MSP October 2024: Integration

[dealer_of_aus_666]

Rating/Warnings: Teen and Up, No Warnings Apply
Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Characters: Leia Organa, Armitage Hux, Rey, Finn, Poe Dameron, Captain Phasma, Original First Order Characters, Original Resistance Characters
Additional Tags: Defecting from the First Order, POV Multiple

Summary: Mostly, the new alliance between the Devastator and the Resistance is going well, but they still have to address the friction between their respective groups.
Sequel to catch-22. Please read that one first, as this one won't make sense without it.

Read on Ao3

slaps this onto the table while covered in dust and mysterious blood

Sadly I did not get to write Rose being stuck in an elevator or other cramped space with Phasma and trying very hard not to be Super Hella Gay about it. There just wasn't time, and it wouldn't have fit anyways. There is, however, a different 'deleted scene' down in the end notes, for when you're done reading this.

“It’s good to have you here, General Hux,” Leia says.

“It’s good to be here, General Organa,” he replies. “The Resistance has been kinder to us than we could ask of them, given our contentious history.”

He strides over to his own Head of Internal Logistics to check in and iron out any last minute details. Leia can’t help but notice that he’s the youngest person in the room, younger than even his own subordinates, and wonders just how much he’d gone through to get to the position of General before Snoke died and the First Order fell apart. (She might have to thank Ben for that. Or maybe Rey. Ben doesn’t seem to want to talk to her.) Wonders just how young he’d been when he’d started his military career.

And yes, she herself had been playing politics since fifteen, but that was different. She hadn’t always been in such direct danger. And there had been an Empire to take down. And she’d volunteered. The loss of her own youth had been a necessary sacrifice; the loss of Hux’s was a tragedy.

(Or maybe she’s assuming too much. Maybe he’d been twenty when he’d started fighting and risen through the ranks insanely quickly. It was improbable, but not impossible.)

A call of “Order!” from one of the other Generals calls her attention back to the meeting. Hux stands at the front of the room, in military-discipline pose, a set of graphs and charts behind him.

“Generals of the Resistance,” he says, bowing deeply. “The crew of the Devastator extends our deepest gratitude for your aid and alliance in our time of need.” He gestures at several displays one-by-one. “Integration between the crew of the Devastator and the Resistance fighters stationed here is going well, at least in terms of food, water, and other physical supplies. Repairs to the Devastator are progressing more quickly than even our initially-projected best case scenario.”

“We have learned that the rank and file of the Resistance tend to be very curious and social creatures,” one of Hux’s subordinates—Leia thinks he might be the Head Engineer?—says dryly, as if on cue. “It’s thanks to their help that morale among our troops is up, and that our repairs have been progressing so quickly.”

Hux continues right where the Head Engineer(?) left off. “Unfortunately, this does not mean that we haven’t had some friction between the two populations.” The previous graphs and charts disappear, making way for a list labeled Cross-Faction Altercations Over A 14-Day Period, Starting from the Arrival of the Devastator. Most of the list is colored blue, but quite a few are colored red; several entries of both colors are marked with an X. “As of two days ago, we’ve had 35 different incidents of contention between members of the Resistance and members of the Devastator crew reported to either Resistance or Devastator authorities. Red entries are incidents in which physical blows or injury occurred; blue entries are incidents where the altercation was restricted to verbal or social contention. Entries with an X are incidents that required an authority of either side to intervene.” He takes a deep breath. “Most incidents resolved themselves, and there are likely more self-resolved incidents that were never reported, but 12 incidents required outside intervention and 7 involved physical blows.”

Captain Phasma’s the one who speaks next, her lack of helmet revealing her several facial scars—including the burn scar from months ago—and her new prosthetic eye. “The good news is that the occurrence of incidents requiring outside intervention or involving physical attacks is likely to decrease significantly over time. Such contention is to be expected, given the historical hostility between the First Order and the Resistance—”—what a diplomatic way to put it—“—but, should occurrence fail to decrease, allowing such contention to go unchecked will introduce serious fractures into our already-tenuous alliance.”

