Truly, Beyonce’s only real competition here was herself from two years earlier. But while her self-titled performance in ‘14 was still essentially a medley, this was nothing less than one-act drama in which Bey was star, playwright and conductor, taking a baseball bat to any performer who dared laze their way through a performance, thinking sheer star power would put them over. It was memorable and meme-able, technically proficient and emotionally enthralling, unpredictable and thoroughly un-followable. It was Beyonce at the VMAs, and it gets no better than that.
You can fix this, a voice inside Hux’ mind tried to reason with him. He didn’t want to live before because he didn’t have… anyone. Didn’t have you. But Hux knew that wasn’t true. Whatever had driven Ben to open his wrists still lived within him, maybe quiet now while he was pressed against Hux’ chest, but no less present. He’d already forced himself to reconcile the truth when it came to Ben’s ability to hurt himself; Hux wasn’t so much of a hypocrite that he’d try to deny the same held true for this too.