7. Chapter 7

            Rey’s head jerks, suddenly. She is startled by the sound of Kylo Ren strangling someone yet again.

            As she blinks and moves to sit upright, she realizes that she must have drifted off to sleep, or at least into some sort of reverie. There’s a stiffness to her joints that only comes from sitting in an uncomfortable position for longer than one should. Rey has always known she could sleep anywhere, but she also assumed she had her limits, that “in the personal chambers of her nemesis, wearing only a towel” was one. Apparently not. Maybe everything she’d endured earlier was more physically and mentally taxing than she’d thought.

            She couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two, surely. It must be very early morning now by Galactic Standard Time. And there is Kylo Ren, already fully clothed, choking the life out of someone. The Supreme Leader’s day starts early, then. Or ends late. Somehow, Rey knows he simply didn’t sleep.

            Before Rey can make any move toward helping the person who is kicking their feet out inches above the floor, Kylo glances briefly over his shoulder at her and, upon seeing that she's awake, releases them. They fall, gasping for breath, and Rey sees that they're a young, male, black-clad First Order officer.

            Kylo stands in the doorway, looking down at this officer, his face turned away from Rey. The one hand she can see closes into a fist at his side. “How did this happen?” he growls, and it’s less a question than it is a demand.

            The officer skitters backwards a foot or two before tugging at his collar, remembering to whom he is speaking, and standing. “S-Sir,” he stammers, clearly unsure whether this answer will be satisfactory. “The clothes were missorted by the droid that collected them. They were deemed too filthy to salvage.”

            Rey holds the towel to her chest and leans further forward. That can’t mean what she thinks it means.

            “So the clothes have been…”

            “I-Incinerated, Supreme Leader.” The officer flinches, as if expecting to have his windpipe crushed again.

            Instead, Kylo Ren exhales through his nose, works his jaw. “I see,” he says slowly. “Fetch the prisoner something else to wear. A spare uniform. In the interim.”

            The officer ducks his head. “Right away, sir,” he says. And he makes himself scarce.

            Kylo turns around in the doorway to look at Rey, but she doesn’t meet his eyes this time. Instead, she looks down at her hands, a weight settling in the pit of her stomach. So her clothes are well and truly gone, then. Burnt to a crisp. Among all of the things that might happen on this mission, she hadn’t considered this a possibility and is surprised by how strongly it affects her. Saberstaff aside, her clothes were the only familiar objects she’d brought into enemy territory and the only armor she bothered to wear. Most of her things she had made or altered herself, by hand, with time, thought, and care. And now they’re gone.

            She can feel Kylo’s gaze on her, but can’t quite read his mood. It’s not lecherous or self-satisfied, which it might have been. Surely it would serve his wants to have her locked in his chambers, undressed. Instead, he seems to be studying her, reading the slump of her shoulders or the furrow of her brow. And then he makes a sound that’s something like a soft “hmph,” somehow at once curious and decisive. He comes to sit on the piece of furniture adjacent to hers, one that might have been called a sofa if it was anything more than a hard bench with a back.

            Once seated, Kylo leans forward over his knees and presses a few buttons set into the surface of the table that Rey hadn’t realized were there. He slides aside a panel in the center, revealing a small holoprojector and a second comm unit. He keys into it and says, “Get me Hux.”

            It’s a minute or so, then a small holo of Hux appears hovering above the table, roughly a foot tall. Rey instinctively moves to the side of her chair furthest from the holo, but given Hux’s lack of reaction to her presence, she thinks it likely that he can only see Kylo. She looks at Kylo too, wondering what he’s playing at.

            “Supreme Leader,” Hux says. “We only just spoke.”

            Kylo doesn’t waste any time. “General,” he says. “Where do you buy the clothes that you wear when out of uniform?”

            “I— what?” Hux sputters. “My what?”

            “Your clothes.”

            Hux’s projection frowns deeply. “I don’t think you’ve ever seen me out of uniform.”

            “You’re a man who takes pride in his appearance. Answer the question.”

            Hux opens his mouth, closes it, and then very clearly decides it’ll be easier for everyone involved if he just complies. “I have a tailor,” he says. “Semi-retired. Recently relocated to Canto Bight, of all places. Why?”

            “You’re aboard the Finalizer?”

            “Yes, Leader Ren.”

            “Chart a course for Cantonica and we will rendezvous there.”

            “Wait, what? Why—”

            Kylo terminates the call. Then he makes another, more brief, to the navigator of the Conquest II. And then he turns to look at Rey, who is now staring at him. He seems like he is expecting something.

            “What?” she asks, still processing both conversations that she just witnessed. He can’t possibly be serious. And yet.

            “Clothes,” he says. “You wanted your clothes.”

            “This isn’t—” Her mind is being pulled in a million different directions, and her mouth seizes upon none of them. She closes it, swallows, and tries again. “Are we— are you sending me to go shopping?”

            He blinks at her. “Yes.”

            Rey takes a deep breath. “Those won’t be my clothes,” she says, somewhat impressed with how even her voice sounds. Her other option is “bursting with incredulity,” so even is good given the circumstances. “They’ll just be clothes you’ve bought for me.”

            “I’ll give them to you,” he says. “Gifts. Then they’ll be yours.”

            “What— I— I don’t follow.”

            Kylo apparently doesn’t feel any need to clarify. He stands, stepping around the table, and simply— leaves. He just exits the room, closing the doors behind him, presumably to check on the progress of the navigation to Cantonica. Rey gapes at him as he goes and continues gaping long after he’s gone.

            She had thought, after seeing him interact with Hux before, that the miracle of the First Order was that those two hadn’t killed each other yet. But now, after witnessing him divert a considerable number of ships — the Conquest II always travels with an escort — to a distant corner of the galaxy on a whim, she’s beginning to think that she was wrong.

            The real miracle is that there’s still a First Order at all.

