GENERAL (arkanis) wrote in incompletedata, @ 2017-07-02 13:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | star wars: canon: armitage hux, star wars: canon: phasma |
Who: Armitage Hux & Phasma
What: Visiting.
Where: November block.
When: Morning.
Warnings: None.
Even a rather frustrating breakfast, involving a great many napkins, could hardly tarnish the shine on this place: after weeks of the sort of natural environments that to him always felt alien and dangerously unpredictable, coming to a place that was contained, and clean, and all ship-shape and squared away made Hux move more easily, a creature in his own element. The star shining through the windows might have been as close and as bright as any he was forced to suffer planetside, but other than that - he might easily have pretended he was aboard any of the ships that had always served as his home. Like most emotional adjustments, it was brought about less by actual change than by suggestive stimuli, but he'd take it. Right now, he needed every sort of stability he could find, be it underwritten by logic, or not. And Phasma was some stability (even as somewhere, in one corner of his mind, an alarm increased in volume every time someone he needed to be handling the mess he'd left behind showed up here). The detente he'd reached with Ren - if anything involving that man could be said to involve a deescalation - was a shift in and of itself, a change to be adapted to even as he clung to it like an inner-ear compromised pilot clung to the deck. She was something more familiar, someone with whom easy cooperation was a standard feature, not a new and startling development. They'd had, of course, their disagreements and differences of opinion and even rows, but their goals had always been aligned in ways that Hux had never truly felt with Ren, who served a different facet of their master even if they all looked to the same man for leadership. Soldiers had always been his family, his only world. He could pick them out at a distance - and more than anything, they made him feel at home. And that was true even in this rather puerile setting, all bright colors and games and one chiseled-jawed starfighter pilot who had sprung up from sunning himself on a sofa and marched out with an angry flash of his dark eyes at their appearance. Hux had happily taken his place, settling into the comfort of the couch with the pleasure of someone still not quite used to having anything but the ground to sit on. "It isn't bad," he drawled, with a sniffing edge to his words that revealed what faint praise that was, "this place. But really, all it reminds me of is the bait phase of an interrogation. Knock a man about a bit, leave him hungry, kick him when he falls asleep - then let him see what a nice, soft bed he could have, if only he would see reason." But it was possible he was finding motives that didn't really exist. Everyone saw his own world mirrored back to him in whatsoever he looked at - an inescapable form of personal bias. "Call me cynical." |