“Do we have data on who’s getting into these fights?” Leia hears someone ask.

“Some,” Hux replies. “Almost everyone involved in these fights are privates or other non-command posts, but that’s the only theme we’ve seen in the data. A few reports gave us information on the instigator’s motivation, but we simply don’t have enough data on that front to be sure.”

One of Hux’s officers clears her throat. “Reported motivations range from revenge for a fallen comrade to what seem to be cultural misunderstandings.” Ah, so this part wasn’t rehearsed. “I would recommend focusing on the culture clashes, but as the General said, committing resources to addressing any one cause before we have a better understanding may lead to unnecessary waste.”

“Not acting quickly could lead to a far worse outcome,” Admiral Resdox objects.

“So could acting quickly in the wrong way,” Hux parries, hackles visibly rising.

Lingering resentment, or touchiness about his competence? In any case, it’s time for Leia to step in. “Resdox is right in that we need to nip this in the bud, but we also need to be accurate in our efforts. You mentioned cultural differences; what, specifically, do you mean?”

“May I take this one?” one of the women standing behind Phasma asked. Hux nods.

She clears her throat. “My name is Commander Falcon. I serve directly underneath Captain-Commander Phasma and often work directly with our troopers. I’ve also been involved in observing and managing the integration of Resistance and Devastator forces, and I have noticed a few key cultural differences: Number one, that our troopers tend to be more straightforward about issues with another person than Resistance fighters, and a lot of Resistance members interpret their straightforwardness as rudeness. Number two, that Resistance members have a lower level of general discipline, and strongly value their ‘free time’. Number three, that our troopers are—ironically—more prone to friendly roughhousing than Resistance members. In light of these differences, it seems that our troops are prone to viewing Resistance fighters as lazy, sensitive, and self-centered, while Resistance fighters are prone to viewing our troopers as rude, aggressive, and uptight.”

Yes, that would be a problem.

Falcon sighs. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how to remedy these differences. I could suggest appointing liaisons between the two groups, but it’s doubtful that we would have enough personnel with the necessary understanding of both Resistance and Devastator cultures, and an order from the top may simply exacerbate the situation. Perhaps we could simply leave it alone, and see if time proves to heal these wounds as well; given our lack of knowledge, this may be the best option.”

“You mentioned liaisons,” one of the other Resistance leaders says, tapping her chin in thought. “We might not have the resources to appoint official liaisons, but perhaps if we briefed the lower-ranking officers on these cultural differences and to watch out for potential conflicts we could solve a large part of the issue at hand. It doesn’t have to be a long or in-depth briefing.”

“Indeed,” Leia says. The entire room quiets and turns to her, caught in her gravity well as soon as she speaks. “One thing is clear: despite the current lack of information, we cannot rely on time and chance; at the same time, overreaching would have similarly disastrous consequences. I propose that we prepare a briefing on these cultural differences to present to captains, sergeants, and other leaders, with the charge that they are now responsible for disseminating that information when necessary. Squad leaders and other low-ranking officers within the Resistance usually have close personable ties with those they command directly, and an order from them is more likely to be heeded even in personal matters than one from High Command. Is this also true of the Devastator’s crew?”

“It is,” Phasma confirms.

“Good. Does anyone else have any ideas or concerns?”

There are a few, from both sides, but Leia’s pronouncement has changed the room’s atmosphere entirely, and it’s obvious that they’ll be taking her suggestion. Her words carry a weight, she knows—the weight of age and experience and perhaps the Force. It’s why she’s careful not to throw that weight around.

Hux has stood in silence since she first spoke. She can feel his envy in it.

---

Leia ‘bumps into’ Hux after the meeting, in the way she’d been taught as a politician to approach people while keeping her intentions concealed. (She suspects that Hux wouldn’t very much like her intentions.)