            If the shuttle ride up to the Conquest II had been uncomfortable, the ride down to Cantonica is nigh unbearable, mostly because Rey spends it handcuffed in a small luxury craft sitting nearly knee to knee with Hux.

            To be fair, Hux hadn’t been a fan of this plan either, to the degree that he had actually protested it to Kylo Ren. “Supreme Leader, if you're going to just kill the girl—”

            And how Kylo had glowered at him. Rey was mildly impressed by how he could rearrange his face into a “my orders are not to be questioned” look that, ironically enough, resembled one Leia might wear when she’s in the same mood. From Rey’s experience with Kylo Ren, she wouldn't have thought him capable of shaping his face into any deliberate expression. Either he pushes what he’s feeling down, or he wears it openly. The mask that used to conceal his features was likely a boon to him, not a hindrance. Still, he’s had about three years of experience being Supreme Leader, and that must necessitate looking commanding. Rey had imagined him practicing in front of the mirror in his washroom, and she pressed her lips together to stifle an inappropriate giggle.

            “They say you catch more glitterflies with Dantooine cane syrup.”

            “A philosophy to which, in my experience, you have never subscribed,” Hux said, looking as though a rotten smell had just passed under his nose, “but… understood, Leader Ren. Although, respectfully, I’m not sure this was worth diverting half the fleet.”

            To which Kylo had replied, “If she manages to escape, General, you’ll want the fleet.”

            It’s something of a surprise, therefore, that Hux doesn’t bring a Stormtrooper contingent with them to Cantonica. Then again, Stormtroopers might be somewhat out of place there. Rey has never been to the planet, but both Finn and Rose had told her of Canto Bight, the resort town by an artificial ocean in the middle of a vast desert, and its terrible opulence, its wealthy patrons. Very likely those patrons would be bothered by a Stormtrooper squad showing up to crash their never-ending party.

            She almost wishes he had brought others along, though. Then she’d have more thoughts to listen in on other than just Hux’s and the shuttle pilot’s. She doesn’t particularly want to touch Hux’s mind and sift through the ugly musings on the surface, but feels like she should, for the sake of thoroughness. What else would she do, talk to him?

            Rey could, of course, talk to him, unpalatable though the thought may be. Now alone with him, she could tell him what she threatened to tell him earlier: that Kylo Ren was the one who killed Snoke. But that doesn’t align with her own goals. And besides, Hux might like to hear the truth, but he wouldn’t want to hear it from her. To him she’s rebel scum, worse than nothing, even if she turned out not to be the murderess he thinks. She would also make a terrible witness, given her very clear loyalties elsewhere. In fact, Hux would likely assume that she was lying in order to poison him against his Supreme Leader, which might, ironically, drive him closer to Kylo in standing against her. After all, isn’t the common enemy they share in the Resistance what unites them now? Unless it’s merely fear that keeps Hux in his place...

            She reaches out to his mind to derail her own racing thoughts and, predictably, finds that Hux is fuming. This errand is clearly beneath him; even Rey, who is patently unsympathetic to his ambitions, agrees with that assessment. He’s a General, surely he must have other, more important, duties. Hux personally believes that Kylo Ren is punishing him further for daring to touch her, or maybe testing him to make sure he’s learned his lesson.

            However, it’s evident from even the gentlest probe of his thoughts that Hux isn’t interested in her in any way that Kylo Ren would fear. She is, quite simply, not his type, not because of any of her physical attributes but because — Rey has to suppress another improper giggle at this — she doesn’t wax her body hair and he’s not entirely sure she’s ever used a hairbrush. He wonders loudly how desperate Skywalker must have been to drag Rey out from under whatever desert rock he found her hiding beneath. By the Force. She has to turn her head away and look out the window as they approach planetfall. She really might laugh.

            She should know to quit while she’s ahead, but she doesn’t, because now she’s curious about what someone like Hux does like. What she finds isn’t all that surprising upon reflection, but since Rey hasn’t given much thought to sex beyond its mechanics and how it relates to her personally, she’s shocked. In his leisure time, Hux likes pain. He likes to inflict it. It helps him bleed off some of the humiliation he suffers daily at Kylo Ren’s hands. And he has little respect for his Supreme Leader’s carelessness when administering punishment. Hux would like to think himself more careful, methodical. Pain and sex are both messy by nature but he likes things as neat as possible, regardless of his partner. He likes to be in control. He looks Rey over, and she can sense that he thinks she’d be a very untidy lay. Then again, Ren is defined by his messiness. Perhaps they suit each other.

            Rey pulls back. That’s more than she needs to know about Hux and what he thinks of her. She keeps watching out the window as the glistening city grows larger and larger, until the shuttle bypasses Canto Bight’s primary spaceport entirely and touches down in right front of the massive casino.

            Upon landing, their escort awaits. Rey understands now why Hux didn’t bring an entourage. He doesn’t need one. Not when half a dozen uniformed, armed Canto Bight police officers are waiting to greet them. They flank a female alien with a large, fleshy head and a comparatively small face, clad in a flowing formal gown.

            “Ah,” Hux says, leaning over to peer out Rey’s window. “The Countess. She runs the city, nominally.”

            Rey wants to follow up on that “nominally” remark, but not with Hux. She assumes that Canto Bight may be the same as many other outlying systems, where the actual power rests in the hands of crime lords and cartels. She eyes the officers, standing there with their Relby K-25 blasters in sidearm configuration, their electro-shock prods. She herself is unarmed. Unfavorable odds.

            “Curse Ren for sending us to the single planet where we can’t just threaten the lot of them. Instead, we have to deal with political complications.” Rey silently notes the lack of honorific now that no one he deems important is around to overhear. He opens the binders on her wrists, then inspects her. She could pass for a real officer in her borrowed blue major’s uniform, with her hair tied in a single knot at the nape of her neck. “Let me do the talking. And would it kill you to show some contrition? Is that an expression your face is capable of making, or has he not yet choked it out of you?”

