Chapter Text
The Nile River. Spring 1936.
The water is cold. Far colder than it looked from the boat’s deck. Far colder than a body of water surrounded by desert ought to be.
Shit.
Again.
Ben gasps as he breaches the surface, sucking humid air into his lungs as he whips his head to swing his hair out of his eyes.
Incomprehensible shouts travel through the night over the water. Ben rights himself. He’s a strong swimmer—his tall build working to his advantage—but nighttime in the Nile is still unnerving, still the last place he wants to be.
Well, second to last.
The little ripples fanning away from his strokes reflect the moonlight—slices of white on the inky black, washed in twinkling gold from the lights of the river boat. His hand is still gripped firmly under the water around the smooth bone handle of his knife.
Chaos unfolds on the boat, distracting most of the passengers. And as for the ones that aren’t distracted—the ones that are looking over the rails for him—well, they’re at least sufficiently impeded by the bustling crowd gathered around a bleeding, shouting man.
A quick glance to the left and right, and he’s oriented. He’s closer to the northern shore, so that’s got to be the one. He takes a deep breath and plunges.
Don’t think about the crocodiles.
Or the parasites you got in the river in Morocco.
Shit.
Literal shit. Lots of literal shit.
Goddammit.
He moves his long arms and legs as smoothly as he can, but the cold water is tightening his muscles, and every other stroke is a jerky, halting motion. His lungs are burning, and in the dark of the water he has no idea how far he’s gone or if his heading is still true. Just a few more strokes, and he’ll risk a breath and a look.
Do not think about the crocodiles.
As carefully as he can, he breaches the surface. It takes all his willpower to keep from gulping loud lungfuls of air, but he manages it, though the grip on his knife tightens. Another quick scan of his surroundings.
So far, so good. No shining eyes watching him from atop the water. He’s halfway to shore now. As he glances back at the boat, he sees thin wisps of smoke and the orange glow of a small fire on the front deck. An overturned oil lamp perhaps. He smirks to himself. It truly is chaos now.
Perfect.
By the time he pulls his soaked body onto the shore, he’s almost chuckling. Other than the unexpected drenching, it was an easy enough job. He reaches into the squelching pocket of his trousers and cups a small gold statue, rubbing his finger soothingly along the snout of the jackal’s head. Took a little longer to track this one down—a little more digging, more coins crossing palms, and more knife work, as they say. But he always finds what he’s looking for. And that oily snake of a dealer got what he deserved. You don’t try to cheat Ben Solo at poker.
Fucking Brits.
*
Ben sleeps harder than usual on the last flight over the Atlantic, nearly a full night’s worth, but then again he had been running on a deficit for days: a long week in Sicily chasing the Crusade records down, then a couple of detours and false leads in Luxor before finally working his way back up the Nile. More than a few nights were spent sleeping on pallets in rented rooms. And there was that tent for a couple evenings. And the storeroom of the ex-pat bar. Hell, the airliner’s upholstery may as well be a fluffy down bed at this point.
The bumpy landing wakes him when the rubber wheels bounce and jostle along the runway. A warm orange and red glow filters through the slits of Ben’s eyelids as he groans and rolls his head away from the window.
Back again. New York. Then another train up to Coruscant. And all the banal horrors that await him there.
One of these days he’ll just stay in Africa.
Ben rubs a stiff hand over his face, hoping the friction will be enough to wake him up, but it’s the sight of a sleek black Mercedes-Benz waiting on the tarmac that makes his blood pump. He’s lost in groggy thought when a perky voice startles him.
“Dr. Solo, your baggage will be waiting at the bottom of the staircase for you.”
The young, blonde hostess in a neatly pressed red dress smiles brightly. “Will you be staying in the city or…” Her eyes catch his through thick, curled lashes.
He waves her off with gruff mumbling, quickly grabbing the worn leather satchel he’d been using as a pillow. Another time he might have lingered and feigned some ignorance about the city, needing to be shown a good place to stay. And a better place to eat.
But there’s no lingering when there’s a particular black car on the pavement. A particular black car with a pale-faced man standing outside.
Ben’s neck is stiff and screaming at him. He makes a quick run of his hand through his hair but it’s no use, and a cringe tightens his mouth—three days have passed since he last bathed.
Hmm. Maybe it’s for the best that the blonde broad has already walked off.
As Ben descends the staircase, metal steps echoing under his shoes, a tall red-headed man standing by the car meets his gaze.
Armitage Hux was always a sour-faced prick of a man, but Snoke must have found some use for him. Hux is loyal as a dog—Ben will give him that.
Still amusing to ruffle him though.
Ben smirks. “Come to collect me, darling?”
With a quick toss, Ben launches his satchel toward an unsuspecting Hux, who first tries to bat it away in confusion before scrambling to catch it. The strap slides through Hux’s hand, and the bag smacks the ground, leaving Ben chuckling and Hux sneering as he bends to pick it up.
Always good to start on the higher ground with this one.
“You’re late, Solo.”
Hux tosses the bag back at Ben, who catches and shoulders it as their driver hauls Ben’s single large suitcase into the trunk of the car.
“Well, I’m only a part-time pilot. They let the full-time boys do most of the driving.” The corner of Ben’s lip twitches. Hux’s weasely face impossibly tightens.
“Mr. Snoke won’t find this funny. He wasn’t pleased to receive your cable. You were supposed to arrive with the item two weeks ago.”
“And the item was supposed to be in Luxor. But apparently Romans like to pillage and relocate things. As do British soldiers.”
“Mr. Snoke—“
“Mr. Snoke…” Ben levels a stare at the redhead and straightens his shoulders before sliding his fingers into his pocket. A wry smile finally cracks Ben’s lips.
“…Will be very pleased to see me.”