—a myriad of equipment, a shooting range, and a large open mat for freestyle training and sparring.

I directed the droids to set the locker in the middle of the rubberized floor. Breathing out nervously, I collected my hair and tied it at the nape of my neck. First, I first put on the leather undersuit, which had a metal skeleton woven into it. It fit suspiciously well, leading me to suspect that Hux had it altered to my specifications. He is calculated down to the decimal.

Next came the boots, greaves, tassets, breastplate, pauldrons, rerebrace, and finally the gauntlets. Each piece added more weight, causing me to break out in a sweat. I could hardly take a step without significant effort. I went down on one knee and heaved out a breath.

The exposed control panel on the underside of my forearm caught my eye. The buttons were difficult to press. Nothing happened until I hit the one labeled "HYD."

Vrrr.

Suddenly, I felt weightless. I stood up, triggering another hydraulic noise. I took a step forward easily. The twenty kilograms of armor on my body felt as light as a feather. In fact, was I moving faster than usual? I broke into a sprint, and the wind immediately picked up my hair.

A wall suddenly appeared in front of me.

"Ahh!"

I fell to the ground, catching myself on my elbows. No pain came from the impact. Whipping my head around, I looked back at the locker—suddenly twenty meters away. I lifted my hand and flexed my fingers, hearing a soft motorized whir.

My mind raced with possibilities.

Completely exhausted, I returned to my quarters a few hours later. I found my book lying exactly where I had left it, suddenly a lot less interesting than before. I picked it up and gingerly traced my finger over the handwriting.

I typed a name into my computer terminal using the holographic keyboard. It wasn't my first time performing this search on the holonet, but it did yield the same result. Nothing. My eyes traced over the name again and again, coming up with more and more questions each time.