            Rey just meets his eyes with a level stare. He scoffs, but is saved the trouble of having to reply when a chauffeur opens Rey’s door and offers her his hand. She takes it, stepping out into the sunlight. Hux follows, squinting, and out of the corner her eye she sees him slip something into the chauffeur’s glove. He arranges his face into a smile. “Ah, Countess,” he says. “A pleasure to finally meet. You received my missive, then?”

            “General Hux.” The Countess does not seem happy, but she is equally courteous. “It is, of course, an honor. May I ask what brings the First Order to Cantonica? As you know, we are generally left to our own devices here.”

            “A very brief errand, Your Grace, I assure you,” Hux says, and he nearly purrs it, which Rey finds disturbing. Still, this is another reason to keep Hux around, and likely why he’s planetside with her instead of Kylo. She can’t imagine Kylo managing even this strained politeness. She’s a little astonished that Hux can, but, then again, his normal way of doing things is closed off to him. Given how many patrons of the Canto Casino are arms dealers, he's right that he can’t exactly threaten to blast the city off the face of the planet. “We won’t be in your hair— or, well—” He does stumble, briefly, at this, since the Countess has none, just layers of wavy purplish skin. “For more than a couple of hours.”

            The Countess relaxes. “Naturally, you’re both welcome in Canto Bight for as long as you decide to visit.” She inclines her head at Rey, who blinks back. “As per your request, the street in question has been cleared and closed to the public.”

            “Excellent. This… young woman is a very important— guest,” Hux grits out through clenched teeth. “It would be imprudent to allow her to mingle with the common crowds.”

            Imprudent to let her slip away into a crowd, thinks Rey. He isn’t taking any chances with her. It would be on Hux’s head, after all, if she escaped.

            “You must understand that this is a costly disruption, General,” says the Countess.

            “Oh, I do,” replies Hux, who, of course, would rather be anywhere else in the galaxy and allows some of his own displeasure to seep into his voice. “But everyone involved, including the members of your esteemed security force, will be well-compensated for the trouble. And for their discretion.”

            For a moment Rey can’t believe her ears, until she realizes that bribery in broad daylight is probably one of the least objectionable things Armitage Hux has ever done. The Countess is unperturbed. This must be the way of things in Canto Bight.

            “To that end,” Hux continues, “I’ll need at least two officers with her at all times, to make certain she doesn’t wander off. And if they could lower the shock setting on those prods a touch — I won’t hear the end of it if she’s burned.”

            “That shouldn’t be a problem,” says the Countess, who, to her credit, does frown slightly. “But, General, is there anything that can be done about that?” She looks up at the sky, as does Rey. The very conspicuous bat-like silhouette of the Conquest II hangs above them all. “It disturbs the fathiers. And the racetrack’s guests.”

            “Really? I shouldn’t think so. One must imagine they take some pride in what they built.” Hux chuckles to himself, and then he turns to Rey. She watches him struggle for a moment while he figures out how to address her in front of others. “You,” he snarls at last. “Come with me.”

            “No more dresses,” Rey says firmly, for about the third time.

            She stands in the center of a small circular dias in the middle of the tailor’s shop, having a frankly dizzying array of clothing holos projected upon her body. Hux’s tailor, an elderly, bespectacled Devaronian in a very stylish overcoat, had explained that this would help her see what might suit her. Rey understands the theory, although in practice flipping through all of the different styles makes her head spin. She’s never had so many wardrobe options to choose from, especially not so many that were totally impractical. For the last few minutes, all of the offerings have somehow been dresses or skirts.

            Hux, who sits in a chair overseeing this process while sipping Tartine tea from a thermos he brought along, scoffs. “What do you think you’re going to be doing up there that you couldn’t do in a dress?”

            “I’ve never worn a dress in my life,” Rey retorts. “What benefit could a dress possibly have over trousers?”

            Easy access, Hux very clearly thinks but does not say aloud. Rey’s eyes widen, and when he smirks into his thermos she realizes that he thought it deliberately. But of course he did. He must be aware that if Kylo Ren reads minds, she can do the same. Rey breathes out through flared nostrils and modifies her opinion of Hux very slightly.

            Hux does say, “I’m not here to see you dressed to your specifications.”

            “The Supreme Leader said that these were to be my clothes,” says Rey, gambling that Hux’s fear of displeasing Kylo Ren will outweigh his distaste for them both. “Not his, not yours, but mine.”

            “Well, Ren can take that ridiculous notion and shove it—” Hux catches himself and exhales. “Fine. No more dresses.”

            That restriction established, Rey has no trouble settling on a pair of high-waisted black trousers that the tailor says they will produce for her in duplicate. They’re form-fitting, and appear to be made of a stiffer material than trousers she would normally wear, but they’re better by far than the skirts. As soon as she makes her choice, two spindly-armed tailor droids at the back of the shop begin whirring about, taking bolts of fabric from the wall and slicing them up with sheer-like appendages.

            She begins skimming through the selection of tops, next. Structure is in style, the tailor assures her. Rey couldn’t give a happabore’s ass about what’s stylish, but it very much seems to dictate her options. She tries to work quickly, well aware that Hux is not a creature of infinite patience and not desiring to spend too much time on Cantonica herself, but none of the clothing choices really suit her. Too many dark colors, too many dense, synthetic fabrics unlike the woven, breathable materials she would usually choose for herself.

            Then she stumbles upon something different, something she outright gawks at. It’s a long white top, a breath of fresh air, but that’s not what strikes her. Across the front, starting from each shoulder — of course the shoulders must still have the strange padding that the other tops bear — and attaching at the opposite hips are crosspieces made of a sort of gauze, not unlike the ones Rey would wear, has worn historically. Of course, hers are functional and these are decorative, but it doesn’t matter. She brings her hands up to the holo as if she could touch it.

            “Ah,” says the tailor, squinting at the top through his spectacles. “Yes, this style has become increasingly popular in the last year or so. Personally, I believe gauze lends an elegance—”

            “Absolutely not,” Hux interjects.

