Entry Number 050603A
I was 14 when Brendol died. It was made to look like an accident, a pure mistake and a failure of his past missions that he had contracted some kind of virus our medical droids couldn't pick up. I knew that it wasn't an accident, so did Rose. We were present when Phasma presented my father with a poisonous Parnassos beetle, a little living being so deadly that it couldn't be traced down to the bite. It was the perfect plan between them and it has been a secret in our families for years now.
Brendol mistook it for a spider bite on his neck when my father set it loose from the glass box. He didn't feel it the first few days but he did after a week had passed, and even then he mistook it for drowsiness and his age catching up with him. He was getting unstable even without alcohol running through his veins, becoming terribly bloated until his arms and hands turned blue just from the elastic of his clothes cutting off his circulation, his eyes bulged and he caught fevers. He worked even harder then, as if he was trying to beat the illness away from his body with the sheer will of sweat and tears. I would hear him curse around the apartment whenever he would catch a hackling cough. I knew it was from the poison of the beetle, but I never told him. Rose knew too but she didn't question her mother. As time went on, my grandfather got sicker and sicker and more resentful, spiteful if you could call it that - he couldn't come to terms with the fact that he was sick probably beyond help. Sometimes I would feel bad about him, watching him struggle to breathe in the worn leather sofa of our living room, but remembering what my father told me of his childhood days was enough to push that guilt aside.
With Brendol Hux's death went the Cadet operation, went the strict regime that he imposed into the Arkanis Academy, went that porcelain perfect picture of my grandfather that the First Order shoved in everyone's face. In reality, everyone knew who Brendol was - a self-loving bastard with no regards to human emotion that only deteriorated over time and got what he deserved in his end. I learnt from this experience that beetles that glow orange at night are strictly ones I should avoid, and if even droids can't pick up where the fever is coming from, I should probably buy a coffin sometime soon. The talks that went on behind his back were public in the circle of people who knew he was dead. I never spoke about him unless provoked, which was when the Empire was brought up. That's where his sympathies lied for his entire career and remaining life. I still feel like I hear his drunken murmurs of the 'Empire's greatness' whenever I see a relic of that forgotten time. He died like he had lived; work ridden and angry with everyone biting off a chunk of him in the meantime. I wonder if he w=found peace wherever he is now or if he's burning with the 'great icons' of the imperialistic and socialistic Empire before the time of the First Order.
He died in a bacta tank where only his organs and a few bone remnants were left in a pool of infected blood.
The death was kept a secret from anyone who still sympathized with us (if any of those were left who weren't terrorized into subduing) and the official death of Commandant Hux was announced by my father by a dozen thousand army men including Cardinal, the man who attempted to kill Phasma after finding out she assassinated Brendol.
It was a day like any other, but it was my first day out of the Academy. These were actual men in uniforms I would be speaking in front of and not just my classmates who would rather be anywhere else than listening to my fairly well written speech about what a great man my grandfather was. The stage was decorated in dark reds and a calm, crescent feeling washed over me when I finally came to terms with the fact that Brendol was really gone. No one to torment us anymore, if the torment would stop there. I was clutching the piece of paper in my hands, the squeak of the leather gloves I was wearing made me anxious enough without me opening my mouth to speak in front of thousands of First Order stormtroopers. These were men that outranked me and women who had actually went through the Academy without help of a bloodline. This was the only day I were to wear white.
When I said that I was the only one to enroll in the Academy for Military Officers at the tender age of 9, I was wrong. I was, well, partly-wrong. Rose was standing next to me as we waited for the people to gather, dressed in white and clutching a small envelope in her hands. The outfit complimented her skin and snow white hair, the only thing standing eerily out were her bloodshot red eyes that came with her albinism. She rarely blinked and stood taller than I could on 5-inch heels if I were to ever wear them, clothing incredibly ironed just like the first day I had met her. She was also attending the Academy the same time I was, but not publicly. After Phasma's success in the First Order using my grandfather's misery when he was stranded on Parnassos, they got wealthy and powerful and with that Rose was secured private lessons from the finest professors in the Academy. They wrote her commendations and her finishing notes were listed as 'perfect' when she finished her schooling. She was to be bumped from Cadet to First Lieutenant with me.
When the last of the men were standing in perfect lines in front of the stage, my father gave a signal and they saluted. That was also a signal for Rose as she trotted up to the speaking booth and opened the envelope, stoic expression unwavering from her face.
"Today, we are gathered here to speak about a recent loss and the recent expansion of the First Order," She spoke into the small microphone, blinking once. "It is with great pleasure that I announce that.."
And here I logged off, looking down at my paper and re-reading the handwritten notes Rose helped me craft the night before. It was unsettling to think that we would be drafted off at the age of 14 and 15 respectively to a battle and feud much bigger than us, in the jaws of the First Order. I recognized that the things we were doing were splitting the Galaxy apart, but was there never a side that went against the other one in our history? Two sides are needed to make a whole, I just wasn't sure that I was on the right side yet.
