Bonded

Chapter 33: Monsters

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Kylo Ren attempts to move forward but finds it difficult to escape the past.

A BB-9 unit rolls swiftly down the hall of the dreadnaught, its squared dome of a head tilted back, photoreceptor stuck high in the air. One might say it looks smug. It moves in a straight line, not bothering to dodge the oncoming traffic.

A couple of officers nearly trip over the droid, sidestepping just in time. One halts, glaring at it with a scowl.

The droid simply moves on, cursorily noting the inferiority of human observation. It picks up its pace as it nears the end of the hall, preparing for a sharp curve to the right.

But just as it turns, it's met by a swift kick to its round body. It flies across the hall, barely regaining balance before crashing into the wall. It sputters in beeps and whirs, searching for the offending boot, ready to meet it with angry burst of curses. It shrinks the moment it identifies the guilty party.

A masked Kylo Ren charges down the hall without a backward glance. He doesn't notice the droid. He doesn't notice the people passing, bowing as they do. He doesn't even notice the commotion in the medical bay, equipment crashing as one of the patients thrashes about. His mind is too preoccupied, fixed on his destination, on the meeting he's been dreading all week.

He tries to remain even, adopt an inward calm, but he can't smother that simmering in his gut, reluctance tinged with a vague sense of fear.

He squares his shoulders, moving on with his signature stride. He tries to direct his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere.

He thinks back to the meeting with his generals, pictures the them gathered around the table. He smirks as he remembers Hux twitching, that low burning resentment when Petrov raved about Kaddak and the usefulness of the slaves. He swells as he recalls Ailen's report, the First Order's reputation continuing its upward climb, the rippling effects on their recruitment and negotiations.

Then he remembers the gaping faces, the wave of shock when he ordered Voigt to submit a list of potentials to lead a raid on slave markets in the Core Worlds.

And he tenses, turning the corner sharply.

He searches his mind for something else to focus on— the ongoing problems with the Corellian government, Sylas and the pirates on Borosk— but he runs into the same damn wall every time.

He clenches his fists.

It's maddening, this slow, miserable slog. Every attempt at reform, at trying to remold the First Order into what it must become, gets met with the same push back, the same outdated way of thinking.

It's not just Hux. It's all the people who think like him, wanting to solve every problem like they're still at war. They can't see, can't understand why they need to deal with the Corellians through diplomacy rather than firepower, why they need to work with the pirates on Borosk rather blasting them to pieces and starting a damn rebellion. To them, the idea of devoting resources to stopping slavery is unfathomable.

Why would they? It doesn't strengthen their armies. It doesn't advance their weapons technology. It doesn't strike fear into the hearts of those who would defy the First Order. So why would they do it? To them, there's no reason, no reason at all...

He barrels down a short staircase, his mind drifting to the unpleasant task ahead, dread clawing up his throat. He tries to redirect his focus to the surroundings but there isn't much to see. He's in a narrow hall now, a sparsely populated area of the dreadnought. There isn't a soul in sight except for a janitor ambling his way, pushing along a hoverlift stacked high with supplies.