            Of course she should have expected resistance. She jerks her chin up and puffs air out of her cheeks. “Why?”

            “I’m not going to send you back up there wearing white. It’s absurd. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” And besides, he thinks, you don’t get to pretend you’re some sort of innocent.

            Rey gives him a look that could wither grass. “I already told you. I’m not concerned about any of that.”

            “No, of course you’re not,” he snaps. “You think Ren wants you to get your way. But he has tastes too, as inexplicable as they may be.” He says this while giving her a pointed once-over. “I’m not coming back down here if he decides something in your wardrobe is lacking or needs to be replaced. I’m sorry to say, white is definitely not in the cards for you.”

            “You’d have me in black, then?”

            “I would.” He thinks for a moment. “I suppose dark blue is also permissible. Red is a stretch, but it might flatter your coloring. And that’s all.”

            Rey scowls, feeling these suggestions like a physical itch just under the surface of her skin. She glances at the tailor and knows he will defer to Hux, an established customer. And the most unfortunate thing is that on its face, the advice isn’t bad. Adapting to inhospitable environments is the key to survival; Rey knows that very well from lived experience. She just doesn’t want to acquiesce to Hux.

            She flips through the next few holos until she finds something else she likes, tunic that’s structured around the torso but has soft, flexible sleeves. It’s dark gray. She turns to Hux and stares at him. “Is dark gray acceptable to you?”

            “One,” Hux grits out. “You get one dark gray thing.”

            “Fine.”

            “Fine.” Hux mutters something very unkind under his breath, which Rey magnanimously ignores.

            She doesn’t spend the rest of the virtual fitting thinking about what other people would want her to wear, but contextualizing herself among the rest of the First Order leads her to make choices she wouldn’t normally make. It doesn’t help that high necklines and rigid silhouettes seem to be in fashion in the galaxy these days, either. She chooses a couple of tunics with diagonal closures instead of ones with straight hems, and gravitates toward styles that flare slightly at the waist or at least afford her a little flexibility for movement. One of the tunics she selects has a short cape attached, which she finds both an amusing and distressing reminder of how much influence Kylo exerts in this galaxy, even on something as incongruous with his priorities as fashion.

            Rey also chooses one high-necked leather coat — it’s cold on the Conquest II — that Hux very nearly approves with a nod. The tailor agrees to cut her a few sleeveless shirts to layer under her purchases, and then she’s free to step down from the dias. She shakes her limbs out with a frown, feeling as though for forty-five minutes she’d been a statue, not a person.

            “It’ll be a rush job,” says the tailor. “Obviously, the droids will do the bulk of the work and they’ll be under my supervision, but these garments will lack my… personal touch.”

            “That’s perfectly acceptable, in this case,” Hux says, standing. “The quicker the better. Finesse is not the aim here.”

            Rey glances toward the back of the shop, at where the droids, setting about their designated tasks, are merely a blur of spindly limbs, loops of thread, and flying fabric scraps. She finds the sight incredibly disconcerting for reasons she doesn't quite understand.

            “Return in an hour and a half for the final fittings,” the tailor says.

            “Excellent.” Hux turns to frown at Rey. “Then I suppose you need... shoes.”

            Rey imagines doing this all over again and stifles a groan.

            Thankfully, Hux opts not to wait with her in the cobbler’s boutique. He instead steps out sans explanation, leaving her guarded by the requisite two Canto Bight police officers who dutifully wait for her outside the shop. Rey suspects that Hux needs something stronger than tea in order to get through this day.

            The cobbler and her assistant are polite to Rey, although she senses an irritation from them that probably stems from the blockade of the street outside chasing off all other potential customers. Rey also suspects it’s because she doesn’t show an interest in purchasing more than one pair of shoes, and she keeps insisting that she wants flat boots without heels, which limits her options considerably in this particular store.

            Reluctantly, she’s persuaded into buying two different pairs of boots: one short pair that comes up to her ankles, another longer pair that ends just below her knees and features a one-and-a-half-inch heel that’s wide enough for Rey to feel like she won’t fall over. Even though she’s not paying for these, she can’t quite wrap her head around buying more shoes, spending more of the First Order’s money out of spite. Excess is antithetical to who she is.

            Rey drinks from a vaguely fruit-flavored glass of water that the assistant offered her as the cobbler measures her feet with a strange apparatus. This is necessary to custom fit sole inserts that will cushion her every step, the cobbler claims — something Rey assures her is unnecessary, since her feet are extremely unaccustomed to luxury. It occurs to Rey that although the police are standing outside, she’s been left very unguarded for the time being.

            She’ll have to stage an escape attempt, she realizes. It would seem strange if she didn’t. Hux knows she’s not that beaten down just yet, and he’s given her an opening. It might be a test.

            The way for her to slip by the officers unnoticed is all too clear. As she pulls her own shoes back on, she briefly closes her eyes and reaches out to their minds. They don’t know who she is, and they aren’t expecting any tricks. She plants a small, intrusive seed of a thought in each of their heads: the sound of a scuffle, from the far side of the block, behind a corner. A female voice, her voice, shouting, “Oi!”

            She feels them looking at each other. One asks the other, “Did you hear that?”

            “Get your hands off me,” she whispers. They both hear it as if coming from a distance.

            “How did she get down there?” asks one officer, hand seeking his blaster.

            “Call it in, we need to check it out.”

            They take off running, and Rey stands up and exits the boutique unnoticed through the front door.

            This presents its own problems. The street outside is empty. Hux saw to that. There’s very little in the way of cover, and additional officers posted at each end. Of course, this would only be an issue if Rey were intent on staying covert, on actually escaping. And she isn’t. So she spies an alleyway diagonally across the street and makes a break for it, unobscured, in the late day sun.

            Naturally, she attracts attention. And now comes the part that isn’t fun.