My father joined my side as Rose talked, abandoning his spot next to Phasma. I had never seen him in white, and it was almost refreshing. The General stripes on his sleeves were inverted so they were now the standard black, while the rest of his uniform was a simple dove white. "You look nervous."
Brendol mistook it for a spider bite on his neck when my father set it loose from the glass box. He didn't feel it the first few days but he did after a week had passed, and even then he mistook it for drowsiness and his age catching up with him. He was getting unstable even without alcohol running through his veins, becoming terribly bloated until his arms and hands turned blue just from the elastic of his clothes cutting off his circulation, his eyes bulged and he caught fevers. He worked even harder then, as if he was trying to beat the illness away from his body with the sheer will of sweat and tears. I would hear him curse around the apartment whenever he would catch a hackling cough. I knew it was from the poison of the beetle, but I never told him. Rose knew too but she didn't question her mother. As time went on, my grandfather got sicker and sicker and more resentful, spiteful if you could call it that - he couldn't come to terms with the fact that he was sick probably beyond help. Sometimes I would feel bad about him, watching him struggle to breathe in the worn leather sofa of our living room, but remembering what my father told me of his childhood days was enough to push that guilt aside.
With Brendol Hux's death went the Cadet operation, went the strict regime that he imposed into the Arkanis Academy, went that porcelain perfect picture of my grandfather that the First Order shoved in everyone's face. In reality, everyone knew who Brendol was - a self-loving bastard with no regards to human emotion that only deteriorated over time and got what he deserved in his end. I learnt from this experience that beetles that glow orange at night are strictly ones I should avoid, and if even droids can't pick up where the fever is coming from, I should probably buy a coffin sometime soon. The talks that went on behind his back were public in the circle of people who knew he was dead. I never spoke about him unless provoked, which was when the Empire was brought up. That's where his sympathies lied for his entire career and remaining life. I still feel like I hear his drunken murmurs of the 'Empire's greatness' whenever I see a relic of that forgotten time. He died like he had lived; work ridden and angry with everyone biting off a chunk of him in the meantime. I wonder if he w=found peace wherever he is now or if he's burning with the 'great icons' of the imperialistic and socialistic Empire before the time of the First Order.
He died in a bacta tank where only his organs and a few bone remnants were left in a pool of infected blood.
The death was kept a secret from anyone who still sympathized with us (if any of those were left who weren't terrorized into subduing) and the official death of Commandant Hux was announced by my father by a dozen thousand army men including Cardinal, the man who attempted to kill Phasma after finding out she assassinated Brendol.
It was a day like any other, but it was my first day out of the Academy. These were actual men in uniforms I would be speaking in front of and not just my classmates who would rather be anywhere else than listening to my fairly well written speech about what a great man my grandfather was. The stage was decorated in dark reds and a calm, crescent feeling washed over me when I finally came to terms with the fact that Brendol was really gone. No one to torment us anymore, if the torment would stop there. I was clutching the piece of paper in my hands, the squeak of the leather gloves I was wearing made me anxious enough without me opening my mouth to speak in front of thousands of First Order stormtroopers. These were men that outranked me and women who had actually went through the Academy without help of a bloodline. This was the only day I were to wear white.
When I said that I was the only one to enroll in the Academy for Military Officers at the tender age of 9, I was wrong. I was, well, partly-wrong. Rose was standing next to me as we waited for the people to gather, dressed in white and clutching a small envelope in her hands. The outfit complimented her skin and snow white hair, the only thing standing eerily out were her bloodshot red eyes that came with her albinism. She rarely blinked and stood taller than I could on 5-inch heels if I were to ever wear them, clothing incredibly ironed just like the first day I had met her. She was also attending the Academy the same time I was, but not publicly. After Phasma's success in the First Order using my grandfather's misery when he was stranded on Parnassos, they got wealthy and powerful and with that Rose was secured private lessons from the finest professors in the Academy. They wrote her commendations and her finishing notes were listed as 'perfect' when she finished her schooling. She was to be bumped from Cadet to First Lieutenant with me.
When the last of the men were standing in perfect lines in front of the stage, my father gave a signal and they saluted. That was also a signal for Rose as she trotted up to the speaking booth and opened the envelope, stoic expression unwavering from her face.
"Today, we are gathered here to speak about a recent loss and the recent expansion of the First Order," She spoke into the small microphone, blinking once. "It is with great pleasure that I announce that.."
And here I logged off, looking down at my paper and re-reading the handwritten notes Rose helped me craft the night before. It was unsettling to think that we would be drafted off at the age of 14 and 15 respectively to a battle and feud much bigger than us, in the jaws of the First Order. I recognized that the things we were doing were splitting the Galaxy apart, but was there never a side that went against the other one in our history? Two sides are needed to make a whole, I just wasn't sure that I was on the right side yet.
My father joined my side as Rose talked, abandoning his spot next to Phasma. I had never seen him in white, and it was almost refreshing. The General stripes on his sleeves were inverted so they were now the standard black, while the rest of his uniform was a simple dove white. "You look nervous."