( Kylo accepts the designation of the First Order fleet as his fleet without bristle or the need for correction, whether out of habitual association or something else entirely, something else that smacks of uncertainty even if his future association with that branch of power and authority in the galaxy is all but snuffed out. Hux would argue the semantics involved in her overarching nomenclature, and if there is anything that he is glad to be rid of in casting off the heavy, dark cloak of First Order bureaucracy, it's his affiliation with that redheaded ass, without question, however superficial the intent behind saying as much would be.
In a way, though, Kylo still associates himself with the inner mechanics and workings of First Order politics, the situation at hand too new and too fresh and too murky to be considered a true divorce of principles and loyalties. Settling on the uncomfortable sofa as far away from Rey as possible without actively balancing on and off the edge, he's aware of the strange dichotomy at work in suggesting games that his father taught him, on his father's ship, with his father's protegee, when he's still so embroiled, in his own head, in the state of the Order. When he killed the man in question himself. )
I'm not going to make excuses for the skill and talents of the TIE pilots that neglected to stop two - ( He's careful with his word choice, pausing briefly under the pretense of running fingers over his side of the game board as if refamiliarizing himself with the controls. ) - people and a droid from escaping from a wasteland like Jakku. ( The memory of his anger, of Mitaka's neck slapping like raw meat into his outstretched hand, rises easily to the surface. He acquiesces, somewhat. ) It's a fast ship. It always has been. In capable hands it's able to do unbelievable things despite its age and constant state of disrepair, when there's a pilot worth their salt at the helm.
( Those feel like lines recycled and edited with heavy corrections that don't tend as much toward blatant favoritism and preening, and he can almost hear Solo's voice in his own words as they come steamrolling out of his mouth, distracting himself from the fact that he's more or less just paid Rey a compliment without actively meaning to. Fortunately, the board is alight, caught in the projection of a previous game that was stopped midway through. Kylo stares at it a moment, watching the projections move jerkily and blink in and out of partial existence, losing arms or legs or tentacles or whole heads in the ghhhk's case.
Underneath the table, he jams his knee into the underside and all the holographs flicker out of life and then burst back into perfect detail. )
no subject
In a way, though, Kylo still associates himself with the inner mechanics and workings of First Order politics, the situation at hand too new and too fresh and too murky to be considered a true divorce of principles and loyalties. Settling on the uncomfortable sofa as far away from Rey as possible without actively balancing on and off the edge, he's aware of the strange dichotomy at work in suggesting games that his father taught him, on his father's ship, with his father's protegee, when he's still so embroiled, in his own head, in the state of the Order. When he killed the man in question himself. )
I'm not going to make excuses for the skill and talents of the TIE pilots that neglected to stop two - ( He's careful with his word choice, pausing briefly under the pretense of running fingers over his side of the game board as if refamiliarizing himself with the controls. ) - people and a droid from escaping from a wasteland like Jakku. ( The memory of his anger, of Mitaka's neck slapping like raw meat into his outstretched hand, rises easily to the surface. He acquiesces, somewhat. ) It's a fast ship. It always has been. In capable hands it's able to do unbelievable things despite its age and constant state of disrepair, when there's a pilot worth their salt at the helm.
( Those feel like lines recycled and edited with heavy corrections that don't tend as much toward blatant favoritism and preening, and he can almost hear Solo's voice in his own words as they come steamrolling out of his mouth, distracting himself from the fact that he's more or less just paid Rey a compliment without actively meaning to. Fortunately, the board is alight, caught in the projection of a previous game that was stopped midway through. Kylo stares at it a moment, watching the projections move jerkily and blink in and out of partial existence, losing arms or legs or tentacles or whole heads in the ghhhk's case.
Underneath the table, he jams his knee into the underside and all the holographs flicker out of life and then burst back into perfect detail. )