            “Hey!” shouts an officer from the near end of the street — one minding the blockade, not one assigned to guard her. “You! Stop!”

            Rey does not stop, but she does drop to the ground and tuck herself into a somersault to avoid the inevitable volley of blaster fire that follows. This uniform does not allow much freedom of movement, so it’s not a comfortable maneuver, and in the process she loses her cap, but she manages to make it into the alley without being stunned. Barely.

            She presses herself up against the alley wall and listens to the sound of three approaching sets of footsteps. She knows that she is at a distinct disadvantage here, not just because she’s unarmed, but because she’s smaller and lighter than any of the officers coming for her. This is why she doesn’t usually fight hand to hand. Her staff did a good job at keeping combatants at a distance; the saberstaff works even better. Still, she must work with what she has, which is herself and the element of surprise. It’s not like she has to keep them busy for long.

            When the first officer rounds the corner, Rey takes the initiative and strikes him, bringing up an elbow to smash his nose. Strange that these police helmets leave the face so unprotected. He staggers back, clutching at it, and Rey ducks low to try to catch the second officer with a blow to the kidney.

            He jumps out of the way, so it’s a miss, but he doesn’t manage to get his hands on her, either. The third officer does, wrenching her arm behind her back and jamming his electro-shock prod into her side.

            Every muscle in Rey’s body tenses, screams, then goes absolutely limp. The shock doesn't render her unconscious, but it’s more than strong enough to stun her. She falls to the cobblestones with a groan. Sensation begins returning to her fingertips, her toes, but that’s not sufficient to get her up and her fighting. This was probably not worth it, even if it did feel sinfully good to elbow someone in the face after all that she personally has been through.

            The unharmed officers each take one of her arms and pull her up off the street, while the third staggers behind, holding his nose and scowling. Rey spies a figure in a black coat up the street, just waiting. Not Kylo Ren, which is what she initially thinks in her delirium. That wouldn’t make any sense. When the officers had called in her feigned scuffle, someone must have alerted Hux. They drag Rey over, although she “tries” to jerk out of their grasp, and push her down to her knees in front of him.

            Hux, for the first time today, looks absolutely delighted. “Huh,” he sneers. “You know, I really expected more of a fight out of you.”

            And then he backhands her, just like he did in Kylo Ren’s bedchamber. It cuts through the heavy numbness that tingles through her body and wakes her up. She raises her head to glare at him, one of the most withering glares she’s ever leveled at anyone. That’s all the excuse he needs to do it again, this time taking an open palm to her other cheek. Hard.

            “You’ll pay for this,” she hisses, once she recovers.

            “Will I? I haven’t left a mark on you.” Hux says it with the confidence of someone who’s either doled out this punishment or been on the receiving end of it innumerable times. He bends over at the waist to look into her eyes. “Oh, you’re thinking of telling Ren. You can’t be serious.”

            Rey spits in his face. He recoils.

            “Augh—” He straightens up to wipe her saliva off with a leather-gloved hand. “You little mongrel. And here I was, prepared to cut a deal.”

            “A deal,” Rey says flatly. “There’s no way I would ever agree to anything that comes out of your mouth.”

            “That’s too bad,” says Hux. “I was going to make you such a generous offer. Because you see—” And he leans back down again, to condescend. “If I inform him of your little escape attempt, you’ll wish you had only been slapped. But if you say nothing about my raising a hand to you…”

            “I didn’t say he’d make you pay,” Rey says, jerking her chin up at him. “I will.”

            “Ha!” It’s a sharp bark of laughter. “We’ll just see about that.” He nods at the officers, who pull her to her feet, and then he takes her bicep in his hand, not gently, and begins pulling her away. “Come along. We have one more store to patronize.”

            “We have everything we came for.”

            “You are not the person who makes those decisions,” Hux says. He walks quickly, and Rey’s legs aren’t entirely recovered from her stunning just yet. She stumbles on the cobblestone street, just once, trying to keep up with him. She knows that this isn’t really about her. For whatever reason, she’s important to Kylo Ren, whom Hux deplores. He just can’t take it out on Kylo as easily as he thinks he can on her, in her current position.

            He has no idea how much she could make him suffer.

            They draw up to a boutique toward the opposite end of the street. The sign above it, written in a curly, formal variant of Aurebesh that Rey has to squint at to decipher, reads Ordula’s, which is not very helpful. Then again, this store doesn’t really need any further description. The mannequins in the windows — a variety of bodies, humanoid and otherwise, in all shapes and sizes, clad in only the most elaborate and ornate underthings that Rey has ever seen — do most of the talking.

            “This is where I should have brought you first,” Hux remarks. “I’m not so sure you have need of those other clothes at all.”

            Rey whips her head around and stares at him.

            “Oh, what?” he asks. “Surely you’re past the point of being precious about it now. We both know why he’s keeping you alive, and it isn’t so he can make you talk. It’s so he can make you sing.”

            “You know far less than you think,” Rey snarls.

            Hux is unfazed. “As I said, I don’t want to have to make more than one trip if he decides something’s missing from your wardrobe.” He releases her arm with a shove toward the door. “Go on.”

            Rey staggers forward a couple of steps, wanting desperately to scream, or cry hot, angry tears, or punch something. He’s a good target, Hux, standing there so very self-satisfied in his impeccable First Order uniform. Never once in the past day has she felt as close to snapping as she does right now.

            She doesn’t, though. She doesn’t lash out. Not because doing so would open that door to the Dark, although it would, or blow her cover of powerlessness, which it also would. She doesn’t retaliate only because she knows he’d like it if she did. It would give him another excuse to try and inflict the sense of powerlessness and impotence he feels in the presence of Kylo Ren upon her. She won’t grant him that. That would be the very worst thing she could do to herself.

            Drawing a deep breath, Rey puts her hand on the doorknob and turns it.