“You did well today,” she offers.

It’s the wrong thing to say. “This was a perfectly routine duty, General Organa. It would be concerning if I did not do well.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Time to switch tracks. “How long were you a General before Snoke’s death?”

He eyes her with suspicion, but answers her question. “A couple years. My command-specific training meant I rose through the ranks rather quickly.”

How quickly? she wants to ask, but doesn’t. Instead she asks: “Your command-specific training?”

“Yes,” he answers. “I went to an Academy for the children of high-level First Order officers. It served me well as a General, especially when I had to work with other Generals.”

Redirecting away from training towards other First Order Generals. Alright, Leia can work with this. “ My experience with Imperial officers gave me the impression that they tended to be stuck-up and self-assured. I imagine that such personalities would be…difficult to handle as allies or collaborators.”

“I wouldn’t—” Hux stops himself. “No. I’m already a traitor in every way that matters, so I can say it: almost every single General, Admiral, or other equally-ranked officer in the First Order were old Imperials and I couldn’t stand…about ninety-five percent of them? They were all arrogant bastards with a terrible habit of simply ignoring issues they couldn’t solve with an order. One of them—Allegiant General Pryde, he had the highest casualty rates in the entire Order because he threw troopers at problems like he was back in the Empire and then blamed the troopers for dying! News flash, idiot, this is a solvable problem! But no, that would require him to acknowledge that his resources were limited, and that he made a mistake in not investing enough in his troops’ training, and we can’t have rationality from an Old Imperial, now can we?”

He coughs . “My apologies. I got carried away there.”

Leia’s grinning. “No, no, please keep going.”

He eyes her. “It would be…unprofessional to complain about such things to an ally.”

“I’m less concerned with professionalism outside of meetings,” she says, and then tactfully changes the subject. “But I’ve been meaning to ask how you and yours are getting along with the rest of High Command, now that you’re here.”

Hux is quiet for a moment. Leia lets him think.

“They’ve been good to us,” he finally says, “but I think perhaps the same cultural differences that are causing problems with the troops may be causing some bumps for us as well. My Head Engineer has only good things to say about yours, of course—it seems engineers are the same everywhere—but our Logistics officers are frustrated with the time it can take Resistance logistics officers to do their duties. The Devastator’s Head of Communications told me that Resistance Communications officers rely on droids to remember their codes, rather than memorizing them themselves—is this true?”

“I believe so,” Leia confirms. Where is he going with this? “Resistance codes change often enough, and are complex and technology-dependent enough, that it’s quicker to rely on computers. Makes for fewer mistakes as well.”

Hux clearly has something to say about that, but he deigns not to say it. “Well. Aside from Communications, Phasma tells me that her officers are finding it a struggle to either schedule or conduct joint training with Resistance ground troops or pilots. It’s chaos.” He pauses, deciding whether or not to say something else he’s thinking of, and ends up saying it. “Not to mention that Phasma herself is frustrated. She says that any time she spars with a Resistance member they tap out far too quickly.”

Leia raises an eyebrow. “Should she be sparring in her condition?”

“Not at all. The medbay officers are horrified every time she tries. Speaking of which, the integration of the Devastator’s and Resistance’s medical divisions has gone quite well, although apparently several Resistance medics have tried to prescribe a vacation to some of our own medics.” He sighs. “And, finally, Ren simply refuses to willingly interact with any member of the Resistance member. Practically refuses to interact with me or Phasma as well,” he mutters.

She sighs. She’d hoped, but it was apparently too much to expect Ben to come out of his room. “He did that as a kid sometimes, you know,” she says, nostalgia and grief heavy in her voice. “Got upset by something and shut himself away in his room. Wouldn’t talk to anyone, sometimes for days.”

The slip of the tongue provokes a dangerous gleam in Hux’s eye. “Did he get upset often?”

