The Alpha speaks â interrupts â and Kyloâs blood boils. For a moment, he sees nothing but red. How dare he? How dare he? Rage licks its way through him like a living flame, searing, undeniable. Outrage on Huxâs behalf, outrage on his own behalf. The manâs tone drips with a false idea of superiority, as if he were somehow better purely by right of birth, purely because of his designation. What did this man have that Hux did not? That Kylo did not? Was he a brilliant tactician? A deadly Force wielder? He was neither â he was nothing, just a privileged fool in possession of a knot.Â
  A privileged fool speaking over the General, speaking of him as if he were a piece of meat, a toy; a plaything he bargained for, bought for a trifle when Hux was but a child. Anakin Skywalker had been born a slave, and it had been those stories of his grandfather he had heard first â those years of bondage that he had been freed from, whereas others were not so lucky. Does he feel challenged by Kyloâs presence? Is that why he postures and preens, why he grabs the General hard enough to bruise him? Even the thought has his anger stoked higher, and his fingers curl into fists to keep himself still, lest he follow instinct and reach out, grab the manâs wrist, and remove his hand from the Generalâs shoulder.Â
   âSeventy tonnes of platinum.â
  Kyloâs voice carries no inflection â flat, almost disbelieving. A paltry amount; oh, he is not such a fool as to think that no price could be placed to show the worth of a man â and indeed, seventy tonnes of platinum would be more than enough for most â but he believes the General all but priceless. Even in their bickering, even in their most furious of arguments â even then, seventy tonnes of platinum is not enough. Though, were he to be asked, Kylo himself could not name a price that would be adequate.Â
  When he speaks, his voice is low, and there is an odd stillness inside of him. He recognizes it as the eye of a storm â he had withstood through the first press of it, he had held himself steady, he had not lashed out. But there is only so much he can stand. There will be repercussions. He is certain of that; but he cannot restrain himself. He moves in front of Hux, between him, and the imposing Alpha. He grabs the manâs wrist in a vice grip, forcing it from Huxâs shoulder with a chest-deep growl.
   âNo, Marquess. More platinum will not nearly suffice. I am afraid I must demand a steeper price of you.â
  His transgressions against Hux, and against Kyloâs pride could not be soothed with platinum, or credits â Kylo would need blood. The Marquess is not even worth demanding a duel of. Kyloâs hand drops to his saber, and in a flash of brilliant red, the weapon ignites, crackling through air and flesh alike. Even the smell of searing flesh cannot make it through his maskâs filters. None of this had been planned. None of it is within their mission parameters. They cannot afford this sort of social attention at the moment, not with their image still recovering. But there is hatred burning through him, and in one smooth, deadly arc, the saber carves upwards. The man seems almost aghast at being killed â but Kylo feels nothing but satisfaction as he stumbles, grabbing at already cauterized wounds as if he could seal himself back together.
      { â } Before he can even register his actions, Hux rushes to his alphaâs side, knees against the cool tile, pressing his hands against that deep, searing wound as if he had the power to do anything - anything - at that moment except to sit back in helplessness and horror.
      ...He actually whimpered - a pathetic, distinctly omegan sound. Fear and distress.Â
      By all means, he shouldnât have even cared. Perhaps it was merely instinct: an omegaâs drive to nurse his alpha back to health. ...Or perhaps it was nothing more than the anxiety of losing access to the marquessâs platinum mines, or perhaps of soiling the Orderâs reputation - and beyond the point of no return, this time. After all, the marquess was an influential man, one who had supported the Orderâs endeavors for over twenty years. To be cut down in a fit of rage by one of its soldiers, by the Master of the Knights of Ren, of all people, would cost them dearly from both their finances and their social support. A rabid, militant group that could not be trusted. That is what they would become.Â
      With trembling hands, he begins to undo his alphaâs robes, the stench of burning flesh and iron permeating through the air. He pulls away the fabric and freezes.Â
      Despite his rank, Hux had seen the horrors of war only through simulations. Heâd never set his boots upon on the battlefield. Never seen a wounded man. Not up close, anyway. Never up close. ...Even when he and his men went to rescue Kylo from the collapsing remains of Starkiller Base.
      His own officers had stopped him some distance away: one man holding him back with a protective grasp while the other physically blocked his path. Didnât want to expose him to violence and gore, theyâd insisted, as if their general hadnât just authorized the complete annihilation of a star system. In the end, however, to them, firing the weapon was only an order: a few words and the entry of a launch code. Nothing traumatizing, nothing wicked. Hux was just an omega; they still felt the need to protect his âinnocence.â He hadnât protested, so accustomed to that brand of treatment - only watched in solemn silence as they carried Ren away. All he could do was stare as his blood pooled through the stretcher, falling in gentle droplets, to stain the white snow a bright and startling crimson.Â
      ...He shakes his head, staring down at his alphaâs wound, deep enough to cleave his ribs, to have carved into his spinal cord. What can he do at that point? With his hair disheveled and his entire body, trembling, Hux quickly re-dresses the marquess before pushing himself up on unsteady feet, leaning against the wall for support.Â
      â ...Why are you doing this? â he asked, his tone, sharp and accusatory, unable to hide his growing sense of desperation, â Have you dedicated your life to making mine difficult? This is... This is a disaster, Ren! A political disaster from which I am uncertain that we will ever be able to recover. This is not the time to burn our bridges! We need money. ...Do you understand that? Or, I apologize if it hurts your pride as an alpha to negotiate for credits. I do. Sincerely. ...But do you understand that I havenât slept in three days? That I have sent over two thousand messages to every contact my family has ever known, begging for money? âÂ
      â Do you think that this is funny? Ruining everything that Iâve ever built for myself, when Iâve had to work twice as hard for even half of your recognition? ...Or has it never crossed your mind that the reason why you never face a single consequence for your failures is because I am the one who is forced to answer for them? ...Or do you already know, and the truth of the matter is that you just donât give a damn? â
      â ...Oh, but of course you donât. Why would you? You alphas in power are all exactly alike. â
      He storms off as quickly as his little feet can carry him, through winding halls of ivy and gold, back to the cold, dreary darkness of the Finalizer. There, he would need to prepare to defend himself upon informing the Supreme Leader that not only had they failed to obtain the Orderâs desperately needed resources... but that they could expect, at any moment, to endure the political fallout of having murdered a marquess.