            She opens the door to the shop and it feels like she’s entered another universe entirely, one that exists through a lens of pink and gold and cream. When she crosses the threshold, she steps through a sensor beam that sounds a chime. Two female Twi’lek look up from the front counter. Rey has met a few Twi’lek before, although she hasn’t spent much time with any singular one, but she knows their reputation for beauty and grace and thinks it fitting that they should be the faces of a shop like this one. That probably gets a lot of customers aspiring to such beauty and grace through the door.

            One of the women is young, the Twi’lek equivalent of Rey’s age, with green skin and long headtails — lekku, they’re called. She blinks at Rey, her mouth open, as if Rey had caught her mid-sentence. The other... well, at second glance, she may not be fully Twi’lek at all. Her skin is a light blue, but her ears aren’t as pointed as Twi’lek women’s ears typically are, and her lekku are slightly shorter. She is also not as tall and lean as a typical Twi’lek, or at least not the ones Rey had glimpsed dancing in the occasional holovid sold and resold from greedy eye to greedy eye on Jakku, which she realizes is probably not representative of the entire species. This part-Twi’lek woman has wide hips and a full bosom; she appears middle-aged, and, like her younger counterpart, is utterly entrancing.

            Rey is immediately at a loss, because she doesn’t believe she possesses much natural magnetism. She feels much too awkward to be in this shop which sells fancy underthings, and her pride still stings from the conversation with Hux just moments before. But she straightens, recovers what dignity she can, and says, “Hello. I’m looking to purchase—”

            The older Twi’lek, the one who might be part-human, says something rapidly in Twi’leki, a language that Rey isn’t quite fluent enough in to follow, to her younger counterpart. Rey watches her lekku move with the sounds that come out of her mouth. Then they both look at Rey again.

            Rey clears her throat. “Sorry, I’m looking for—”

            “I know exactly what you need,” says the older Twi'lek woman, this time in Galactic Basic. “Follow me to the back. Dessa, mind the front.”

            Dessa nods, staring at Rey a moment longer before busying herself with straightening a nearby display. Rey passes her and goes with the other woman, who leads her past rectangular racks of garments ranging from glittery and shiny to semi-translucent and barely-there to a series of fitting rooms separated from the wider shop by velvety curtains. She pulls a curtain back for Rey, then steps inside after her.

            “I can change on my own,” Rey says stiffly. “Thank you.”

            The woman shakes her head. “My name is Nara Ordula,” she says. “This is my shop. And I will be taking care of you today.”

            She raises her hands in front of her chest, and Rey notices that she wears at least one ring on each of her fingers. She reaches over and adjusts the one on the index finger of her right hand, one that appears to be a bright blue gemstone, and the gemstone flickers and fades — a hologram — revealing the Resistance emblem behind it.

            “I know who you are, young Jedi,” says Nara Ordula.

            “Oh,” says Rey, immediately relieved but a little suspicious. She reaches out through the Force to read Ordula’s intent, and when she finds her to be telling the truth, she lets out an audible exhale. Some of the tension ebbs from her shoulders. “That’s— that’s not at all what I was expecting.”

            “You must have heard that the General’s gone to great lengths to cultivate her spy network,” Ordula prompts.

            “Of course. I just haven’t met many spies personally.” And for some reason, she expected something… different. Something other than a woman running a store that sells fancy undergarments. “And I- didn’t think I’d find one in Canto Bight, of all places. It seems like everyone here would be content so long as the First Order stays out of their business.”

            “Ah, well. Eyes and ears everywhere,” says Ordula offhandedly. “Besides, the First Order has increased taxes on my imports threefold. I know no love for them.”

            For some reason, this sits uneasily with Rey. Surely the Resistance should be about more than just personal gain, or personal grudges? But Ordula notices, and she smiles. “Oh, young Jedi,” she says, chuckling. “We can’t all be idealists. That is something you should make peace with. But yes, there is more to my reasoning than that, although all you need to know is that I’ve no desire to see anything like the Empire reinstated in this galaxy.”

            Rey nods, satisfied. “That’s fair enough. Do you… know why I’m here?”

            “Not exactly, but I have a guess.” Ordula nods in the direction of the front of the shop, where, Rey realizes, Hux must still be standing outside the door, waiting impatiently for her to be fitted.

            “Ah, no.” Rey can’t help but laugh, finally. It’s so ridiculous, to think she’d somehow instated herself as Hux’s lover! Through what, a mind trick? Ludicrous. She can barely stomach a five-minute conversation with the man.

            She laughs, and laughs, so hard that she feels her eyes sting. Maybe it’s the sheer comfort of finding an ally in this unexpected place after being surrounded entirely by foes that threatens to overwhelm her. She composes herself quickly and shakes her head. “No, not him, no. He believes I’m a prisoner. But I do— have some need for what you’re selling.”

            “A prisoner. Hm.” Ordula looks her over, lips pressed together in a smile. “But you’re not.”

            “I know what I’m doing,” says Rey. Saying that aloud, she finds that she still truly believes it. She came here with a clear purpose, and she hasn’t yet lost it. She hasn't yet lost herself, either. All she needed was a little room to breathe to remember that. She repeats herself with more certainty. “I know what I’m doing.”

            Ordula’s smile broadens. “Good. I’ll need to take your measurements, and I prefer to do so the old-fashioned way. If you wouldn’t mind removing that jacket, you can leave your underclothes on. Don’t be shy — I’ve seen everything.”

            “I’m sure,” says Rey, who is more than happy to remove the major’s jacket she’d been given earlier, even if in doing so she reveals the standard-issue First Order undergarments underneath. “Running a shop like this…” She trails off, unsure of where she’s going with that. She can’t actually imagine what running a shop like this is like.

            “I’ve seen more bodies, and more types of bodies, than you can count,” says Nara Ordula, completing the thought for her. “And I have fitted them all. Hold your arms out from your sides, please.”