He’s absolutely going to use whatever I say as blackmail, isn’t he. “One time, when he was six, a Senator saw him playing with a girl from the neighborhood, and made a joke about him being a womanizer like his dad.”

“Rather gross of the Senator.”

“Oh, absolutely. But Ben got so upset at the implication that he had a crush on the girl that he ran off and refused to go on any playdates, with anyone, for an entire week. He was inconsolable.”

The story manages to startle an actual laugh out of Hux. “ Force, that sounds exactly like him. Although— ”

“Although?”

“I haven’t confirmed anything yet, so don’t go spreading this around, but Phasma and I suspect that your scavenger girl—the one from Jakku, with the lightsaber—has been sneaking into his room. And the fact that she hasn’t been injured yet tells me that Ren might just be fond of her.”

Hm. Hmm.

“But you didn’t hear that from me,” he warns.

“Of course not,” she agrees. “But if she is visiting him, then perhaps it’s a good omen for our alliance, yes?”

---

Someone from Green Squadron waves Retzo over to their table as he walks into the cafeteria. Finn— the Finn—is sitting with them, and his stomach starts to tie itself in knots of nervousness despite his best efforts. It’s Finn! The Finn! He’s so cool and inspiring and cool! God, Retzo hopes he leaves a good impression. The Finn!

“Hey,” he says nervously as he approaches, trying not to look like he’s staring.

“Hey dude!” the woman from Green Squadron replies (shit, he met her just last week, what was her name?). “Sit down! I was just telling the others about how you fixed up my ship.”

“I mean, it was a pretty easy fix once we figured it out.” He sits down and fidgets. “We just had to figure out which system was having problems.”

“Which system was that?” someone else asks—someone wearing a First Order uniform. Kriff. “Something with the display, right?”

“Well—” Retzo starts, trying not to let his nervousness show. Humans were generally bad at reading Rodian facial expressions, but he didn’t want to take the risk. “Uh. The display was where the symptoms of the problem were showing, but it wasn’t actually the display that was broken. One of the engines had some worn down belts, not providing enough traction anymore, and the ship computer was diverting more power to it to make up for it, which ended up making the display way dimmer than it normally was.”

The pilot slaps him on the back. “It was really cool how he figured it out. Just turned on the ship and could tell by the sound that it was the belts!”

Ah, Retzo’s not used to this kind of praise. “I mean, you kinda just get a sense for this stuff once you’ ve worked with ships enough, right?”

“Pilots do too,” the woman with the First Order uniform adds. “I’m surprised Raneé didn’t figure it out herself.”

Raneé, that was her name. “ I’m used to different ships,” she says defensively. “Different sounds.”

“Jen’s just being blunt,” Finn (!!) says, clearly trying to soothe over the tension. “It’s, uh, pretty normal for the First Order. It’s not meant as an insult.”

J en shrugs. “Better to get correction from your peers than your commanding officer, right?”

Raneé eyes her with suspicion. Retzo feels his anxiety rising, and apparently he’s not the only one. Oh god, Raneé isn’t one of those pilots who prides herself on never backing down, is she? Retzo hopes she isn’t, because if she is this is going to end in disaster.

“…I guess,” Raneé—eventually—admits.

---

Junior Communications Officer Saki is not having a good day, and personally they blame the Resistance.

Which—okay, fine, it’s petty of them to act like they had no part in this—snafu, they’re going to call it. The Resistance officer who had provided them the codes had warned them to check that the right codes were downloaded correctly, because Resistance Communications did everything through computers, and they hadn’t listened and now they were a two standard hour walk away from base with an engine that won’t start, a speeder trunk full of dead animals from Resistance traps, and no way to connect to the proper communications channels. But this wouldn’t have happened if the mechanic assigned to the speeders had done their job! Or if the Resistance had verbal code phrases and protocols for emergency cases like this one like the Devastator did!

