To Do the Next Right Thing

Part 3

To Do the Next Right Thing

Chapter 3

He found a way to discard his Stormtrooper armor for Batuu civilian clothes easily. He'd been able to sell off some parts he could salvage off the escape pod, even, for a few credits—quite a few of which went toward a few drinks at the cantina. He found a slightly tattered, dark blue scarf to keep his hair covered, and with all the heat threatening him from three suns, it certainly came in handy, though a few of those red tendrils always fell in front of his face.

What he couldn't get used to, though, was calling himself "Armitage."

Not a common name, but he rarely used it, even while rising through the ranks of the First Order. Hell, he was sure some of his Stormtroopers didn't even know it.

His Stormtroopers; his First Order. None of those things were his anymore.

The pain always stung; not just from the bruise from Pryde's blast or in his leg, but from thinking of what the First Order might deteriorate into without him, his organization. Hux was a man without a planet, a man without affiliation, something that had defined his entire existence. He was just "Armitage" now, and with Kylo Ren and Allegiant General Pryde leading the ranks, he just couldn't see himself among them anymore.

The sold escape pod parts granted him enough credits to find decent lodging and food. Certainly more cramped and messier than his pristine First Order quarters, but they did in a pinch. Besides, a beggar like him certainly couldn't be a chooser—he'd made that bed. Any regrets, he nipped them in the bud the moment he even dared to think them. Reality felt like this limbo, like his body could move, he could down drinks like they were nothing. His mind, in this groggy, slow place that knew how to hide, but didn't know how to live.

The call came when he least expected it, when he ducked behind racks of decommissioned thermal detonators near an old spire to hide from that damn spy, that blue-haired wench—Vy Moradi. She could certainly spot his hair just as easily as he could spot hers.

"Hiding from Vy?" Armitage jumped at the sound of someone crouched beside him: a small woman, her eyes brown and huge, platinum hair tied back into a messy tail. The ends of her clothes were frayed from overuse, dirt caking a bit beneath her nails.

He said nothing; Armitage was still trying to figure out if, for the time being, he should attempt that Stormtrooper accent again. Maybe if he kept it up long enough, it'd just be the way he talked. Lose that Imperial dialect his father had instilled on him so young.

"What'd you do? Sell some info to the First Order?"

But screw it. She didn't know him. And he needed her off his back. "Resistance, actually," he said, surprised to be telling the truth. Honestly, it was probably the only truth he'd told since landing near Black Spire Outpost.

The woman's lips curled upward, like she knew something. Armitage just raised a brow. "What?" he asked.

Instead of answering, she bit her lip. Then she took his hand, yanking him up—and Armitage, who hadn't had anyone so much as physically touch him in years, was shocked at her audacity as she sprinted across the outpost with him in tow. Then again, it wasn't like she knew his past, just from a few glances, wouldn't know just how wrong it was of her to grab him like that—something that could certainly get her killed as a Stormtrooper or petty officer. He used his free hand to attempt to hold his makeshift hood over his hair. With every step his leg throbbed, his chest heaved, pain shooting through them from his injuries.