            When Rey complies, extending her arms, Ordula wraps a thin strip of cloth over her bust, then just under her breasts, making a note of how the tick marks align with each other. As she repeats this process around Rey’s waist, she clicks her tongue. “Such a small waist,” she says, “So slight. But strong. Well-muscled. Have you ever heard the story of Princess Leia and the Golden Chain? I think of a body like yours. Slight, strong.”

            Rey forces a smile, awkwardly. She’s not sure how she feels about that comparison. “I always thought that was a very disrespectful legend, even when I first heard it as a girl.”

            Ordula scoffs as she measures Rey’s hips. “And why so? It’s a tale of how she was underestimated by her captor, of how she turned a great disadvantage into an opportunity. It reflects very well on her, and very poorly on Jabba the Hutt, who made the grave mistake of seeing her only for her beauty.”

            Rey frowns. “I never thought about it that way. But isn’t it sort of meant to be a… a titillating story?”

            “Depends on who is doing the telling.” Ordula wraps the cloth around the widest part of Rey’s hips. “My people — the women in particular — have been subject to many humiliations throughout our history, during the time of the Empire but also the age of the old Republic. To tell the story of Leia the Huttslayer is to renew hope that someday all our slavers and oppressors may meet their ends choked by the chains they bound us with.”

            Rey is quiet for a moment.

            “I’ve never met her personally,” Ordula continues. “I’m curious, have you ever asked her what she thinks of the whole thing?”

            “Well,” says Rey, actually flushing a bit, “in the version I heard, she wasn’t allowed any clothing at all save the chain. So, no. I haven't brought it up.”

            “Ha!” Ordula actually throws her head back and laughs. Rey watches her in the fitting room’s floor-to-ceiling mirror, wondering what’s so funny. “Oh, young Jedi. No, no. What she actually wore, we sell out of every year, despite our dear Supreme Leader trying to have them all melted down. Perhaps even because of it.” She winks, then looks Rey over again. “In fact…”

            “I think we should probably stay well away from that,” Rey says quickly.

            “Of course,” Ordula says. “I know exactly what you need. Wait here.”

            She exits through the curtain, leaving Rey alone with her thoughts for a good few minutes. Rey replays the story of Leia — the Huttslayer — in her head. It doesn’t make her think of Kylo Ren, who she knows isn’t drawn to her for her looks. No, she thinks instead of Hux, who had spent the day dragging her around and batting her about like some sort of plaything, who has no idea how lucky he is that she’s concealing her true strength. Maybe she could make that serve her needs for some future reckoning. That wasn’t an option she had considered until Ordula brought it up.

            Rey is somewhat stunned by how it feels to have a true conversation with someone, even a stranger, wearing no masks or pretenses, making no mental calculations. How intensely she wishes she could speak to Finn, if only for just a few minutes. Finn would certainly appreciate hearing how much Kylo and Hux loathe each other, although Rey would have to omit the details of how she came to know what she knows. He’d smile, and put his hand on her shoulder and squeeze it, saying he can’t believe how she put up with all that, that if it were him he’d have been scrambling for the exit the second he stepped foot on the Conquest II.

            That’s not true, of course. Finn is still braver and more committed than he’ll ever admit to himself. If he had a mission, one of utmost importance to Resistance, he’d see it through to the end. Just like she will. She puts her hand on her own shoulder and squeezes, closing her eyes, and she imagines returning to the Vigilance and telling Finn that she’d been to Canto Bight, and that it was, in fact, a wretched place. Finn’s probably due here himself in a few days — somewhere in this city, there’s a Force-sensitive child. They might turn this trip into something to laugh about later, the peculiarity of how, even with the galaxy being as vast as it is, they just barely missed each other.

            When Ordula returns, she has a number of garments laid over her arms. She holds one out to Rey; it’s much less ostentatious than anything on the displays Rey had gawked at. Just straps that cross in the back and slightly padded cups to cover her breasts. “For shape and support,” Ordula says. “Out of curiosity, what is it you normally wear?”

            “Nothing like this,” Rey says, pressing the pad of her thumb into the cup and frowning. “I usually just bind them. It’s efficient and keeps everything out of the way.”

            “Oh, young Jedi,” Ordula sighs. “Then today you’ll discover a new galaxy.”

            Trying on undergarments while knowing she has to go back up to the Conquest II in a very short while and face Kylo Ren should feel anything but fun, and yet somehow it is. This is the one shop where Rey truly feels like she has some say in what she will and won’t get to take with her, which helps. But Nara Ordula herself makes all of the difference. She’s a breezy conversationalist and a more than adept salesperson, possessing an incredible depth of knowledge of the physics of underthings, a field Rey had no idea even existed. She affords Rey moments of privacy to change, although if asked she enters to help with the magnetic clasps that fasten so many of the pieces together. She assures Rey that she will get the hang of them eventually.

            Some of the garments she brings forth are plain, and some have extra ties and ribbons that wrap around Rey’s ribcage or criss-cross over her back, but none of the choices are too uncomfortable or too restrictive, and none have glitzy stones or other ornamentation. Rey marvels at how well Ordula has read her tastes.

            “I think I understand,” Rey says, pulling a translucent, trailing green robe over her shoulders, “why you must be a very good spy.”

            “Oh?” Ordula plucks at the robe, straightening it, making small adjustments that help it settle on Rey’s body. “You flatter me. Why is that?”

            “The intimacy of all this,” Rey says, looking down at her robed form as she works at the ties in the front. “I mean, the nature of your profession. You must hear so much.”

            In the mirror, she can see Ordula grinning at her. “It’s true,” she says. “I’m in most of the bedchambers on Canto Bight, and a good few of the ones on that monstrosity the First Order calls a flagship.” A sigh. “Boys and their toys.”

            “Really? You’ve heard about— goings on on the First Order flagship?”

            “Gossip knows no bounds. I can even tell you what happens in Kylo Ren’s bed.”

            Rey freezes. “What happens,” she says, voice flat, as an icy chill runs down her spine. It would be too soon for anyone to have heard about what had transpired between them, wouldn’t it? But that would mean— no, that’s not possible. She had been his first, too. Hadn’t she?