At least the meat won’t spoil for a good while, thanks to the speeder’s built-in coolers, so if worse comes to worst Saki can just hike back, but Logistics is expecting that meat for dinner tonight and they hate when shipments don’t come in on time. Especially when it’s because someone from the First Order—or. Uh. Just the Devastator, now—fucked up.

How long will it take for base to realize that they’re delayed? They’d told the Resistance crew who’d sent them off that they’d be back in an hour, but that was less of a genuine promise and more of them being flippant. Shit, maybe they’d decided to just leave them out here for their rudeness. They’d forgotten the first rule of the Order—treat your commanding officers with respect or suffer the consequences. They’ve heard the tale of that one trooper who made a crass joke about Phasma and got left outside on Starkiller for nearly three hours (by his own squadmates, no less). But the Resistance isn’t supposed to be like that, right? They’re not the type to use such creative punishments. And they’re especially not the type to use confusion as a punishment.

Maybe they should try their short range comm again.

They send out an unencrypted ping to any comms in the area. Miraculously, someone picks up this time. “This is Rey, the Resistance Jedi. I, uh, don’t recognize the comm number, who am I talking to right now?”

The scavenger girl the General keeps complaining about? “This is Junior Communications Officer Saki of the Devastator. I volunteered to cover trap-collecting duties for Resistance crew member Taa Min, but my speeder’s broken down and the communication codes are corrupted so I can’t contact base directly. What are you doing out here?”

“Got a feeling someone might need my help. Jedi stuff. Y’know. Anyways, those speeders break down all the time—half of them are older than I am—and I’ve got a long-range communicator with me. Did they not send you out with a buddy?”

The base had mentioned something like that, but— “They said they’d have to send me out alone due to being short-staffed. Didn’t explain why that was important, though.”

“Yeah, the Resistance tends to use the buddy system for everything, especially when it comes to these old speeders. I’m heading towards your location now, and if the damage isn’t too bad I should at least be able to get your speeder able to limp back to base.”

“And if you’re not?”

“Then I can give you a ride, or help you push the speeder, or at least point out a shortcut you can take on foot. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that though. I’ve been looking forward to Kloss quail for dinner.”

“And I’d rather not get chewed out by Logistics for not delivering the quail.”

“I’ve heard that they can be ruthless,” Rey agrees, but not over the communicator.

They startle and whirl around to see a young woman in desert clothing coming out of the forest behind them. “ Force! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Sorry,” she laughs. “Alright, let me get a look at your speeder, yeah?”

Rey fixes the problem in minutes—“It was that easy?” “Yeah, if you’re familiar with the tech”—but tells Saki to make sure to report the failure to base so they can replace the faulty part. And to stay under 40 kilometers per hour. She also accompanies them to gather the rest of the traps and then back to base, listening carefully to the sound of the speeder’s engine, and mutters something about the repulsorlifts needing cleaning. (That might explain the bumpy ride even before the engine failed.)

“Thought you said you’d be back in an hour,” one of the techs teases Saki. “What took you so long?”

“Engine trouble,” they say. “And corrupted comm codes. Resistance comms kept automatically dropping me. Besides, it’s only been—” They check their chrono. “—an hour and a half. Isn’t that how long it usually takes Resistance crew?”

“Yeah, but you’re Devastator crew. You guys are infamous for doing things quickly. Anyways, we’ll make sure to fix the engine—”

“And clean the repulsorlifts!” Rey interrupts.

“And clean the repulsorlifts, yes. You better get back to your station, though—didn’t you say you have a shift in fifteen minutes now?”

Saki nods. “Technically half an hour, but I like to be there early.”

“The meat’s good and cold,” one of the crew calls from the back.

“Thank the Force,” Saki says dryly. “I’d have hated for my efforts to come to naught.”

The tech shoves them to the door. “Go get to your shift, you ass,” he says, but he’s laughing.

---

One of Finn’s old squadmates—Fauna, maybe? Something with ‘F’ and ‘N’ in it, just like ‘Finn’—practically bursts into Rogue Squadron’s quarters. “Phasma’s sparring with your Jedi out near the hangar!”

“Is that important?” one of the pilots (who’d been napping) yawns.

Fauna(?) seems thrown. “Uh. I mean. No one’s going to die if you don’t attend, but people always want to watch Phasma’s spars. She’s really really good at them. They tend to be a hell of a show.”

“Sounds interesting,” Poe offers.

“Also people are setting up betting rings.”

That gets their attention. “10 credits says Rey wins,” Poe’s lieutenant blurts.

“If you’re that sure, I’m sure we’d be happy to take your credits.”

“You’re on.”

Poe follows them out the door, half-jogging to keep up as more and more people join them. Apparently other Devastator troops are spreading the word as well, because there must be twenty people in their group by the time someone yells “Poe!” from across the court.

He turns. “Finn! Finn! Hey Finn!”

“I see ya, I see ya,” he says, running up to Poe and wrapping him up in an eagerly-returned hug. “Was just about to come get you. You headed to the spar?”

“Yeah, your old squadmate told me. Uh. Fauna?”

“Yeah, that’s Fauna.”

“Yeah. Anyways. Uh, I was thinking, do you think we could get dinner tonight? Just us two?” He knows that Finn’s been busy reconnecting with his old squadmates and trying to smooth over relations wherever he can, and he knows it’s no one’s fault, but he still finds himself feeling jealous.

From Finn’s face, he can tell that he gets it. “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s have dinner tonight. Just us.”

“Can’t wait,” he grins, and gives Finn a peck on the cheek.

The sparring area has already drown a crowd, and from the noise it seems like the spar itself is already well underway. Poe hopes Rey’s doing alright. It’s difficult to see over everyone’s heads, so he begins to look around to find somewhere higher up to watch, and spots none other than Kylo Ren perched on top of a ship, back in the shade of the hanger, macrobinoculars in hand.

Huh. Wasn’t he supposed to be avoiding anything and everything Resistance?

Poe hears Rey yelp from the center of the ring. No time to worry about Ren. He manages to get a glimpse of Rey getting up from the ground, an unarmored Phasma waiting for her. Phasma’s face reminds him of that time he saw holos of that Separatist guy—Count Dooku? Not important.

Finn squeezes his hand. “She’s okay. Phasma’s being careful.”

“How can you tell?”

Finn just raises an eyebrow at him.

“…right, right.”

Phasma is being careful, Poe realizes as he gets a better look. Possibly it’s due to her injuries and inability to use bacta. Possibly it’s because she knows hurting Rey, especially with an electrostaff, would cause a massive scandal. Probably it’s due to the gaggle of medics (both Resistance and Devastator) who are looking on with extreme disapproval.

Still, even though she’s being careful, Rey gets thrown back three more times before she finally stays down. “Why can’t I beat you!”

“Probably because you have no idea how to use that thing,” Phasma says matter-of-factly, gesturing to Rey’s lightsaber. “You’re just swinging it around like a hammer. Totally undisciplined. Like Ren throwing a tantrum at a console.”

Finn snickers besides Poe. He’s not the only one.

“Meet with me later.” It’s clear from Phasma’s tone that it’s a command. “We’ll schedule some time to figure out how to properly fight with a lightsaber.”

That must mark the end of the fight. People start dispersing, money starts changing hands, and there are a lot of smiles on Devastator faces. Makes Poe glad he’s not a betting man.

“Hey Finn,” Poe muses as they begin to walk away.

“Yeah?”

“You beat her in a fight once, right? You and Rose?”

He laughs. “Yeah. Although, to be fair, there were extenuating circumstances. Like the ship blowing up around us. Also I think she’d gotten some debris dropped on her head.”