            Ordula misinterprets her look, throws her head back, and laughs. “Oh, I know,” she says. “I don’t like to think about it either. We’re both lucky that there’s actually nothing to contemplate.”

            “There’s… nothing.” Rey blinks. “You mean nothing goes on?”

            “That’s right,” Ordula says, nodding. “And I would know. I’ve seen several young women in this very fitting room, aspiring courtesans and consorts with wealthy sponsors who want to curry his favor.”

            Rey stares into the mirror, incredulous. “These sponsors think sending him women will do that?”

            “Or men and otherwise, I’d assume, although I’ve personally outfitted only women. Don’t underestimate the value of companionship, especially to people in positions of power. It’s lonely at the top.” Ordula gestures for Rey to remove the robe and holds out another for her to try, this one in red with a few more frills. “But Kylo Ren is notoriously unpredictable in all things. People keep trying to guess at his desires, hoping one day they’ll hit the mark and win him over. So far, no one’s found the formula.”

            “There’s a formula?” Rey asks. She feels like this is the closest she’s come to really talking about what’s happening to her with anyone, despite Ordula’s ignorance of the nature of her mission. Even Poe and Leia had danced around these particular facets of her mission. Companionship seems like a delicate way to put it. Then again, hadn’t she had that thought about active listening?

            “There always is,” says Ordula, as Rey hangs the green robe back up and takes the red one, frowning at it. It’s much shorter, but she starts tugging it on anyway. “It’s never just about sex, either. Of course, it does vary — everyone has preferences. But no one knows his. Beauty? Any one of the women I’ve seen hoping to attract his attention would have turned heads on the street. Intelligence? In that profession, it’s a necessity. They’ve all been quick-witted, save Prinna. That girl. Very sweet. Utterly hopeless.” She sighs, then says, “I must be boring you.”

            “Oh, no,” Rey says, perhaps a little too quickly. “You aren’t.”

            Ordula straightens out one of Rey’s sleeve-ruffles. “Temperament matters, but a man with his reputation is in no position to make demands. Proximity to power is a possibility, but I know at least one of those women has connections to planetary nobility. She may have been a duchess, or nearly a duchess. And then strength.” She smooths a wrinkle out of Rey’s other sleeve. “The most difficult to measure. Still, you must think that anyone who volunteers to put up with his infamous tantrums has a backbone, or at least enough ambition to compensate.”

            “Yes,” Rey says quietly. “You must.”

            “And yet, so far, he hasn’t taken the bait. He must be choosy. Unless, of course, it’s a tenet of his beliefs.” Ordula tries to catch Rey’s eye in the mirror, as if she and she alone could confirm or deny this. “But they call him the Jedi Killer. I thought he would eschew the old ways.”

            Rey avoids Ordula’s eyes by looking down at the robe. “You said nothing happens. So he just doesn’t accept them? These… people who are sent to him?”

            “Turns them away without a second glance.”

            “Huh.”

            “And then they come back here to return their purchases, unworn, every time. That’s how I know.” The red robe has some sort of waist cinch at the back that needs adjusting. Ordula pulls at it idly. “One of these days, mark my words, someone will catch his eye. He’s a young man in possession of an army, and his blood runs hot. It’s a universal truth that he must want for a partner.”

            “He might drop dead before he can find one,” Rey mutters.

            “We can only hope.” Ordula slips Rey another smile. This one might be knowing, or simply sly. “I think the green one suits you better,” she says, eyeing the red robe with some distaste. “Don’t you agree?”

            And so it continues, with Ordula sorting her selections into “purchase” and “discard” stacks. Rey finds her favorite set, by far, near the end. The top is black, and mostly comprised of some sheer netting material save for a band of opaque fabric right over the center of her breasts that keeps her covered. Under the band are those molded cups again, but they aren’t too obtrusive this time. The top clasps just behind her neck as well as under her shoulder blades, leaving much of her back exposed. Still, it feels secure, possibly because it ends at her lower ribs and is slightly longer than the other ones she’s tried. The matching, solid black shorts sit well below her navel, but they cover her completely to her mid-upper thighs.

            Rey examines herself in the mirror, but not for too long. Clothing has never been about appearance for her, but about functionality. She likes how she feels that she can move in this, breathe in this, how it would be easy, once she got the hang of those magnetic clasps, to put it on and take it off. She also likes how, despite the slight amount of decorative shaping, the top seems more determined to keep her breasts firmly in place than to show them off.

            Still, these clinging dark underthings are a reasonably fresh concept to her; she’d always worn soft, light fabric on Jakku, and despite changing up her outer garments over the years she never really thought about adjusting what she wore underneath. Some of the other underthings she’s already picked are sandy beige, in defiance of Hux’s decree in the tailor’s shop. She doesn’t mind this piece being black, but she thinks she might as well try her luck.

            “Do you have it in any other colors?” she asks.

            Ordula chuckles. “Where you’ll be, young Jedi,” she says, peering over Rey’s shoulder at her reflection, “we both know you’ll want to wear black.”

            The way she says this could not be any more different from the suggestion Hux had made before. It's as if she and Rey are sisters-in-arms, as if they share a terrible but exciting secret. Rey turns her head, and she realizes then that Ordula does know, must know, had come to know over the course of their conversation what Rey’s purpose is here. She had either been too polite or too discreet to pry, but she knows. Replaying their interaction, it’s obvious: the interest Rey had taken in Kylo Ren’s preferences, or how, before that, she’d said “No, not him” to the implication she was sleeping with Hux, or the simple act of arriving with an elite First Order escort to an store that sells undergarments. Ordula makes a good spy, and Rey realizes belatedly that she herself would make a very, very bad one.

            She swallows, and her mouth opens to offer some excuse or justification, but Ordula shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips. Some things, after all, are better left unspoken.

            Then she leans forward, and she whispers, “Make him choke.”