“Yeah, that just might do it.” He leans his head on Finn’s shoulder. “Now, about dinner…”

---

Leia manages to catch Hux before the meeting starts, mostly because Hux is willing to let her. He’s softened up towards her recently. If she were to guess why, then she’d say it would be a combination of her lack of judgment, the successful integration of the Resistance and the crew of the Devastator, and of course stories about Ben as a child, because it turned out that Armitage Hux was a huge gossip.

Speaking of. “I heard Ben came out of his rooms for Rey and Phasma’s spar,” she says, as neutrally as she can manage.

Hux nods. “Oh yes. I told him before the spar started and he nearly panicked.”

“Was he worried for Phasma?”

“Oh no. Phasma’s a beast, she doesn’t need to be worried about. He was worried for Rey.”

Leia doesn’t even try to hide her grin at that. “Was he now? They do seem quite fond of each other.”

“It’s hardly our place to speculate,” Hux adds, wearing a matching grin, “but I do wonder if they might be, well, involved.”

Unfortunately their conversation is cut short by Head Engineer Bez waving Hux back over to his presentation, but that’s probably for the best. The meeting is about to start, and it would be rather embarrassing for Leia to be sporting a shit-eating grin when it does.

“Fellows of the Resistance High Command,” Hux begins when all of the last minute preparations have been finished. “I am pleased to announce that the number of inter-faction incidents has reduced significantly; only seven in the past two weeks, and only one of those in the past seven days. In addition, none of them have been physical altercations.”

Good. Very good. It seems their briefing had worked, or at least that time had helped.

“We will see if this trend continues in the future,” Hux continues. “But now, on to other things…”

EXTRA DELETED SCENE:

Armitage really is grateful for all the Resistance has done for them. It’s thanks to them that he and the crew of the Devastator were even alive, much less clean, well-fed, and healthy. He’s also begun to seriously appreciate General Organa’s experience and lack of ego, two things that had almost always been mutually exclusive in the First Order. Even those who he’d fought with directly treat him with courtesy befitting an ally, if not also more than a little reflexive suspicion.

On the other hand, if they hadn’t accepted the Resistance’s offer for help, he wouldn’t have to deal with Kylo Ren’s moping.

“I don’t want to be around my mom,” he groans.

“I fail to see how that’s my problem.”

“She keeps calling me Ben.”

“Again, I fail to see how that’s my problem.”

“It’s not—she shouldn’t call me that!”

He snorts. “You think my mother calls me General?”

“It’s not the same!”

“How is it not the same? Kylo Ren is your title, yes? And your mother prefers to call you by your name rather than your title. Which is a perfectly normal mother thing to do, by the way,” Armitage says as he gets up and prepares to physically push Ren out of his room. “Go talk to her if her lack of professionalism bothers you so much. Not me.”

“You’re not getting it,” Ren complains. “Ben isn’t my name anymore! I threw it away! I killed the boy that was Ben Solo!”

Ah, so this was more of that idiotic Sith cult shit. “Really? Because it seems to me that the ‘boy that was Ben Solo’ just decided that he wanted to switch sides and get a new name.”

“Ben Solo,” he growls, like some emo-ass teenager taking things way too far, “is dead.”

“Oh, really. If he’s dead, what happened to his body?” Armitage finally gets in position to haul Ren out of his room. “How did he die? Does he have a death certificate? Should we inform General Organa that her son really is gone and the man wearing his face has been committing identity theft for years? Identity theft is not a joke, Ren. Millions of people are financially devastated by it every galactic standard year.”

“Oh my god that’s not what I meant.”

“Then I don’t see what the big deal is,” Armitage declares as he lets Ren fall into a shapeless black mound outside his door. “Also, if you see Phasma around, send her to me. I want her to look over some proposals for co-op training.”

“Fine,” Ren grumbles.

“And get off the floor. You’re going to rumple your clothes.” He thinks he sees the scavenger girl that Ren’s obsessed with out of the corner of his eye, but pays it no mind as he steps back inside to continue his work. There’s no way she’s here for him, anyways.